hOLy CHaoS ~ Emerging Visions #17 ~ April 1
Why suffer fools at all? They can certainly suffer just fine for themselves.
A Fool I’ve been
walking behind visions
cringing from derision
seeking solace from a merry Moon
too soon gone old
Laughing back on follies
sticking pins in pain — jolly?
Morose, cold …
Have my wanderings sown
no happy harvest, raised no cozy home?
Snuggling into punishing remorse
“You knew you should have run a better course!”
“You know you deserve to be alone.”
Is that true? Am I the Fool careening
down the precipice,
broken, no meaning;
is this my hapless fate?
Or self-hate insisting I mistake
a journey for a goal?
A Fool can be a cherished, merry soul
dancing the golden mountain trail
reveling in freezing rain and snow
tasting the bite without bitterness
This I know
A memory of haunting nostalgia
I cannot not touch it, taste it, hold it, know it, breathe it
Still it piques me at the corner of my eye, below perception.
The words escape me.
One must be very careful of words.
They hold great power: mystic and legal and personal.
Words can weave a whole world, a whirl of worlds, a wild wind of words
They can create reality for those who get caught up in them.
The right word at the right time can catalyze miracles.
The right word at the wrong time can destroy the eternal.
How might I find the words to capture my dream, my destiny?
Enter the Fool upon the Precipice, prattling ditties of the daily airwaves.
She is whirling blithely, eyes upon a distant rainbow, breathing in clouds
Breathing out daisies and daffodils and a brilliance of pansies.
She is dancing to her own symphony, entranced in her deepest essence.
Without thought, without prayer, without a government authorized identity
There are no guarantees, no happy ending.
There is a tale I try to tell.
Its point escapes me, withering into fairydust.
I breathe in the poisoned air, drink the poisoned water, eat the poisoned food
Like a desperately swimming fish in a polluted bowl, like a creature of the streets eating garbage,
Like a child.
The pattern is corrupted, but I follow it as best I can.
I have been told that if I can properly put the pieces in place
All will be revealed; all will be peace and beauty and love.
The pieces of my foolish shattered heart.
I am metamorphing art
a brain in a biological bottle.
What does that even mean?
I am but a latter day fool,
a futile Lancelot sans his Art or Guin.
If you let me in, if I satisfy some gaping
pinhole in your aimless curiosity,
if my foraging philosophy intrigues
your rambling wit, if we sit to laugh and cry
over brie and wine, you will see.
A chimera of Mage and Fool
Image of watery fire
a’flow and standing resolute
Creation of patient desire
Tell me a tale of intricate pleasure
Knit me a touchstone against any weather
Join me in illusive
smoke, wine and song
Catch me in delusion; but don’t imply I’m wrong
Let me breathe grand fantasy
past grasping reality
spin out sunbeams from decay of dross
sweetly decorate my cross
Waylaid reason is no loss
because I have reason to see
the world I create it to be
It’s so cruel
all you learn in school
is mocking behavior
reciting the rule
not that life’s there to savor
for the free playful fool
I burst my bubble daily
just to feel the pain
I paint my face up gaily
to melt out in the rain
My bag of tricks is magic
But no one calls to buy
I wish my life were tragic
That would explain my sad refrain
so bravely strong, heroic
a saint, stately and stoic
But in truth I’m just a bum
the very lowest sum
of higher expectations.
So, elbow up and drown in
(salutations, obviously optional).
It’s not that I’m exceptional
(what a wrench that was to say)
but that the conventional
I label reprehensible
snake crawls into my Freudian
No longer can I deny reliance
on strangers of kindness who never stick around.
So please, kindly grant to me,
feed my sustaining fantasy,
Hear me, and answer: “How profound!”
of giddy illusion
just enough to guilefully entice.
Sparkling Neural net
wild eternal child,
ages’ flamboyant fool,
Here’s to the weary.
Here’s to the fun.
Here’s to the berry that makes us all young.
Here’s to the rulers.
Here’s to the fools.
Here’s to the toilers and tellers of truths.
Here’s to the end of another decline.
Here’s to the best of our time.
Somnolent glide, sinuous, silvery stair.
Burnt eyes still, closed to the world.
What glimpse might I witness
if only I dare?
Is there purpose to wandering Earth?
Should I care?
But what if I’m missing the thrill?
What would carry me there?
Over the boundaries; into the wild.
Not a safe task to commit to a child.
A quest full of questions.
A fool’s ‘oliday.
And, have I mentioned,
no promise of pay.
Just a born again supplicant
reshaping the code,
creating the tale I’ll tell
when I’m old.
Mood’s choral turns to Spring.
That special lethargy that poets faux affect,
reflective as a silver pool.
We like the love that lets us play the fool,
exudes good humor, respite from
sober shame of longing heart.
