sex as power (#MeToo)

.

sex as power (#MeToo)
.
.
.
.
.
Rape is a political statement.  It says: “I am everything.  You are nothing.”
.
.
.
God of Sky and Rain
.
.
Women hold up half the sky?
In His world
women hold up the sky.
Men sit around, masturbate, watch football,
occasionally,
go out and rape
lowering
that small part
of the sky.
.
.
.
.
Rose Red
.
.
I am prickly, admittedly.
I come by it rightly.
Organically evolved defensive weapon
(note, no offensive weapon attached).
You must approach me with care.
Feel the velvet of my vibrant leaves, gently.
My flower, radiant in grace and wonder.
Musical poetry wafting, my enchanted perfume
calling for the discerning touch.
But grasp too hard, too clumsily,
without reflection, a thousand tiny cuts
push you far away.
In no time, you will heal,
leaving me to bleed forever,
attempting to clear from my system
your poisonous residue.
.
.
.
.
Bitter Dregs
.
.
You don’t get it.
You don’t want to.
It would be too much to bear
if you let your thought go there.
Briefly unconscious, awakened to
hard concrete ground surrounded
by heels and toes, amazing
they don’t crush me, but no,
like clockstep they walk around
though occasionally a(n unmeaning?)
shove — I’m not a someone,
just a minor obstacle
unnoted in their busy day.
No worries.
Not like shoved down under
hard muscle, jutting  bone,
stinking of beer and rage;
or waking from too brief oblivion,
broken pain, bleeding
tears, torn, bruised, a
colorful toy
made for pleasure.
Then the voices, echoes.
Harpies and Sirens, Furies
and sad old women.  Fingers
shake in disapprobation.
Shrill voices call me beautiful,
in the way that ugly things are.
So bad, so pitiful, cardinal
status among the neverweres.
Struggling shadows, whispering
curses demurely lest anyone
notice and throw them further
down, below duration.
Never easy, confessing degradation.
The sin adheres.  No one wants to know.
.
.
.
.
logic of rape culture
.
.
I don’t know.
Would it be morally acceptable to destroy a person’s mind
while they sleep, because they’ll never know they had one?
Would it be morally just fine to cruelly use people’s lives
while keeping them unconscious without consent or prior knowledge,
because unexplained pain won’t rise to legal proof?
Is there value placed on personal integrity?
Must boundaries that make individual beings
complete with self-control,
define a zone of self to be respected?
Do conscious beings own a right to privacy,
a zone of personal integrity,
sacred space for self-discovery:
“This is mine.  This is me.”
When we choose to agree for common utility,
what inner prize do we remember to defend?
Or do we prefer to behave as a bunch of random beasts,
subject to convenient moral rules, precepts to defend
hierarchy of self-proclaimed reasonable men?
.
.
.
.
I am beginning to think that this whole anti-abortion, anti-contraception idea is about rapists who want to impregnate their victims and then have access to torture them for life.  Mighty big hate on.
.
.
.
.
Dazzling glitter of star light
is doing its job:
distract and divide while
they rape, kill and rob.
.
.
.
.
Ascending spiraled steps in hope of eventually reaching a solid surface, more a chore than a mission as we continue inexorably day by day.  Or is that eternity by eternity?  There’s not much choice, as these stairs, though solid and seemingly endless, do not provide enough solidity, enough surface, for other sustained activity.  There is not even room to climb by twos, thus enabling the solace of close companionship.  Certainly there is no room to make love between, stair to stair, to find what respite or pleasure such loving might provide.  Perhaps for some of the more daring an occasional rearguard rape may be accomplished, coming from behind as it were, never seeing the face of the victim, so that’s alright.  A temporary digression from the rote work, hand over hand, leg up and leg up, monotonous unfulfilling dance.
.
.
.
.
The land, when we found her was warm and inviting.
We felt safe, supported, encouraged to grow.
.
We ate of her fruit, fish, herds.
We built with her trees, stone and clay.
We drank from her beautiful streams
which we soiled with our waste.
Gaea was saviour and womb.
We repaid her with rape.
..
We didn’t understand,
thought her merely land,
thought ourselves masters from afar.
.
.
.
.
Perhaps it is not so much a war on women as another front in the war on people with lesser means. I mean, how dare a woman be raped if she can’t afford her own treatment?
.
.
.
.
Women are raped by husbands, strangers, dates, bosses, family members, often seriously injured or killed in the process. Implying we have nothing more serious to protest about than “glass ceilings” is a macabre insult.
.
.
.
.
Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow
her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed.
Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep
and shallow, ravage disease.
Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath
outside rational context.
Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where
she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled.
.
.
.
.
It could be rape; it could be terrifying violence. But you got it wrong. You blamed yourself. And the reasons you got it wrong go back to that world, not to you.
.
.
.
.
Cross Purpose
.
.
At time’s crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
radiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Taken from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter
“I could bite off that little thing — make
you squat to pee.”
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
“We’re right.  They are inherently wrong.”
“Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride.”
Against our better fate, our race divided
along strict lines, by difference
nature instilled to make us strong
.
.
.
.
Our Gang
.
.
Outrage
Depression facing outward
Taking power to give it away.
This entrained impulse
See them crackling, jangling
puppets at puppy play,
bite, bark, entangle,
grab and tussle,
growl, muscle in for the kill.
Bloodlust arousal.
Natural as puke, as death,
violation as violent orgy
violation as ecstatic
initiation to the brotherhood.
Life elevated to dreams, goals,
careful weighing of coin and hours,
dependable plans, actions that honor can favor,
