Owed to the Sixties triptych

Love Song to a Lost Generation


In 1967 when the world was young in bloom,
we died a’borning.
Aspiring specter left to weep
a burial parade to the new morning
that dreamed us in our dreams, but never wakened.
Oh yes, there was a time brave psyches frolicked
open, free to wander.
Oh yes, there was a time electrifying, expansive
paradise to squander.
Oh yes, there was a time when nothing seemed
beyond a new direction.
Oh yes, there was a time, but that moment died
bereft of resurrection.
It’s a sad song I’m singing
of Eden we might have realized
if only . . .
A sad song.
Bright leaves blown from dozing trees
discover they are lonely,
but winter’s coming
& there’s no returning down that road
once the snows have rearranged it.
What happened to our plans for peace,
for sharing bount beyond belief
for blazoning the dawn with youthful fire . . .
This birthing era deems us old
withered spider webs of gold
spun so fine that none would think to see us.
Our voice is gone.
Our flame denied.
Music that echoed deep inside, our corps
to march eternal, now eludes us.
In spiraling we’ve lost our thread.
Faded ink, inept message.
Like this last poem, we soon are dead,
I weep for the child almost born.
She showed a promise now unfulfilled.
Perhaps someday again may she find us.



She sits in an old rocking chair
and questions the silence of night.
As the waves blow, the winds flow,
the sands sift with sea
and faraway stars shine in soft mystery,
her eyes shine with starlight and stare at
the sea,
asking questions as ancient as night,
expecting no sign to appear.

In the village, at noon, on the square,
beneath the near blinding day light,
sits a man with a plan he’s no means to play,
wondering how he will get through his day,
and just where, this night, he will finally lay
(Yes, beneath which exit light?)
expecting no sign to appear.

I questioned myself on a dare
Tell me: What’s wrong and what’s right?
Have I caught a new thought that God has no mind?
We search for salvation that’s nowhere to find?
Or merely grown tired of life’s daily grind,
not caring to search for the light,
expecting no sign to appear.

We children of flowers and light,
have we turned to dour-faced fear,
our dreams sacrificed to the night,
expecting no sign to appear?



The Secret to Happiness ~ We Are Happening!
Find what brings you alive; and do it.
(not what “I should” to prove that “I’m good,” or good
at being bad)
Look to meet people enjoying it too;
layer texture to our view,
expand our field of play.
Lather, rinse, repeat
as necessary.
Take it out to the street when necessary.
Do what you need to be
what you wish to see.
Do what only you can.
Make this happening grand!
Do it today.