That flame, that spark that arts
wish power to capture,
Let the goodtimes roll
down fresh verdant hillside,
spilling out like seed.
Elegant foolery open to bountiful showers.
Flagrant flowers, emergent liberation.
Layered legend long ripens, tangled,
mired below in
torpid traipse through dust and gloom.
Swept into light as destiny,
revealed by labor of cultivation,
excavated, bestowed honoured place
in ritual chorus.
‘round hallow table, exultant vibration.
Energies blend, fuse.
Recombinant winds call timeless tunes.
Rhythmic movements re- and un- engage,
never wholly new.
Wrested 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.
run ruinous errands,
rush past threshold of Hell
in cheap reticules.
Cast into a class that laughs at rules,
what holds grimy chaos at bay?
(Fools at least are pure, are gay and
Smoke simmering black deliciously divides while cackling
into echoes far seeking.
But there’s that puppy-dog barking need for love, for
status, for a wise old fool to follow into certain death
Who believes these mutterings?
Who would want to?
I tell Your secrets
in riddles, rhythms
If those fools would but
smile and dance
the sands would fly into music
People I became over ages.
Slave to wages.
Humble servant to whomever
gave a glance.
Always ready for a game with chance,
burning bridges to
swim in fate’s brave waves.
What fool would risk stability,
shame, neighbor’s hostility,
to resist? Stripped of private self-determination,
could such fools exist?
What can I say?
There’s valid point in
all this farce?
That the fool on the precipice
what the cost
there’s a prize worth the price
of steadfast duty?
There is bountiful advice
in the stars?
There’s a lucky star;
and it’s ours?
There is magick,
to believe in?
Requited hope, ecstatic grace?
There is more than we imagine?
There is gold in inner space?
There is danger; there are dragons?
There are knights and righteous cause?
There are chaos taming tactics —
There are underlying laws
that we obey?
Old Mage Pontificates
Heroes – people so publicly good they inspire
us to be better.
To wander clothed for travel, no map, destination.
Direction, decision, matters of whim or
Sparkly lights over our Wintering fields,
meteorites to wish upon.
I wish for miracles that outdo, overwhelm
Harsh judgment, militant readiness to fire
chaos, satisfying destruction.
Sharp dark edges, bullets of desperation.
Pain, psychic, traumatic, rippling waves
overreach, suck in soul and humanity.
Let them fight, beyond our Earthian borders,
those archetypes of Lucifer and Christ.
Let them whip up fierce, boisterous
conflagration – epiphanies of rage against
love. Hell, take bets, cheer and get high
on the action.
Up there, in that realm made of fantasy
and digitized dreams.
Here, right here and now and always
from here on, let it go.
Let the movie do its bitter dancing on
that distant screen while we
enjoy festivities of sparkling lights and
generosity, best humanity can offer spirit
of liberation immersed in
For Brigid’s Day
Who am i to bow to You —
me shorn of love, without honor;
You an enduring Goddess,
long honored for your bounty
of knowledge, thought’s ground water
poured, shared, carried forward.
Goddess of brides,
of hope, of visions, of poetry.
We who want a deeper future for ourselves,
more kind, more wise,
a better definition for humanity,
assemble on bended knees to
beg, accept, express your beauty.
Humans alive to art,
flow of mystic cavern seas,
can synergize, can command,
manifest as Magick.
Bearing Water for Brigid
Sketches for a water vessel —
united, bottle and message elide on waves.
Voice of Brigid calls.
All who hear: Imagine.
Exposed to wind, to grit, to rain,
shifts of vibration,
rock faces erode.
Designated fixed space
Conveyor through fluid
Creates place, surface to paint
tableaux for amusement,
diffusion of emotion,
beatitude against foment of dueling farce.
Harsh edges polished,
blend in the dark.
of giddy illusion
just enough to guilefully entice.
Sparkling Neural net
wild eternal child,
ages’ flamboyant fool,
(Voice pours from within)
A wound is a sacred vessel.
Pain carves into flesh
carries the seed
of its own demise.
engulfed in life
learns anew to be whole.
Wounded with the potential for wisdom
when eyes are are pried
from seeping, sucking, suffering
aching to censure what future we admire.
Redefine the schizm.
This wound is our project.
To heal, discover the vision;
realign the seam to fit
Let loose that genie of desire.
Ride rushing blood streams.
Build a roaring pyre of grief,
insane belief in wrath-filled deities.
Revile that old refrain: “life is pain” or a game
to be lost.
No Faustian bargain.
essence of ecstasy.
Don’t wait for the rest to see
Stretch your sail.
Take sight of your guiding star.
The only failure is self-denial
in favor of the vile lie
that pain is destiny
instead of faithful friend
Slice vivid memories.
Exult in the tastes, the textures.