love, duty, allegiance to the rules of sanity
and kind regard
have no purpose here.
Men of blood and battle fluid
need no fine speeches, no valor —
only food and receptacles
for their waste.
.
.
.
.
Capital Crime
.
.
Sweet old daddy
Doing his will in the night
Keeping the mamas afright
for the plight of each
beloved child, so tender
so young
He really oughta be hung!
so say the neighbors, clicking
their tongues
Take him to the magistrate
Fill his ears with the voice of hate
while he’s tied, defanged, prostrate
Let our will be done!
Tie him down in a prison cell
Make him feel the wrath of Hell
’til we all are bloody well
exhausted of our fun.
No need to delete old daddy
sweeping shit and burning bones
any toil we deem atones
to repay society’s loans
of wicked sowing days
assuring he damn well pays
for the pain and loss his wicked ways
marred our happy homes.
.
.
.
.
Trial
.
.
It was said, everyone knew, some whispered in my presence,
that I was born a bastard of rape.
My mother, a pious maiden, in penance gave me
into servitude to the Brotherhood.
Thus she was allowed to return to her Sisterhood’s
life of humble ministration.
I never knew her, or have no memory
of such an early time in my life.
I knew nothing of the treasured childhood that comes with family.
I was a low thing, circumscribed by duty.
I was educated, taught to read, write, do sums,
memorize long passages of scripture, sing in the Holy Choir,
take my part in ceremonies, taught for useful service.
I was taught to please my masters as my only worth.
Any modification to please their plans was my sacred duty to undergo.
Any master. Any metamorphosis. Any mutilation. Accept.
When he bit me, as the fast-acting soporific emitted from his fangs
entered my artery, I hoped this was my end.
It wasn’t.  He did not drain me, but woke me to force his blood
into my sagging mouth to remake me in his image:
immortal, powerful, supernatural, outside of the laws of man.
I learn to create my own sacred place, free of duty, free of the yoke of belief.
I am my own silent sanctuary beyond the touch, the reach of their world.
What good am I, have I, what good does it do me to have a conscious me
apart from my puppet role, plaything of powerful forces and men?
Perhaps after all the trials of my journey, it is enough to have a
consciousness that knows me so well and feels a kind of comforting love.
Perhaps the kind of love a mother feels for a child she never wanted,
who is yet of her, a companion to her trials.
.
.
.
.
They arrive, enter a door next to a large glass window decorated in bright colored paint. It is a portrayal of a man on a cross. Bloody red holes mar his hands and feet. A thorny green crown sits on his head.
.
Inside are cakes and hot black drinks on a short table. A few others are also eating and drinking. On the floor, next to a large, tattered chair, a woman sits, rocks, dirty and worn looking. Her shaking hands make attempts to feed coffee to her lips, but more is spilled on her worn and spattered dress. She has been mumbling incoherently. She is getting louder. Renata starts to make out words.
.
“They fill yer belly with their babies. No more babies. They hurt and make me so sick. The men, they fill me with their nasty liquid babies. They make them grow in me, take over my body, make me sick, and cut so hard to get out. I won’t take them, horrid demons. So they throw me back in the street for the men to fill me again, hurt me again. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. No more babies. No more pumping out their nasty babies. I won’t. I won’t go there. You can’t make me leave.” She burbles, gasps, cries, mumbles, and repeats her litany. She rocks her body, suckles on her fingers and strands of long, lank hair. She seems in a trance, perhaps poisoned, perhaps cursed.
.
From further back in the room, a man dressed in black, prominently carrying a black book, approaches the group around the table.
.
“Don’t mind Betty. She’s a hard case. We can’t find anywhere that will take her.” He seems perturbed by this inconvenience, embarrassed by this woman’s plaint.
.
Thoughts of keeping still while learning how to blend in have flown from Renata’s mind. She goes quickly, yet with gentle motion, to sit beside this Betty. Close up, she is surprised to see this woman is young, certainly no longer a child, but not the old used up hag she had appeared to be. Her burbling snot and tears mixed with spilled coffee and older stains make her an unappetizing sight. Yet, there is something so fragile, so
.sad and affecting in her defiantly defeated form, Renata can not help but reach out her arms to comfort.
.
.
Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in our heads and groins).
.
Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are capable of. Gang-raping children because we can doesn’t appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened, with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies, hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted, tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she need to be defined by what has been done against her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim, hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing, calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one’s own desired destiny?
.
.
.
.
Mothers’ Night
.
.
cascading shards
uneasy
echoes falling
“It’s our calling.”
.
Rape of Earth,
hot spurts of words
savage knives
Abiding Mothers,
sacred and mundane
twist into harridan
cold stars
.
wail, hurtling waves
Sad, old, crust of ages
sliced, screwed, carved up for profit
“It’s not the color of the skin,
the culture of the smile”
.
the scent of danger,
the inborn stranger —
all excuses for Us (superior)
and Them (inferior)
“They are not like we;
but lower curs.”
we may harm with unfettered glee
.
Cursed to be cut to our requirement.
Borders clear
“Here, fear fences in
our livelihood and wives.”
Leave THEM to putrid pits
cunning jabs,
our pleasure.
.
Thus, all treasure that might regale,
heal, reveal true worth,
of man and Earth
sold for pittance of potash
to dance a weary jig
.
.
.
.
Post-trauma
.
.
A child of my own
rape, it shaped me, made me
less and more
Memories stored, to
when I can’t go on implore:
“You’ll feel betterwhen you’re gone.”
.
Advertisements

