Thanks for sharing

 
 
 
Thanks for sharing
your intimate secrets
guilty despair
“How can  anything matter?
I am too damaged, dark,
no fun to be with.”
It is not a birthday without
cake and good wishes.
No cure can take hold without
a get well card,
gift of courage
from caring others.
I have no rhyme, no rhythm,
no choir to calm me
into soft healing eiderdown.
Toxic potions,
shocking wires,
disconnection from
harried continuity
cannot weave wholeness.
Kind touch, open
reveling in shared humanity
etches a loving pattern
for integration,
incentive to dare creative leap.
Re-merged, charged with fuel for 
healthy fulfillment.
!
Multi-hued singing fountains
rejoice in new found dancing.
.
.
.

music of the spheres

 
 
 
In the quiet of night sky
while starlight and peace prevail
a haunting rhythm,
music of the spheres,
slowly soars, entrances,
embracing fear,
kissing taunt of pain away.
Well into darkness, watching, 
hoping for a passing meteor
to swoop down and carry me
far into another space,
where kindly constellations
tell stories of joy and thanksgiving.
Celestial fusion crackles and strains
like an old jazz recording.
Melodies of another age
written on a mighty, sacred wind
told like Homeric verse
by the wanderers —
heavenly nourishing guides
leading us home.
.
.
.

Meta-Science

 
 
 
Magical thinking
creating room for the power
of possibilities,
nuances, shades between,
molecular space.
Imagination fuels travel beyond.
Wizardry of synaptic awareness,
unlikelihood of consciousness,
Dreams, Visions, Reveries,
ineffable insights
too dear to deny.
See, smell, taste
chemical reactions;
hear reverberating air.
There is no limit
but that will assigns.
Strict chants and ritual
keep reality in line.
.
.
.

God’s Warriors

 
 
 
 
Squeezing the breath
out of my heart
Squeezing the love
out of my mind
Squeezing the joy
out of my faith
in your quest to conquer,
constrain, consecrate all
to your narrow creed.
There is no room in your congealed soul
for recognition of cruel suffering
welcomed by your prayers,
the damage of your arrogant distain
upon Creation.
Having conceived the fires of Hell
to burn your perceived enemy,
letting evil loose upon
this Earth we were meant to share
in peace and prosperity,
twisting the Word
you claim your guide.
You ignorantly ill-define,
expect salvation
through worshipping sin.
.
.
.

And You Can Follow

 
 
 
Follow, follow, follow
Follow the yellow brick road
Follow the fashion of gold
Follow the fellow who does
as he’s told
Follow the trail blazed by the bold
Follow the shepherd who loves
as his own
broken children
feels their burden
swallows their souls to
make them whole
Follow, yes grovel, destroy
to atone,
bleed on deep battlefields
of country and home
Die on some roadside
afraid and alone
How far do you follow?
How near do you follow?
Tapped out, hollow, to the bone
Trapped in a “No Standing” zone
Take heart; extend hands —
Dance outside the lines
.
.
.

Western

 
 
 
Raw, piercing howl
promises places
not here.
Dirt-framed, sore worn tracks demark possibilities,
thankful for the regularity of commerce
allowing travelers meaning.
 
Caged, kept from indeterminate freedom.
Irony does not escape me.
I find comfort in harsh Revelations
babbled by a shining eyed prophet.
Mad peasants and their Lords,
progress through tribulations,
power games of strategy and fate.
Millennial betrayal.  Land sold from under pensioners,
savage beating of broken laborers,
children learning their worth without a home.
Is this Almighty Covenant?
Eras, tools, enemies revise.
The game journeys on.
 
Rising gold Sun absorbs mist.
A righteous dawn.
The smell of enduring prairie after
the train’s rushed through.
On this side of the bars,
life is slow,
awaiting judgment.
.
.
.

The Pandorica opens at 5 am.

 
 
 
The Pandorica opens at 5 am.
And what will we see in there?
Soft beams of stars from phantom seas/
Colliding kaleidoscope mysteries/
The waft of your hair in a warm Spring breeze/
A confetti parade of prayer
 
The wall of your sockets demagnetized
The warm of your pockets turns chill
When each of our membranes goes fragmentized
Drifting beyond while or will
Gifts of penance lose all appeal
Too traumatized to whimper or feel
Denial replaces the space we called real
Seared to an awestruck stare
 
Caught in conundrum ‘tween twilight and dawn
Formerly someone, lost without form
Back to that question you asked being born
and the answer that started when?
The Pandorica
opens
at
5
am.
.
.
.

philosophy

 
 
 
What are the words that I’m saying to say
when they’re made simply words in a row?
The world is revolving, and people today
are revolving with nowhere to go.
Revolving, revolting, evolving and floating
And never quite sure where we are.
I search for definity in the midst of infinity —
a sign in the midst of a star.
And wonder if I am a meaning, or why
the whole thing simply exists.
It’s not that I care, but I’d like to know where
I will be when we’ve gone thru these twists
and turns
and eternity years
for a meaning beyond being THERE
but where?
.
.
.

Final Will

 
 
 
If these be our final days, bleeding out into entropic end
No elite “may we?” can overrule life’s yen
to feel fine
while yet there is fine to feel
Feast on the hoarded best; dance well past dawn
Deny requests of war or debt to waste this waning time
It’s no thievery to claim our hours, free of robotic clocks,
take whatever’s left as a chance to be real —
if the end is nigh, or not
.
.
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