Fae Opera

A joyous encounter with life
A joyous encounter called my life
I’ve swung from trees in tropical climes
And swum the seas of paradise
And learned to breathe upon the earth
You’ve got to see me; you’ve got to listen
to these wonders that I’ve learned
Traveling, traveling a hard-stoned road
Working my legs, my back, carrying my load
Journeying for countless years
Seeking out the sea of tears
Eyes bound behind innocent’s lace veil
I break my trail
(As in my mind my song unwinds my tale)
A marvelous secret, a hidden treasure trove
While unicorns play harpsichord
within a blossomed grove
A newborn child with something wild that
plays in rainbowed eyes
Has been declared of wizard laird
Born to hypnotize
Been borne to hypnotize
Sing lullabies
Reward all the heathen with sleep
And dreaming dreams as such who waken
Find their very core earthshaken
Thus made to believe in possibilities
They set their sites, reshaping all reality
And of them they’ve begotten me
Sound the magic pipes of Pan
All who hear may understand
The fluid waif who walks the land
Spawn of Diana’s fling
With the clove-foot forest king
Vibrate to music, music, music
In every cell of living fluid
‘Tis alright to play the fool
Of forest borne to roam through future lands
Touch me, touch me, touch me, touch me
Become my hands
Floating, wandering, restless shades
Call me to respond
I toured a mountain faire
Picked daisies for my hair
Learned to know the name of every weed
I dwelt the night alone
In a crevice made of stone
And never thought of what I next would need
I dreamt of castles bold
And the language of the Olde
And struggled to bring my dreams alive
And whistled as I rode
The songs I’d oft been told
At parties seen
In waking dream
Another place and time
Another tune, another rhyme
And I’d sit beside my campfire
And gaze into the flames
And yearn of learning other places,
Attune to other names
Traveling over other lands,
Seeking secrets, other plans
Or just remembering another song
For the secret of each soul is in its song
Blazing all around
Miles from bare ground
Twisting twig upon an aery sea
Luminescent way
Whatcha gonna say
Songbird, whistle your wisdom to me
A maid of golden wings
In lullabying sings
Of white sails racing in the wind.
No two are e’re the same
Of the tales she can name
Oh, nightingale — take me in!
Blazing all around
Miles from bare ground
Journeying upon a vessel rare
Silently I sing
To hold remembering
Magic castles in the air
Getch yer gimme.
Pull that file! Collapse that case!
You are obsolete – unexistent.
And ain’t no one gonna hire you in this industry.
Whatcha holding on to?
Whatcha going on to?
Whatcha gonna live for?
Got a score to settle while the dying’s cheap.
Gonna find a rooftop and fire.
Gonna tap a neural gap and get higher.
Gonna hold a seance and retire.
Become a log a’rotting in the wood.
Enter eternity a nonfunctioning robot.
Captured in resistance, electronic impulses,
air tremors and interruptions in space.
We make no difference to a meteor —
any blind force that destroys without design.
We make no difference to our own kind.
Blind orgiastic miasma,
pressing, moaning, sucking in life.
Images of innocence float by in my mind
I’m looking for a pot of gold
I never hope to find
And wonder in the dark of night
What if I should go blind
Today is made of yesterdays,
Tonight of yestereves
The spoken words I say to you
I hope you won’t believe
We’ve but so little time my friend,
Too little time to grieve
And I wonder in my heart of hearts
Just where all will lead
Will I once more take an oath of pain
And watch my body bleed
Or will I learn that living’s
When you take all that you need?
Busy work, busy talk, trying to make time.
Talk of energy, talk of war.
Talk of who you’re out to score.
Learn to love and disremember.
Trying to make time; dying to make time.
Try to run and they’ve got you busted.
Try to hide, try to hide, try to hide.
Everyone’s there to be mistrusted.
Try to hide, try to hide, try to hide.
What’s left of you inside?
Phoenix Flame
A ball of fire in my palm
behind my eyes
subsumes all flesh.
Engulfed in crackling frame-dissolving
flame, hot bed of sparkling embers
consumes soft hair and lashes.
Yet out of ash always renewed
ready to burn ever more, feed eternal fate.
I can’t sleep beneath the flash and noise,
find respite from immolation.
Atom by atom rent, then realigned
to play again at disintegration.
Towers fall through blood
and sinew stripped from form.
You are of me.
You are one of me.
You see what I see.
You fear as I decree.
You do what I command.
I’ve got you in my hand.
I’ve got you underhand.
Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. Touch me.
You are far away.
You are very far away.
You don’t do what I say.
You don’t hear what I pray.
I’m screaming “go away”
Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away.
I’m sitting in my room.
I’ve seduced you to my room.
I feel you in my womb.
You got away too soon.
You haven’t got a chance.
No, not a bloody chance.
I circle in my dance.
I’ve trapped you in my dance.
In a trance, in a trance, in a trance, in a trance
Come on — DANCE!
Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. Touch me.
Quietly, quickly, death as grace
annihilates without a trace.
Stealthily, silently my poison kills,
to cleanse this land of a people’s ills.
The key’s been cast, so lock the door
on lies and poverty, greed and war.
Purify in red soaked fire.
Deify the symbol of desire.
And when all desire’s turned to dust,
etch in fire: “IN GOD WE TRUST.”
A sacred trust.
Sound the bell.
Sound the bell.
Sound the bell slowly
o’er all we’ve made holy.
Ring bright pure-toned peals
o’er gold flaming fields.
In music now seal’d
the end of our fate.
Sound the bell.
Sound the bell.
And now I sail from the sea of Lethe.
Phoenix, risen from my death
to journey on through time and space.
Progenitor to the human race.