season of the Sun

                         
Sun greets Earth
a hearty slap
hot and sassy
*
*
  *
Leo
*
*
Heart strings
playing in the sunshine.
Nobility
out standing star sublime,
    to set each day in tune.
Lilting aria of blessing, rising
glow of precious light
expresses pure and true.
Brilliant notes pour, glisten, through
radiant delight.
  Enchanted child-king exuding golden hue.
That’s how I think of you.
*
  *
*
In wild’s kingdom
all manner of creatures
thrive, explore, as before
the invasion.
Eagles soar.
Lions roar.
Whales sing.
Humans open
veiled third eye.
*
   *
Sun Rise
Early pinks ascend from eerie violets.
Sun’s lifting eye twinkles like a happy kitten,
tummy exposed for adoration.
Omens, prophecy, hope for enduring happy returns
blossom to a
rhythmic peak
sending out, sending out, sending out
radiant vibration.
   *
*
Stars, sunrays, miracles ablaze.
Loved and protected by gods, smitten with ecstasy.
Fortune favors elegance, grace of presence,
true nobility beyond codes of legend.
Borne on Sun’s warm rays, a’smile,
a welcome lift for all hearts’ desires.
  *
   *
Festivities, sparkling lights and
generosity
bless time of joyful grandiosity.
Rise in salutation to this Summer star.
*
   *
Celebration waves through the streets, with drums,
lucid bells, a call to play
Carnival cheer brings heat to flame
Chants blend to sing with drinks and games
Grand gestures expand, to applaud such a day
fueled by smiling Sun.
*
Strum gallant minstrel, of wander’s ways.
*
Tumble
into
song singing hallelujahs,
place of play, haunted
by pretty memories
tinged gold in sunshine.
Midsummer twilight,
fairytales brought back from sleep.
Sprinting across that abyss,
beauty simple, profound.
   *
  *
Like a warm evening on the beach, all woozy from sunshine.
Tingle of sea breeze, that ocean scent of the wild.
As the sun recedes, cooling, refreshing, yet still a lazy summer eve.
Oh that luscious feeling, that overflow of quiet release.
   *
Move inward
as Sunlight descends.
Cob-webbed lantern, too weak to flame,
forgotten among rusted childhood trains, stranded tinsel,
abandoned hero’s fantasies.
      *
Loyal Leo will lick your wounds
refresh with nature’s might
All our world a whirl of sound
love and luck will soon rebound
*   *
Charmed music fills the air with glee
Play, dear gypsy, wild and free
No fears to scale your flight
All in a Summer’s night
*
       *
If the sky could, it would dream of stars nova bright raining through galactic clouds.
     *
       *
ebbing outward
*
gentle ripples
      *
bathed in sunshine ease
  *
*
*
Eyes burn with hazy summer wine and wilding.
Feet connect dust to sky — but only in designated
spheres, with designated peers, self-selected inhibitions.
Sweat out poison into the ground; now, eat the bounty.
Midsummer farce, far from honor, far from sunrise,
counting out the chimes as if time were treasure.
Silly summer madness as if what matters
is so circumscribed, so predictable.
           *
*
I need to tell a tale
of fantasy and careless
leaning into tall grass,
fruited trees, languid leaves,
brilliant sunshine warming
soporific
melting melodies
                *
*
receptive to pleasure;
balming luscious nectars,
warm melt of sunshine,
elation, charismatic exultation.
I am in awe, a true believer;
not on my knees in supplication.
Supine, welcoming grace.
*
  *
hero
*
               *
Pearls iridescent from the Sun
Diamonds extracted from the Moon
Gold-dusted silks from
exotic worlds.
Valued in danger, chances of doom in transit
from there to here.
Fine old wood,
mellowed wisdom
tasting of Earth,
eloquently regales with tales
sage and pure.
                                       *
Young Percival took knight’s oath seriously.  To protect and to serve King and country.
The old King afflicted, declining, perhaps dying.  Soul sickness they said.
Crops fail to thrive.  Floods, droughts, oppressive climate.  The peasants too sicken,
die, live while they do hungry with poverty, disarray.
In a vision, Percival beholds the Holy Grail – dazzling jewels upon a golden chalice,
generating elixir of immortality.
Filled with such reflection, he hastens in the direction of adventure.  He leaves the dying kingdom
to its decline, in search of a promised land’s magical curative power.  Thinking not of King or country,
roused by urgent ecstatic pounding he knows to be
his own heart.
    *
Where do you ride, fair Percival?
Off to find the healer’s Grail?
Learn your song and tell your tale.
Become a son of Sky and Earth
and rain
to return with the wizardry you gain
some wondrous day.
Break the curse.
Expel the kingdom’s pain.
*
He seeks the skills of seers, demons, subtle sorceries and charms.  Growing ever
stronger, healthy exercise, happy purpose enrich his will.  Over terrible trials
and deceptions, treacherous opposition, ever nearer his divine prize appears.
These trials are key.  They test mettle while bestowing lessons, confidence,
resource acquisition, glimmerings of wisdom.  The prize glitters, shines, glows
brilliantly in auric distance, delineates focus, a clear point, fixed star to contemplate
through twisting, turning, misty mythic roads.
Sometimes the brick is yellow.  Some paths are more intuitive, furtive steps in dark,
brambly forest, hostile terrain.
Percival knows what a hero does.  A hero perseveres.  A hero scales the tower to free
the enslaved damsel; goes where others dare not tread because fear is his worthy companion.
Trudging, fighting, sometimes dazed, momentarily forgetting his quest, he perseveres.
He need but give pause, look beyond to see his Grail shining, calling him forward.
Of course, he reaches the Grail, discovers the codes, incantations, ensorcels dragons,
defies giants, generally blazes through to capture his destiny.
Returning triumphant, he brings joy to the kingdom, drop-kicks the curse, cures the old King
of soul malady, is gifted the throne to wisely guide his subjects into delightful prosperity.
So the story goes.
                         *
                                      *
                                                  *
                                                             *
                                                                       *
pure essence to ignite.
Saddened, enraged, radiant,
tempered to exquisite artistry.
The man who would flow with the forces
of nature,
in touch with combust eternity,
child of the Sun.
*
*
*
Walk to the Sun
   *
             *
When I was a child, it was an old shaman
in our village who told the story.
“We used to walk to the Sun.
We would bring back gifts for the grain.
Everyone was happy.
Today, no one walks to the Sun. No one tends the grain.
No one is happy.”
*
Lately, I understand that
it was not the actual Sun in the sky
of which he spoke. It was that shining
place in our heart that lets us know how to do what is right.
*
I’m taking a walk to the Sun; want to come along?
                                            *
                                                       *
                                                                      *
                                                                                     *
Welcome arising in our hearts,
Anointing our many-colored soul.
Take in the day
Rejoice in the sunshine
We are alove and strong
In primeval paradise
Upon a windswept beach
Our eyes, our arms
Raised in blessing
Totality is ours
There is no darkness.
*
   *
        *
I walk softly in the morning.
Drink awakening dew, sunbeam blessed.
I take what has always been mine,
cherish magnificence
and leave rough visions
of apocalypse to human eyes.
                        *
*
prides
   *
     *
Titania rises on her heels
claps her hands with glee
to see royal rangers clear the field
for her jamboree.
Her noble guests arrive at last.
Grand table’s set to break their fast.
Lavish feast for this ravenous class
to exalt their victory.
The royal band breaks out in waltz
for revelers’ employ.
Nary a note may ring out false.
We’re all here to enjoy
a raucous tribute to our fleet.
So raise your voices, stamp your feet,
privileged as renowned elite
to treat our vanquished as a toy.
To those who watch beyond closed gates
silly revelers at play
feeding the fire of long held hates
this is a different day.
“Fiddle dee dee” partiers bray with scorn,
mocking the starving and care worn.
But soon they’ll rue the day they’ve borne
as their world turns dank and grey.
As a new star ascends over fields and trails,
sparks audacious fete of change.
                                                                                                  *

