year of ice and fire

January
*
*
Emotionally digesting holiday mayhem
stuff stuffed down
people so sad, and angry.
Angry to be so sad,
watching their lives seep down
some irrevocable hole.
It was supposed to be better.
Supposing life face drowning in
sweet, lush flowers, flopping back
to watch movies in the clouds.
Angels and wizards and clowns
smile simply, wave past.
Grown up at last,
equipped with legitimating ID
to enter the grown-up places
— where is the promise?
“When you get older you will understand.”
No reward of freedom for following the rules;
after endless stringent days in schools,
no wisdom to replace those wasted years.
Fragmented by fear and aggravation,
ambition and futility,
unable to command fluidity into
structured bones, or the wage
to repay required loans.
Conversation always turns to want,
to depression of what was meant to be.
The burden, not a gift,
weight of a world awaiting revelation.
Wasn’t it enough, the sky snow bright
one Winter night
out in a world alive in celebration?
Breathing clear crystal cold,
warmed by deep blood flow
under our skin.
*
*
*
*
February
*
*
February snows through conflated years.
Fear was my ally, hailing me on, hugging
with glorious laughter, carrying unsure steps through
onerous trails. And those ebullient ecstasies of survival.
Drunk on the gold that surpasseth science or light.
Touch the cold sting, letting the song sing through me.
Do you?
Feel the music?  Abandon your amygdala to dance free
awhirl in a swirl of laughing snow?
In dreams, inchoate, unremembered, do we play in those
moments of bliss to keep us balanced, to give courage in a life
less lived, less honored?
*
Old, glazed-over eyes seek momentary solace, look long,
longingly, into a silly mist of snow beyond windows closed
securely against the cold.   Dream world revealed,
in the interplay of eyes and mind.
*
February snowflakes
Flitter Flutter
Feathery powder
Melt into my mind.
*
*
*
*
Marching On
*
*
I give my wandering children
Anger to protect you from pain
Rage to ameliorate agony
Fear of what folks won’t explain
Fraught laughter to counteract tragedy
Music to move you to heal
Theater to unite what we feel
that vague sense that nothing is real …
Lost at an indistinct edge made of snow
Unsure where we’ve come from, with nowhere to go
Beggars and bullies and braggarts and whores
iron chains on our windows in rooms with no doors
Fire roams freely, unleashed by cruel wars,
feeds forever on days we will never see,
worlds we will never be
given
*
*
*March Hare
*
*
Another kind of rabbit hole.
Ghastly dark and bruising.
No recompense of wonder.
No luxury of child’s imagining.
No spritely tea time story.
Only caustic mud awaits below
at tumbling’s end.
*
Young rabbit hops
beside Edenic flowers,
sniffs puissant nectar in the air.
I am complete in this instant.
Now, I leap to a farther garden
to taste the bitter charms,
the salty repartee, tropic spice
and cold beer. Sense, sensation,
cessation of sensation —
not happiness, not bliss.
The essential can not
be sought.
No destinations wave aloft
as banners.
We act.
We affect.
We move on.
*
I am the rabbit.
That chic Alice had the hots
for me and we had planned
to hole up for awhile.
But then thing’s got too
surreal.  Lewis Carroll,
wacky jabber?
I began to feel used
as a plot device.
Can you blame me?
I ate some of Caterpillar’s
mushroom, grew into
a pooka and moved
in with Jimmy Stewart.
Redubbed myself Harvey.
Loved the cocktails.
Later, I haunted Donnie Darko,
puzzle poser of his final fall.
What I mean to say is
that fiction
is born, bred, propagated
out of pain, vanity, desperation
and the humor we conjure
to spite it all.
I have no legitimacy.
It is enough if
I deign to cavort at your call.
*
*
*
*
April’s Fool
*
*
A Fool I’ve been,
jogging behind visions,
cringing from derision,
seeking solace from a merry Moon
too soon gone old.
Peeping back on follies,
sticking pins in pain — jolly?
no, morose, cold …
Harridan crone.
Have my wanderings sown
no happy harvest, 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?
Daze of failure insists I mistake
castigation for a goal?
A Fool can be a cherished, merry soul,
lightly traipsing heroic mountain trails,
reveling in freezing rain and snow,
tasting bite of ice and flame without bitterness.
This I know.
*
*
*
Unwanted April
*
*
How dare proud trees show off in flower
How dare bright dawn arrive so soon
How dare warm skies go grey and shower
How dare young curs howl at the Moon
Winter gave such brave cold cover
I could conceal frigid heart
How dare come Spring when I can’t love her
How, with no will, dare I restart?