Enliven your way.
In the end
the vessel breaks.
There the Goddess stirs.
Scrying on the Moon
~twilight of the goddess, call to song aery dancing, lady fair your fiery trance rewinds our souls; enjoy these offerings of fancy: all art is yours ~
By sibylline light
images I recognize,
creviced captures of my life.
I know her judgment to be my own.
“Nourished by Moon rivers
mythical cavern blooms
unseen by sunlight
Thus she sets the scene;
becomes the prophecy.
“Purest white simplicity
curved to suggest fragility
faith fed maiden ready for
given in bondage to womanly woes,
hard rows to hoe
for tight human hug through
crying of night.
Fate of mortal soldiers, sacrificed to lust.
Seeking relief, beg for the boon of drama
sneaking into sad hotels
for a fix or a tumble.
danger, a real chance.
Barefoot in the snow
winds so strong
I could not make you hear.
I thought you were my destiny.
Crazy thoughts, far from clear;
but I believed
song lyrics from Saturnine deities
would not lie, leave me
dying, fading into winter’s grey
endless sorrow endured for naught.
Lost on this careless corner,
dreaming of oblivion, intent on visions
tapping against eternity’s
Nature’s gradations of green
soothe tired eyes,
trembling nerves, throbbing veins.
Slivers of moonlight reflect,
disperse through refrains, unearth secrets
embedded in song
effervescing through cool pure air
cleansing the uprising nestling
pure, wise, tested
engorged with the will
Outpouring elixir fills our mythic spring.
Sparkling flame of peace abides within,
licks battle wounds.
Not ignorant fools;
no pleas for altruist beliefs.
Relief of hunger completes us.
No cunning deceivers could ignite malice,
steal our good.
Unbalanced need reaches to heal through
Energies when well-purposed, understood,
Why meanly measure
scores in morality play at “who deserves”?
Healthful work, flowing contribution,
bestows focal point for cyclic rain’s reward.
Fortune’s gift, this benevolent wishers’ well,
replete Goddess blessing.
dip in for contentment, good will, joyful
This is not belief or even knowing.
This is breath of awe in motion.
Novitiate strong and true, my Lord.
Trained to service as is due, my Lord.
Sweep snowy threshold; chop roots for stew,
Domicile clean, tidy, warm.
Hearth fire charmed; wicks ready to light at dark’s release.
Kitchen enchantment, smells that spell succulent sup.
Holiday breads, hunt’s victory,
fruit sweet and spiced, preserved against winter’s insurgency.
Stalwart, luscious vintage ever replenished to
Fragrant pipe passed ‘round; copious wine.
Feast sumptuously satisfied. Night of dance
with hallowed candles cast in magic.
Rhythms wax and wander, discover heroic tales, grand to recount.
Bawdy poetry regales, playful competition gains momentum.
Energy escalates, fans profound merriment.
Family, beyond embarrassment, drunk on high spirits and love.
Goddess blesses, gently kisses, wafts through
Manifesting Destiny: Pages from Persephone’s Notebook
Warm candleglow through the cold windowpane. I imagine gentle happy family life within. Out here, in the dark and vision blurring mist, I feel the sadness, in my throat, welling up in my eyes, softening my heartbeat into tiny bleats of pathos. I am walking without purpose, or with the purpose of walking, movement, letting the evening take me where it will. It is our sadness, more than anger, more than fear, more than love, that bonds us in that chain of humanity. Swimming through our tears, feeling the dense saltiness upon our skin, upon our differentiating shields, we are creatures more profound, more sensitively layered, than in other guises.
Sad songs surprising us on the radio, or played incessantly on the jukebox or cd or other technology, the strains grab us by our groins and vital organs. Sad movies make me tear up and want to hide, or hug someone very dearly, very closely, denying any space between. There is bravery in sadness truly engaged. Essential lessons unwind into wisdom through the loving eyes of sadness. Crying out the pain can reveal beneath a wild wind tunnel of new energy generation. I will sing my sadness to the wind and rain and mist; I will cry it onto dusty deserts and rocky plains. I will wash in mighty oceans of all the sadness of the world.
Tonight I will slowly walk the dark and misty streets, peering into warmly glowing households, dreaming so clearly all the faces of sadness I have ever seen or imagined. I will imagine the beauty of gentle happy people, unaware of my presence outside their sphere. I will take a moment to taste the salt of my tears, which barely increase the misty moisture upon my face. I will laugh, silently, with true mirth, at my sobriety, and continue walking, wherever this evening leads.
What did I learn about poetry?
Elderly, broken mule
bends upward along
icy mountain trail
twin hearts in utero
follow the rune
woven virgin wool
ripe odors enlivening the countryside
ceremonies and celebrations
enjoying soft, strong yarn
woven in her early days