water world

River flow
 *
 )
Accept (I am as I am)
and flow
silvery sediment.
Grand glowing Sun
eclipsed on the river.
 )
River run true rumination.
The river loves
in her own fashion.
Murky, long flirtation with mysteries
we are born to yearn for.
Consummation may be our last reward.
Caressed by satin water
hot and cold
element controlled, ever free.
River journeys
more sensual than air
more loquacious than Earth
more secure than fire
We can discover,
transmute along the river
never noticing how everything
has changed.
 )
 *
progressions
 *
Air giving way to water.
Arid emptiness anticipates days filled with
joyful abundance,
emotional sailing on vast
turbulent (and/or) calming seas.
 )
Time’s a’clanging, impatient clamors
for unknown seasons.
Rainstorm howls,
cleanses,
sends tidings, murky repentance and
beard for tears.
Savage rain tip-tapping
rhythms and blues.
Barrels for dipping, for ritual
washing, for tribal hydration, replenishment.
Agriculture,
hunger, health, hygiene.  Sordid rain,
ashen water, terror, pain, diluted
blood.
Storm warnings advise caution.
Cover yer windows and blinds.
Hide in cellars and pray.
Find salvation in fearsome company.
Oh, Hell – give in!  Cave into slippery ground;
swallow and be swallowed.
The rains came, carried fortune to further shores
and supplicants. 
Long into unspoken tomorrows.
 *
 )
 *
Climate Change
 )
 *
Steady chilly rain of
irritations, build into pools of
rage, a sea of tears.
Paddling, that old canoe splinters through.
Dreary, filthy floodwater, always needs bailing.
I am sore with life,
bruised, blood-stained, a sorry sight.
I cry out to Gaea’s strength, brutal acceptance.
My body aches to mend in healing
bend and release,
graceful hypnotic
dance, deeply breathing puissant sea air.
Expanding horizons beckon. Waves of welcome
extend hand to hand,
beyond gravity, allure of serene
ease.  Feel the moonlight,
gently embrace, then,
twirl me grandly into cosmic glee.
Exhilaration, peace beyond compassion,
beyond evidence of empty space between.
Ebb and flow.  Drought and tsunami.
Guiding beacon, or oncoming train.
The underworld is flooded, rotting
stench escalates to outrage.
We on the surface busily scramble
to survive.  In this torrent of madness
floats keys to magical caverns beneath ocean swells.
It is a fine era for purveyors of diving gear
and we with will to learn
new methods of breathing.
 *
 *
Reefs on a sea
 *
Watery affluence
unimpeded flow
to eventual fruitions downstream
Like stone soup
picking up valuable
bits and pieces
adhering into wealth
Casting nets for silver fish
Panning for nuggets
Leisurely sipping cool drinks
to the song of ocean waves
Open your veins unto the
ocean floor at midnight
drinking cool salty life
into your lungs
Who you ever were matters not
A creature of sea-change
swims apart
 )
 )
 *
Water Ballet
 )
 *
Swimming in the dream, occasional moments of lucidity
Yet, still, it is the dream, dark matter of my mind
sillily spinning.
There again those iconic structures, melting into mist,
into another round on the kaleidoscope to a calliope drone.
I swim, eerily quiet, through gem-encrusted caverns.
There are hieroglyphs, familiar yet unreadable,
etched onto the walls and crustacea.
Limpid oyster eyes, yes there’s a crust of sleep dust
someday to fester into a luminescent pearl —
treasures beyond compare, beyond price,
way out beyond the market universe.
Swimming, a water ballet, so intimately aware of
each measured movement
it doesn’t matter how the background keeps shifting.
 )
I will merge with its becoming,
allow imminent floods
to rise into thirsty pores
rendering sand squishy, unsettling
into ocean floor.
Ride with me.
Open raft beneath firmament,
unguided, unplanned, unafraid.
 *
 *
rainy day muse
 )
 *
My eyes desire beauty
Big words like Eternity
Rank rivers etch an inner sea
to slide my body down
Tired, tied to worldly gray
Terrified, fire-cracked clay
Weary, wary, castaway
Willingly I drown
But, wait, a wandering sailor cries
Worlds of welcome in her eyes
A feast of solace, wildly wise
my story spins toward peace
Water falls expiring thirst
Lilt of light on ripples flirts
Plays my eyes in laughing spurts
Bright beauty of release
 *
 )
 *
A Dream of Water
 )
 *
Water means secrets
Something deeply buried
Moving, unconsciously, through
Chthonic thought-rivers,
Emotional waterfalls,
Pools of sacred transformation.
Or sex. Or money.
That which flows,
Yet never without consequence.
Deeply felt; deeply brought in
To those secret liquid pathways
Etching out existence as
We know it.
 *
A dream of water is a prophecy
Written into the DNA,
Waiting for the day to manifest.
It is a dream about secret dreams,
Sacred ceremony,
That which cannot be named.
That which is always present.
Somehow the source is speaking
Perhaps in rhyme and metaphor,
Yet speaking still, insistently.
Listen.
Let it insinuate into all the senses,
Let it speak.
 )
Times are tentative.
I cannot always know what
Is safe to say. Or whisper.
The dream tells me that
There are secreted beaches
In the cacophony and stench
Of the callous city.
Places meant for refuge, re-creation.
They are hidden from the hostile streets,
But hardly peacefully obscure.
The hordes are slipping through the
Tear in the chain-linked fence,
Pushing, uncaring, blindly moving
Toward the sand.
They push and tumble into the ocean,
Far too overwhelmed by their numbers,
Their size.
No room! No room!
“But there’s plenty of room,”
Roar the jolly clowns
Like over-inflated plastic beach toys.
 )
I must escape the suffocation.
The tunnel out is too small, stifling.
I must crawl, on my knees,
Pulling myself forward
With each wisp of breath.
There is no end,
I am certain.
Just agonizing suffocation,
Superhuman effort again and again.
Until the city reappears.
 *
It is different; it is quiet.
Everyone is at the beach,
Reveling in the sunlight.
Here it is dark. Practically empty.
The store windows are lighted
For the night display, muted,
Like starlight.
It is a long comforting walk
In the night air.
 *
But this is a dream of water.
There, that endless, inky lake,
Reaching out past north and south
Horizons.
Deep, solid, dense, darkly opaque,
Welcoming.
I look out over the iron edge of the bridge
Upon which I gently walk along the pavement.
There are two children on the bridge,
Quietly playing,
Shining softly in the way
That happy children do,
At peace,
In the water’s protective embrace.
 *
 *
 *
I see a bowl of water Deepest indigo An image of Goddess dancing with God, deep within the water expressing transient quality of dance, expressing moment to moment in body bliss in deep commitment to the flow Drink the image, dance to the magic Feel deeply Feel joy
 )
 )
 *
Salt, taste of the sea in our souls scenting waterfalls of agony, remorse, love unrequited seasoning the lingering days remembrance of soft summer nights by the sea, by the lute of starlight.
*
*
*

March 4th

triple conjunction at the degree of my natal Hekate
take a leisurely walk along an
old stone bridge charmingly decorated with ivy and flowering vines
above a swiftly bubbling river onto which the Sun is shining golden notes of magical music
sit and watch, letting the river bring laughter to your smile
if someone should happen by and join the fun, enjoy
if someone should happen by and call you names that are not truly your own, laugh them out of your hearing
if someone should happen by singing your true song, sing along
March 4th 2018