*
*
*
*
Imagine May Day
*
*
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.
*
*
*
for the May Queen
*
*
Tick Tock
Times a’creeping
Maidens weeping
beating rags along the river’s edge
shallow floods keep the land aware
destiny is seatide
*
Crazy lady mending her endless tears
Throat flumed, a voice to run from
Love never tarried, though many she married
She cocks an eye, arrowing flocks of fears
Cackles and coaxes sweet mourning doves
to carry her coffin to market
Buyers beware
*
Don’t stop
Don’t answer
Don’t stare
Don’t be seen
Hide in the green
Hide in the hole you call home
Never admit you belong
to the caste you belong to alone
Never assent to succeed to the throne
Wait for cover of darkness
Wallow in comfort of sleep
Trade what time you’re given
for a secret you can’t keep
Destiny is seatide
*
*
*
*
Pink Pancake Place
*
*
A shanty of a place
surprise upon a side city street
painted sweet pink
serving pancakes steeped in sticky syrup
fruits, nuts, chocolate chunks
create your own ambrosia.
*
June, a sweet, gangly girl named
June, in the bright, breezy month named
June — sharing secret bliss
taste of Sun-kissed cloud and honey.
*
*
*
Mississippi
*
*
    Riverside romance one dusky June
    Turned into a winter poem
    By firelight – light of the moon.
*
    We loved and parted all too soon
    Each to return, a separate home
    Riverside romance one dusky June.
*
    I catch a glint, a ring of spoon
    Flashing through the tale I spin
    By firelight – light of the moon.
*
    Sometimes at night I hear you croon
    “We never had a chance to win.”
    Riverside romance one dusky June
    By firelight – light of the moon.
*
*
*
*
July 8, 1981
*
*
We have these moments we may share, my friend
We are not here to judge or blame
We’ll join our souls in song
Our steps will blend into the pattern 
    of the game we play
It’s all a game we play.
*
I’ve often watched the stars and thought of you
Although I didn’t know your face or name
I’ve followed in your form in all I do
You see, we’re all the same
It’s all a simple game.
*
The days are long, the nights are longer still
We’ve learned to play outside of time
Just passing through each moment as we will
Falling in and out of rhyme.
*
Perhaps tomorrow we will meet again
And, never having met before,
We’ll have our interlude of love, and then
Depart, each through a separate door.
*
*
*
Moon Child/Leo
*
*
Created from the Milky Way shining into Mother Moon,
Reflections from that ancient light emerging from her womb.
A sad guitar, a raging sax, emoting through the sea
Of stories sung through ages all, what was through what will be —
Were you the Lady of that lake, were you the piper’s reed?
Were you the luscious, sacred fruit fulfilling every need?
Yes, you the child dancing in the fullness of the night
To ring the rune and cast the spell to make the darkness bright.
Of goddess born to keep us safe and sing our lullabies
Till we emerge as sparkling stars to light the dreaming skies.
*
Heart strings
playing in the sunshine.
Nobility
out standing star sublime.
Ability to set each day in tune.
A lilting aria of blessing.
Air of precious light
singing pure and true.
Brilliant notes pour, glisten, through
the shade.
A melody, a glade of golden hue,
that’s how I think of you.
*
*
*
*
August Leaves
*
*
London Bridge is flooded, melting.
The towers are struck and fallen down.
We well might look at this tragic mess and say,
“I’m not cleaning that up!”
But maybe it’s not a mess to be cleansed,
but a game to indulge in.
Luxuriate in dazzling suds, intrigued.
Work out scenes to turn chaos into valuable memes.
Are we having fun yet?
Because if we’re not, we’re probably missing the point.
*
Perhaps subliminal notes are written upon rocks or stars,
secret lights along a shining trail;
or it might come as spontaneous lyrics singing. 
Myth claims a method of mindplay.
Thoughts metamorph into birdlike beings,
unfurl vestigial wings.
Whirled reverberation
from eternal time.  Messages pop like soap bubbles,
fly swiftly beyond imagined borders
to wonders of continents, oceans, possibilities
yet unexplored.
*
No matter how we explain, they hear
the chatter churning between their ears.
Children in character play,
simulate their own boos and cheers.
Why interfere? Change or replacing the game
may cost too dear, be inconvenient
in this midst of disarray.
Indulged in fear,
passionate ire turned outward,
triggered to blame, to ignite contagious fire.
Set back a’piece where brambles
disguise our winding road, discourage inciters
with inbred eyes.