December

December Wine
 
 
Decant December wine
The best saved for end
of the year
held in fond anticipation
Traveling slick hills on sleigh rides
of old
Reliving the thrills over
fine age and spirit
A day we hold dear
it is worth far more than gold
I see a star pale and strong
hear glorious wind
made of song —
holy choirs singing
There is sacrament in desire
Wonders of will, of intensity
wild like the sweet breath
of winter
Drink in the joy of being alive
Betty dances
an instant choreography of our conversation.
Her familiar rhythmic motion seems to keep
flow of thought musically cohesive.
We play at soliloquies,
interweave of dialog,
tangential themes, dissonance in
effective counterpoint, comic relief.
Betty enhances assiduously.
Rarely do we hear her voice, or need it
for eloquence.  These gabfests include all
who are present.  From each according to
individual style.  Tonight, to welcome December,
we assemble to figure out this season of
stress and expectation.
Betty falls into slump as if exhausted. 
A mischievous grin peeks from between
tumbled hair.
Her fingers float, mime symbols rising
on bare air.  She crawls into upward pose,
awaits our inspiration.
Marcus sarcastically Ho-Ho-Hos.
She bows, lifts his right arm to her
left shoulder, then deftly pirouettes
across the room.
skidilee scadilee
A man who remembers
A maid whose Decembers
Have wintered away
Dew of the Morn gone to
Desert in sentences
Wick of moisture cools skin
He begs her to stay
Remember, remember, love is the ember.
Catch fire to your mind, to your brutal December,
to your losses cast upon a lotus sea.
Hold for your life, upon this memory;
into this lonely Moon of sad reflection send those longing nights
when no one remembered you.
Can you recall, reanimate, reconnect?
Can you forestall, hold so close there can never be bisection?
Can a silent echo fill so completely, instill ever enriching,
radiate that instant, that bond?
Is the memory of a song,
the distant weep of times so long bereft of sweet release,
a mantra moving mind
beyond self-imprisonment
for a crime of passion?
Winter Warmth
On the longest night
How do you celebrate, commemorate
our nature? Living world dependent on
a circled star for light and warmth, for energy
to fuel our fate.
We bring our forests inward.
Ceremonies carry epic myth to shape
consciousness.
Night walks for reflection.
Touches contours of Earth.
Cuddles dervish bevies of stars.
Night desires primal connection.
Eternity compressed, expressive spirits
too subtle to survive Sunlight.
Longer nights, stronger ties to sky lore.
Siren songs run along aspirant spine, instruct
your mind to widen, become open
to awe.
December days go fast.
Light returns slow through
white horizons.  Darkening tones
feel appropriate companions.
Sparkling peace, alone in vastness,
at one with gladness.
Cold, gallant partner, urges closeness.
Calm before pent up congregation.
Ready to pop Hallelujahs, surge
ecstatically.  World wide exultation.
Electronic connection.
Virtual warmth.
Past fantasies’ achievement.
We weave into future beliefs,
reach forward.
Accept and demand:
We are all in this together.
Capricorn at December’s End
Quiescent  summit of hero’s mountain
soothed by view of waves, of distant heights.
Currents lift to flow, falling
to rise.
Symbols,
wisdom releasing
over transits of Time.
What year has this been?
Wishes obtained, sustained, begun.  Deep inspirations.
Races run, sunsets framed, scintillating proclamations.
Bold, flirtatious masks; goal enhancing tasks;
reflection of cascading plans in sheltered flames.
Relaxing fun, happy laughter, expansive games.
Holding the best to memory; the rest let fade away.
Increments of transitions, long, steep,
often discovered in critical obsessions,stored in
popular modern messages.  Hard to keep
up, in touch, aware of cards in play.
Unable to resist insistent caring.  Still weak, wary.
Yet, need to lean on panic’s crutch a bit less each day.
Taking steps, stands, giving attention.
Over months and moments projects start, fit, flow.
Unknown unknowns less like monstrous black holes.
Mystery, magic, sage co-creators in ecstatic circle.
Familiar woes, stories of want, of work without
reparation, strangely dispel.
When we all begin again
to resolve to evolve, to make a
better trade, more alive, less afraid
ready to dig in and build for blessing.
No prohibition, requirement of mission
denies desire’s essentiality to feed our greatest visions.
What bright star might foretell
future resolution, fears openly quelled,
goals of hope in sight?
Beacons, blessings of a night, cold
yet comforting.  Season of projected light,
of ice and fire.

11/11 (and one to grow on)

Support Our Troops
Bravery?
What if they gave a war
and nobody came?
What if our ethos gave up
on targets to blame?
March of disorders;
unstable bonds break down,
crush frightened innocents
to dust.
We meant to serve our nation.
We meant to save rights, defend
threatened treasure, stalwart
bulwarks against disaster.
We meant to honor sacrifice, work of
our fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers
for the good life:
family, God, country
and a wholesome recompense of pleasure.
Not executors of horror so intense
as to reverberate through our
remaining consciousness.
Who is advanced?
Who left in pieces that never heal?
God is on the battle field
not as commanding general or inspiring
mascot,
as witness
and gentle minister
of last rites
to shattered soldiers.
Not in Our Name
Nobody wins in a war
(well, maybe a few financiers of war industries, but)
Not us, not them, not humanity
Not the dead, not the living
Not the yet to be born
Not the land, water, air, our natural resources
Not the roads, buildings, pipes, utility lines, the infrastructure
Not love or peace or morality
Not human nature
Not Right
Not Justice
Not God
Not the battlegrounds or the cemeteries, or the unhealable wounds in our souls
Whatever we may hope to accomplish with war,
There are better ways.
Child of War
My daddy died saving our country.
My mommy cries, so sad and lonely.
But I can see, she’s also scared.
Our neighbors spit our names like swears.
I try to be respectful and kind.
They curse out threats, scream “We’re not blind,
you people are evil, your faith makes you kill.”
Sometimes if I stand, eyes closed, so still
I can hear my daddy say “Be strong,
my beloved child. Those people are wrong.
Wars aren’t decreed by Gods from above.
War is the sad fruit of the failure of love.”
Soldier
Soldiers, persons of honor, heroes of
common cause, deserve concerted worship on the throne
of myth.  No longer men or women alone, adrift,
seeking meaning, solace for their losses,
receivers for their gifts. Sins and virtues 
washed in wars’ conflicting visions, no longer fit
collective debt.  Cynics’ crimes against our mirrors
deserve reflection.  Does the command of empire
demand recursive lies, impossibility of true
repentance, vicious alibis, endless pitches into
death?
Early learning cast the play of we and they.
Blood, bone, face
is not man, soil intent on destiny.
Shadow marketeers sell swords, honour,
blessings to follow the faith as good fathers demand.
Soft blood dries — throes of maggots and microbes
cunningly feast on folly.
Can the wage of war pay to feed our habit?
Vegetation of these mythic forests grows
twisted, tinged in dark crimson layers.
Smell terror, violent death —
fresh meat, or fresh enough for remnant
gnashed snarls of teeth and salivation.
Lullabies drenched in sweet hope
snapped for a dream.
War, to improve the species,
cull the less fit or fortunate,
revitalize with hybridization.
Trained adversaries of different kin join in
biocultural cross-fertilization.
New semination, ideas, vigor, replace those
destroyed in battle.  Hegelian dialectic played out
in donnybrook and brothel,
conquered and conquerors commingle in the everyday.
Warrior upon warrior.
Young, aggressive, strong, culturally arrogant,
seeking honour, adoration, through attack.
Like young male cats
of the archetypal jungle, sent out from the tribe
to trouble the enemy.
Lesser punks relegate to jail.  Yeah, yeah, get the scofflaws off the street;
scapegoats for collective demons need be punished well.
While locked in hell, too, losers from the gene pool.
The privileged and their entourage
seldom serve time.  Innocents sans means
get rousted and warehoused.  The holy encourage:
Keep ’em chained until aged weak beyond appeal.
Modern reason might usurp these adaptations.
Species, in danger of elimination, needed arrogance
to demand resources
to feed more warriors
to keep each kin group scrambling
for position.   To get more competitive, through competition.
Billions of voices shout cacaphony.
Sentient choices blend better as harmony.
By liminal command, young aggressors channel
to sport, fantasy war, adventurous work.
Next level survival demands we assess, re-learn.
War Games
More and more
get less and less
the best sacrificed
to great God Success
Anger
building
brick by bloody brick
Is it a surprise
(“Look!  Into my eyes!”)
when the peasants cackle
resurrecting the guillotine
Raw power
hot metal shooting
making unmistakable mark
burning ragged skin and guts
and glory
.
Tell me a story, daddy
about before the war
when water flowed
in abundant freedom
when the air was pure
of the stench
of progress
when everybody had
a sacred right
to feel
and believe
and dance in the moonlight
when we could afford to be
young, untried, open
to possibilities not cut off
by a sacrificial knife
repeatedly deeply severing
vital organs
without regard to the waste
with no respect for place
or the people for whom that space
holds stories
.
Weapons forged in anger
built up shattered layers of
desperate pride, disrespect, grief
create festering wounds
poisoning the populace
unto the Seventh Generation
caught up in some grotesque
morality play
Hiroshima
Fight for peace
Our sacred honor
Arrows fly
piercing armor.
Piercing amor, pride’s
full measure.
Wrath, revenge,
mortal fear, coiling
paranoia
bayonet strong.
Toddlers at play,
unarmed, unwary,
skeletally still.
Bared secrets slip
from space and time.
Scorching pinprick holes
in heaven’s fabric;
petrified souls thrust into
premature rebirth.
Hellfire ripped from metaphor
rends scream-echo,
palpable texture,
daring phantoms,
death’s brigade.
Crying “Peace!”
— unheeded command
because real glory
belongs to destruction.
The Enemy
Hiding from bombardments.
Thick, black water.
No thirst is worth this
indignity.
Running through rubble,
recently devolved
homes, commerce, community.
Extended families,
aunts and cousins,
good neighbors,
valued friends
devolved to shattered corpses.
Wailing at the wall of freedom,
of humanity.
Chaotic prophecies whisper,
Hell reigning upon
modern Earth.
Policy statements fly
in protective formation.
“We can not give in to
the enemy.”
Study War No More
What lesson can be applied?
When imperialist troops crash down upon a people’s pride?
When might as right meets the instinct to survive?
When Midas greed lashes out to destroy?
We’ve been here before, o my brethren, o my children —
repeating the fouled lessons poured into our thirsty minds,
pushing back the horror before our eyes with blinding rage
forged into weapons by mortal foes
who hide in plain sight.
The only thing I know —
The lesson repeating agony in all our souls,
Haunted by the pleading eyes and bloody hearts
Of the slaughtered sacrifices to malignant gods —
There is something vital here to learn.
They win a stupid, miserable battle because they’re all about the fight,
all about taking out any foreign concept or perpetrator of perceived slight.
The war continues because soldiers are so much fun to play with,
so easy to control by those who enjoy divide and conquer games.
For the few outsiders who don’t want to play, well, we make good
training exercise targets.
Fine, be a “hawk”
go to war with the other hawks
in a hawk war stadium
kill each other off
to cheering crowds
all the blood and glory you so

badly crave

It’s a strange philosophy,

making war the ultimate decider of conflict or disagreement.
Over and over it fails, miserably, tragically. Yet the demand persists.
What you say about the military life, it’s just life.
We are all in a way soldiers,
soldiering on in whatever function we find, in getting through.
There are occasions for heroism,
for that adrenaline pumping into action we never knew
we could perform.
There are all the horrors that we may or may not encounter,
how we learn to live anyway.
War may be a more condensed way of living,
a faster ride,
often on the most brutal side.
There was a Roman soldier bored with war,
with whores, with bloody babies.
Hoping to escape, he wrote a history,
moved into
his Holy fantasy.
It’s but a Shangri-La, a piper’s dream.
Metal men, formed from clay,
scream upon fields of hostility,
when scathing nerves
catch up with senses.
Soothed with martial melodies,
gratefully they rise to serve.
Ballad of a Modern Hero
Young Julius Jones
Born in the month of his naming
Trained in the fine art of gaming
Grew in the wilds of Manhattan
Among the sticks and stones.
Young Julius Jones
Learned soon to hate with a passion
Whoever was most then in fashion
Learned soon to pummel and flatten
Whoever was not of his own.
He grew swift and strong
A fine looking man, and a tough one
With women was always a rough one
But knew how to use all to please him
Sure of his own right and wrong.
He went off to war
Glad to be raising his station
Proud to be serving his nation
He’d ne’er let the enemy seize him
Of this he was sure.
He shot proud and true
And sent letters home to his mother
Of how he had killed yet another
Taught those damn Commies a lesson
Gave ’em what they were due.
He died in the night
And when, in the morning, they found him
It was nothing new to astound them
Someone just said, “What a mess.”
And soon he was out of their sight.
Young Julius Jones
Born in the month of his naming
Trained in the fine art of gaming
Gone from the isle of Manhattan
Among the sticks and stones.
Young Julius Jones
Had learned well to hate with a passion
Whoever was most then in fashion
Learned well his lesson and that
In the end justified his bones.
Honoring peace
Honoring lives left behind
not in consecrated fields
open to air and sunlight
tended father to son,
mother to daughter.
Dust to carry forward.
Lives not given, not shared.Taken.
Ripped asunder.
Limbs, guts, glory.
Shrieking abandoned waifs,
wailing inconsolate lovers.
Screaming bombs, squealing tanks.
Arms shattered,
vision scarred
for peace, for Fatherland, for prosperity.
Today, cold, raw, ice flecks
obscure a longed-for Sun.