Pushing
sad, shadow memory.
Hard harsh faces
leer, jeer, beg for tears.
I dare not cry.  I never know what to answer.
Held by my arms fiercely protective.
Stale weeping, caustic, bred of poison, drips through.
*
August month of lion and maiden
cast fiery pure, heat dries lust
for action
yet in summery dreams redemption
shimmers, force carried forward
May gusto of august dreams
inspire trust
for harvests heavy laden
*
*
*
August celebration of the Dark Moon Goddess
under the light of this August Full Moon
Aquarius bears the Water, carries the way
along the electro-virtual waves
shining Moonlight, Faery Queen or fabled harlot
stirs potent night blooms, expelling myths of
what we cannot bear, cannot overcome
Feel in the electric falling starlight
Spells of renewal, of power to look back
upon our falterings, to find the seed now grown
yet changing still and ever, able,
willing, co-creating in the illuminated shadow
invoking the peace of dissolving twilight
of midnight’s hopeful resurrection
of the hinting flame that lightens before the dawn
take peace into each breath, each incantation
from the strength to align impeccably
with your deepest truth
*
*
*
*
September reflection
*
*
Golden night.
High fields of food and seed
aglow for harvest.
Aching for thrill and release,
late summer serenades
romance
wraiths, spirits of Pan,
amorous nymphs a’hum in ripe foliage.
Crickets, nightwings,
mingled weeping and merry cries
slowly reveal
stragglers on night shores,
legends told in voices, echoes,
migrations.
*
*
*
September
*
*
Tumbling images.
Old grey cur
hops on 3 legs,
tagged w/ a red bandana.
Summer flowers
prickly to the touch.
Late buzzing bees.  These old bones sag weary.
Walking past the schoolyard,
I look for you
in all your childhood
pain and glory.
Filmy vision,
weak eyes obscured by tears,
I see you now.
Wish for those littlest moments
to cling to me,
absolved of fear and obligations.
*
*
*
*
October
*
*
Entering into a joy of its own,
love long subdued, yet never
denied . . .
Deeply buried, muffled calls from
memory’s tomb.
Embedded in layers, perennial autumn leaves.
Empty years
temporarily deluged by tears
tumbling like coins
through torn clothing.
Hard earned but never spent;
I weep for you.
*
Entering into a joy of its own,
elation of interchange incomplete.
Crepuscular darkness of Autumn,
solemn, ancient, descending,
anticipates consummation.
*
*
*
*
November
*
*
Ah, November, time of wonder!
How now shall you cast my trust asunder?
Deftly weave your captive hypnotic spell
that I have learned to love so well.
You shatter my defenses, unbalance my soul.
And leave me feeling purely whole.
Dear November, so like love and lust
entwined.
Drug maddened dove,
I’ve clasped you dearly through falls past.
Why does your magic never last?
So weary, wandering in my mind.
I tend to hide behind a blind,
entranced in fantasy, wondrous free,
while building barricade imagery.
If thought be trap, then where’s the spring
of Autumn that migrations bring?
When dreams of leaving soak the brain,
to concede, proclaim all faith insane.
Mad revel in the loss of rules.
‘Til fearing that I look the fool,
I scurry down ‘neath winter’s frost.
And count the moments that I’ve lost.
*
*
*
*
December Wine
*
*
Decant December wine
best saved for end
of the year
held in joy of anticipation
Traveling the 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 a wind
made of song
holy choirs singing
There is nothing wrong with desire
Wonders of will, of intensity
wild like the sweet breath
of winter
the joy of being alive
*
*
*
Capricorn at December’s End
*
*
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?
*
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.
*

What year has this been?

*
What year has this been?
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 light,
of ice and fire.
*
*
December 1, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Which pages of our story?
Battle wary, ready for rest, to shelter.
Close a solid door; enjoy the fire,
warm, reminiscent of
the peace we fight for.
May Winter’s light mark the way.
*
*
December 2, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
To touch the river, become its flow,
turn toward a swirling sky from here below.
Travel broadens, expands the skein of us.
Doesn’t surely lead to trust nor lessen tension.
Still, to explore, add to what we all know,
the more we learn to question, to quest
instead of merely step by step progress.
*
*
*
December 3, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
How did it once begin?
As open vista, faery games.
Wishes released to air in flames.
How might it end?
Cozy cocoa day with friends,
laughing into evening’s fade?
*
*
*
December 4, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
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 flame.
*
*
*
December 5, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Salvaged streams of sensory displays
not yet coalesced into moments taught.