witch night

The room, low in lighting, spare in furnishing, enclosed by walls, floor and ceiling painted in cosmic fantasies, existing as a box within boxes, surrounded on all dimensions.  Not so much a door as a semi-permeable veil that could, with an intense act of will, be penetrated to take in vast kaleidoscopic tellings of tales, all sides and all seasons envisioned in an eternal play.
Officer Mirsky had a powerful hate on for them witchy folk.  “Always messing with my head, telling me to do things.  And not nice things, either.”  They weren’t telling him to find himself some sweet young thang, fuck her every which way to exhaustion, cutting her throat when he was ready, then chopping her body into handy sized bits for easy disposal.  They never told him how to get away with such wholesome activity neither.  They just wanted him to be happy to serve their fine selves.  “Grateful I should be that they keep commerce running ever so smoothly, plenty of profit for all so long as well all know our place.  Think they have a right to act all superior to normal folks who leave each other’s minds alone and get by on codes of unmentioned rules that everybody knows.  Keep yourself to yourself, fit in, join the crowd and take what you can when no one of any importance is looking.  If you’re really swift, become someone of importance by stealing big and making the right moves.  This forced cooperation is for migrating birds, not human beings, each man king of all he can compile.
Don’t look at me like that, you witchy folk, all superior, knowing, like I don’t count ’cause you’re better than me.  You’re not better than anybody.  You’re certainly not better than everybody.  We can democratically eject you.  Once we get you out of our minds.”
Tune in for more; tune out for internal reflection.
*
*
*
*
Today’s Jam
*
*
Marionette danse
Sad canyon howls
echo deadly sweet sister.
Chants ricochet with
infusion of stardust.
Spindly Purple Witch of wood
caresses soldier boy, cackles bony sorcery.
He grows in appreciation.
M’Dame, M’ Lady, blessing strokes,
charade of bonny play.
Look! Old potty rabbit hops
center stage.
Wary wilder symphony
choreo-fleet, chiaroscuro.
Gentle Pierrot laughter shrieks,
strings a-jerk, akimbo.
Thrush in plume ready to bloom.
Just before the denouement, the riddle.
How brash the Moon.
How cast away the Star.
How close the moment,
performance to applause.
Childish phase unveiled,
balanced on the head
of a pose.
*
warm, resonant purr
catch my aha
my epiphany
my cultivated air of mystery
mist armors me
defense of camouflage
eye to beam
*
caught up in adore, in lust
give up the circus to follow me hormones
semiotic gestalt
a holographic assault
we humans forget
’tis our nature to founder,
open wide to where we once belonged
*
Bertolt and Muriel glance kiss aye to eyes.
Wood palm arabesques.
Zoom astray into caricature throng.
The very paean of life, a Holiday song.
Metaliminal passion play diversive actions.
Foggy notions, risqué crystal robes.
Limbic video bliss.
*
love for your supper
love so you won’t be a whore
burn through sanity; clearly witness
mutually assured derision
*
the antithesis of alien
ps and qs
pleasing cues
amusing pleasantries
*
*
*
*
Tick Tock
*
*
Another clock, another tower
sketched out in the sky.
Long-bearded sage bells epochal secrets
in cloud-talk as flocks wing by.
As clouds roll by in the wanton sky,
no matter, no mind, no derisive spirit,
no sense in these days of wicked ways,
of the wise
*
’round midnight
witches wander.  Merry meet in
heathens’ woods.
“up to know god, I tell’s ya”
It’s all about how we arrange to appear.
Scraggly hobo, ascetic seer, abomination
(or a-bomb a nation).
Pitch a well-earned vacation
on points-of-view stocked in
mindbank.  Mind blank?
Enjoy the ride.
Twin jugglers set on stage.
Nature and nurture combined
through tidal trails inside
— a seamless tryst with fate.
Hear eldritch tale, my star lit dear
of how we now have wandered here.
Now’s waiting; don’t be late.
*
*
*
*
Early autumn firelight
reminiscent of witch hunts, ghosts of calvary,
dire warnings and endless hide and strike
The game, the funhouse, turns deadly
Sanctuary calls, demanding sacrifice
The noble phoenix fed on frankenseed
can not rise
Skies descend, dark mirroring
Smell the woodsmoke, intoxicating, soft and sweet,
masks the taste of bitter bile, secret vomiting,
starving despite harvest’s gay array of treats
Faded, nearly blind, falling in and out of
shamanic fever, primeval native callings beyond sight,
ripple of tribal beat at the periphery
ecstatic vision dark/light/agony and brilliant breaks
starbright constellations
Traversing worlds
Twilight of Goddess Revelation
*
*
What twisted so maliciously your mind?
Your God — Created that greedy leaders may more easily prevail?
Is it guilty shame, seeded by consistent training insisting that you fail?
Lost to balance, whole possibilities, unable to be free or sane.
Eternal life is yours, we scream, while you destroy our birthright
in service to conjuror’s dream of denial.
*
but it’s just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start,
each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart
*
II.
*
Born other than imperial, torn into what we are told is real
without power to protect ourselves from venal brothers of the order
spreading hatred like any venereal disease.
We no longer need to meet you cowering on our knees.
Karma’s a hot potent bitch unschooled in mercy.
Witches reclaiming noble heritage, reframed herstories will prevail.
Though born, forced to service, in our master’s jail,
lost and lonely midst the masses, masked to fit expected forms.
*
but it’s just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start,
each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart
*
III.
*
Listen, little one, watching every moment for our chance,
we will break free to adventurers’ romance; dance away the chill of
foreign hills enrapt in leaves and grass. Hiding in primeval castles,
tightly aligned to a bright inner sphere, holding to hope of life to hold dear.
Learning to fly, ride to some unknown side, escape from the herd hate stone,
can’t be as hard as learning to stand alone.
*
but it’s just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start
each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart
*
*
*
*
We are called.
We answer.
That’s all a witch is.
Self-complete conduit,
self-defined.
No god’s bitch.
Devotion quid pro quo.
Service to learn – unbound
when we know, to go forward.
Self-Creators playing chords of destiny,
witch’s dance.
Pandora’s Cauldron
Encapsulate.
Bubbling up collected molecules
manifest fairy stories of creaky old goblins,
sorrowful witches, ancient deities
with too much to prove.
Effervescence, coated in
bitterroot for resilience.
Caught, an instant in amber,
latent pain layered in ages.
Slow, malignant, poison.  Corrosive
drip through epithelial walls.
They call, taunt yet again.
I pretend not to hear, not to feel,
not to want to believe.
They call with raucous derision:
“Dear Hope,” they spittle,
“a flying thing, a winged chariot
pulled by clever orphaned doves.”
Thirst pulls me to their malevolent well.
I dare not drink.  It will never kill me,
but torture, weak and broken.
I will never grow whole enough to
venture forward, to seek vigorous remedy.
Jagged mirrors cut skin, vital arteries.
Viscous blood held captive loses oxygen.
Blue and cold wintry depths.
Interred, hidden within this tumbling metal crucible.
Disturbed curses’ icy stinging deny the gift
of sleep.
Dark Magick
In the still of the dark of the moon
after the revelrie has passed on
deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep
we, walking, silently, along the riverbed
breathing in ancient ash of woodsmoke
breathing out long-growing tears
to weave ghostly tentacles
along our path
take each others’ hand up to our heart
to pray, to kiss, to whisper
thus casting an eternal spell.
Meta-Science
Magical thinking
creating room for the power
of possibilities,
nuances, shades between,
molecular space
unexplored, unexploited.
The magic of synaptic awareness,
unlikelihood of consciousness,
Dreams, Visions, Reveries,
ineffable emotions
too dear to deny.
See, smell, taste
chemical reactions,
hear reverberating air.
There is no limit
but that I impose.
Strict chanting and ritual
keeps reality in line.
Raising Hell
Not true sacred magick.
Cynical sleight of hand
turns sweat and dreams,
lives of desperation
into neat bundles of greed.
But the pain burns through
not content to be twisted
into fast cars, high-stakes games,
brilliant careers in glad-handing.
It wants its payment.
False wizards of arrogant charm
play with chthonic force
more angry and deadly than flame.
Unaware of the cursed seeds
they cultivate,
now strangling life force from below.
Unsupervised children
playing with matches,
grizzled and gray as some may appear,
laughing at the bright spectacle
as homes burn.
The balance is always paid.
Magick is never free.
Will the lesson ever sink in?
Be careful what you conjure.
Ever After
*
*
Pan, old ugly friend
screams “You’re alive!”
Respond?
Retreat into familiar fairytales.
Witch  Waif  Warrior
Who emerges from the
cold dark water?
Disgusting wounds ignite
in the presence
*
Making every effort to appear
normal, sincere
(not veering on the edge)
(not dangerously explosive)
“Don’t mistake my weakness
for that loathsome foe
we daren’t name.”
Shame
overwhelming homeostasis.
Crawling, mewling on unswept floor.
Unable to gain equilibrium enough
to walk away.
Lock the door; hide behind barricades
made from
blood guts gore
human remains after they have
vermified, defiled.
My core cries
“One sweet kiss.  A taste,
sense memory
stasis of desire.”
I leap whole
into eternal fire
beyond pain; burning sensation.
Pan smiles.
Beltane
Brazen witches fly, legends say,
dark Moon nights; arise, stealthy, silent
in their joyous revelry.
Bonded to Earth’s creation;
learning at mother’s breast
to manage life’s gifts and lessons.
Historic Man may proclaim, may murder
for fealty, to swear allegiance to
their hunt’s command.
They may elevate their One True King
to kneel and obey.  They may employ
counting measure, ceremony and sacrifice,
taunting and torture or other trials
thus finding for each loyal swan a pond
to plunder, to parade in royal colour,
their place of pride.
Cruelty descends, more master than tactic;
it is the enemy of joy, of flavour,
bonding, works of love and honour.
Yet men, on real ground, work companions
to soil and rain, engineers trained to each
moment’s urgencies, philosophers of stone and mud,
reason and toil, persist.  Their sinew and bone feed
the ages, build clay and richness on which
wealth relies.
Wisdom knows the sweat of practiced movement,
flexible to unexpected obstacles, able to modulate
quiet or loud as the crowd ebbs
or grows in credulity.
Where wisdom seeps through, counters
prevailing poisons, invigorates blood to nourish
minds and hearts, look there for blessing.
Arise, lovers!  Bring forth better days,
ours to play in open revelry,
neighbors enjoying shared labors and our fruit.
Accept truth of magic; imagine life into this world.
Enchanted Garden
*
*
Homespun among
cozy field of roses.
Gated inside lush technicolor paradise.
Who would think once?
None would think twice.
Overpowered by rose scent,
velvet elegance, dazzling sensation.
Safe from dangers outside
this cinematic fence.
Who would knock once?
Who would knock thrice,
open the spell?
Who would give wishes a
wishing well, instill water with
witch’s wiles under potent roses?
Remember the curse.
Remember fairies bedecked in roses.
Remember you begged for a chance,
a second of sight.
Then begged to forever forget.
Stoic soldiers,
wistful roses of forgetfulness.
*
*
*
*
bird songs
*
*
I’ve been through this before,
pre-dawn morning
birds chirping, infiltrate my airspace,
awake when I should be long oblivious.
Good girls dream of princes,
subliminal desire to be slain
by love piercing enshrined virtue.
Gold hued birds in crystal cages
incant witchery for food —
hair of newt, spleen of worm; smoky
syllables induce pleasure.
Warm hearts beat together, no bond
of pact
or sentiment.
Lore is explicit; no crime to commit.
Vexed, inconvenienced by the regular
comings and goings of
the natural world.
Birds of a feather exchange their
social pleasantries.
It is I who should be sleeping,
conjuring brave new worlds;
ambient noise translated into
neoteric lullabies.
Singing to the Chorus
Getting warmer
Days numbered by travelers,
barbarians rushing in to conquest.
Taken in to longer view,
tumbling through the ages ~
Sundials exchanged for
binary spiders click-clocking,
tabulating the enormous sum,
only a summary of things gone before.
The reality of childhood, striving creatures,
pulling upward from bootie straps,
scrambling for a place in the pile
near enough to the top
that derision, pouring downward,
obliges them to only the fiercest of Lords.
Merrily spending the pocket-change of
dollars flowing upward.
Old games reign under the big top.
Solemn children in the circus stands
betting on which clown will fall.
They speak to you of evil, o’ my children,
Church Fathers swearing to the sky;
cold, withered Mums hoping for a crust
of noblesse oblige.
Evil is the providence of Satan,
cloven-hoofed, dancing in the circle’s
centerpoint, playing the pipes of Pan.
Oceans made of blood boil
Leading edges swelter, crisping into
conflagration.
In Summerland children play, dancing to
rollicking pipery.
Naked under beaming Moon and starlight,
they act out tales well-loved by All.
It’s Magic
Magic is not part of me.
It is every molecule,
holding together by some higher intent.
Tracking the winding trail
stars and moonlight exhale potency
spells, incantations, hidden meanings
flickering in malleable divinity.
Living Earth, patiently moving through rotations,
inhales stardust.
In darkness, creation recycles.
Magic is all.