Still in thrall to wide misfirings of thought,
sainted lies, fascinations dearly bought.
Still unwilling to call siren wails, warn of betrayals,
of wasted days, of devastation.
*
*
*
December 6, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Those pregnant moments, sheltering a friend.
Sharing pleasures, tending love’s impassioned fire.
Stolen elation, carried aloft by inspired surprise.
Daring conversations that melt and meld, and mend.
Snips of eternal bliss, rare, refreshing.
Transcendent bits and blessings, present, aware. 
*
*
*
December 7, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Days, weeks, months devoured spinning tales.
Palliative pixel canvases, empowering travails,
trendy fantasy of desperate motivation.
Immersive therapy, deep well integration.
Exposition of long secreted personal terrain.
Expended, exhausted – more lost or gained?
*
*
*
December 8, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Long incremental building shows budding.
Dusk’s purple sky imagines snow, shoveling,
streets aglow in festive lights, flights of fun.
Look. These young attempt elemental challenge
as their own.  Look at what we’ve grown, become.
Balance comprises outer fringe to center all in sum.
*
*
*
December 9, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Twilight passages when possible expands.
Pre-dawn messages, first-draft images
subconscious doodles before thought can capture plan.
Empty amplitude celestial structure demands.
Continuum of spectral light draws sight
against backdrop of shadow’s span.
*
*
*
December 10, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
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.
*
*
*
December 11, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Stories of war and retributive enmity.
Resistance is virtuous; obstruction is treachery.
Assumed patriation another’s vile lechery.
Hate is the solution; hate, blessed addiction
closes decisions, simplifies existence.
Could more broadly auspicious stories be written?
*
*
*
December 12, 2013

*
*
*
What year has this been?
Soar o’er awakened sky, past to now.
Sunny, Moony, Star-eyed oracle snidely whispers
dense cues, cuneiform runes. Semesters chasing prowess,
prayers for simple shrouds to hide from chaos,
for straight lines, ample ammunition, steadfast ground.
Deranged clouds tinted black from canon fire, obscure vespers.
*
*
*
December 13, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Soft rounds, pregnant clouds, emerging snow
as crepuscular iridescent glow descends.
Below, glistening greeting stars adorn
guardian trees, cozy chimneyed homes.
Thoughts of feasts, merry meets, gift of returning friends.
Familiar songs evoking peace, belonging, generous amends.
*
*
*
December 14, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Paralysis angers at intransigent strangers?
Ease of peace in contemplation, bliss of
transcendent imagery, artful conversation.
Heart strings ring in symphonic actuation.
Pulling forward radiant pools to arrange
within meditative gallery, reflections change.
*
*
*
December 15, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Cradle warm on inner bough, secure
allows brave fascinations.  Circumstance
drops hints, encouraging smiles, inspiration.
Magnificent, darling demons and angels appear.
Sway to their spin, up here opinions mere fantasy.
A runaway circus train ride wherein none need fear harm.
*
*
*
December 16, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Increments of transitions, long, steep,
often hidden in difficult passages,
popular modern messages.  Hard to keep
up, in touch, aware of cards in play.
Deep insistent caring, feeling, yes, stronger.
Need to lean on that crutch a bit less today.
*
*
*
December 17, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Wishes obtained, sustained, began.  Exhilaration.
Races run, sunsets scanned, scintillating proclamations.
Warm, flirtatious masks, goal enhancing tasks,
reflection of cascading plans in dancing flames.
Wrapped up in crinkly fun, happy laughter, expansive games.
Holding the best to memory; the rest let fade away.
*
*
*
December 18, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Lilt of merry music, glowing lights.
Romps, amusing skits, amazing sights.
Gifts abound. Give jolly cheer. Take delight.
Take a break from year round worries.
Taste fresh flurries, festive, blurry, fun.
Imbuing Winter with good will well begun.
*
*
*
December 19, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Star dome navigates over rocky sea.
Terrors to quell before we’re home and free.
Neighbors to invite as friends in waiting.
Search for that happy path tween will and fate.
Sledding, sliding, skating icy hills.
Whether settling for blessing or seeking thrills.
*
*
*
December 20, 2013
*
*
*
What year has this been?
Caught up in days’ parade; now take it in.
Peaceful moments safe with friends and kin.
Joys of open grace, sad tinge of want.
Simple blessings, taunts of goals beyond.
Under rambling clouds, upon solid ground,
jaunty walk intent on happy thoughts.
*
*
*
December 21, 2013
*
*
*

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.”
.

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.