Utopian Flash Fiction

Once or twice upon a time there was proposed a project. A visionary writer wanted stories, quick engaging illustrations of an ideal world’s people devising solutions to their social problems.


fruit trees – utopian flash fiction


We were just a coterie of folks sharing our common enjoyment of organic gardening.
Yeah, we tend toward socially conscious politics, philosophy; but mostly we like the doing, the growing, relaying tips online, socializing not socialism.

Still, when Tris suggested it, it just made sense. We’ve been talking about how greening, giving city space to vegetation, has so many benefits.

Think of general health, cleaner air, cooling shade, public beauty’s psychological lift, the benefits of natural time and space within the daily grind.

We have been explaining among each other and other friends the benefits of fresh organically grown fruits and vegetables,
how they should be a larger share of our daily diet, how we could be healthier without so much expensive medical intervention, have better energy, focus and digestion.

Why don’t we have fruit trees filling our public spaces, fresh free food for any to eat, happy flowers lighting up spring,
strong roots soaking up rain, crackly leaves to enjoy while readying for winter, and a public project to bring people together
in that old fashioned, happy sharing of work made play?

Aren’t they bringing a plethora of enjoyments to our town? Let’s meet by the fruit tree park today. Bring exciting conversation.



University – utopian flash fiction


We are told that our project was named University because our purpose is to facilitate a universe of possibilities.
University started as one of those possibilities, a project conceived and carried out by for and of a conscious community
of artists, engineers, scientists and philosophers. I grew up in that community, and wouldn’t have it any other way.

We learn in the histories, and know that in many places still today, education has been separated from general life,
often made compulsory and relegated to specific times, places and procedures. Corporations took on the tasks of
research and product development for a profit, while politicians were responsible to craft projects of benefit to their communities.

At University projects are constantly being started, executed, sent out to find those who can now benefit from what has been accomplished.

Someone or ones snag onto an idea and start to figure out the steps from here to there. A call is given out to anyone who is interested or has relevant skills to join in. We learn what we need to know each step of the way and bring in others as the project progresses.

We have the background structure of University to draw upon, where learning of all kinds is constantly in session.

From the time I was very young, from my first moments of remembered consciousness, I knew any of my questions would find serious response at University. There are the libraries, record chips of any subject imaginable, everything explained from the simplest child’s vantage point up through the most learned of scholars in the field, fully illustrated in animation and live action recording, as appropriate.

More importantly, there are the people, the scholars, engineers, scientists, artists, each with their passions that they are so very happy to share.

University is the busiest, bubblingist, energized and enthusiastic environment to grow in. No one says: “it can’t be done.”
It’s always: “well, what’s the next step we have to take to get there?”



Sanctuary – utopian flash fiction


We met at Sanctuary.

She was coming off a bum relationship with a man.
I was coming off a bum relationship with a drug that I had given rule over my life to the point that I had no real me left.

Sanctuary was cool. We got to chill in a little island of basic comfort, tea and sympathy, while we figured out who we were.
Well, actually it was tea and oatmeal, stew in the evenings. And we were assigned chores when we registered at the front entrance, after being frisked for weapons. The chores were reasonable, and would take into account natural aptitudes when they fit with immediate needs.

The late night talks were optional. If you were in, you let it hang out exactly as far as you were able. That was respected, especially if you were able to shed light on common issues. So Sheila and I turned out to have a lot of light to share. And, after awhile, a lot of dark as well.

But that was later. After Sanctuary had served its purpose and we were back in the bad old world.

I had been raised in one of those corporate towns down South. The daily lessons of propaganda didn’t take properly.
I took off for more liberal climes as soon as I got my citizen’s share. But the cognitive dissonance didn’t work out either.
I fell into the proverbial downward spiral, until down started to look like up and I truly smelled like despair.
One foot in front of the other just wasn’t cutting it anymore. At one of the places I was being thrown out of, the proprietor told me about Sanctuary.

He told me that was where losers like myself belonged. He wasn’t being cruel. He was right.
Sanctuary had been set up as a safety net for anyone who needed it. It was paid for by contributions from each hosting community, because everyone realized it saved a lot in costs for law enforcement and who knew when they might need it.
It certainly saved my life. And Sheila’s. It’s a shame things didn’t work out for us; but that wasn’t Sanctuary’s fault.
Some things just aren’t meant to be. Or maybe they are, but only for a while, only until something gets worked out that started long before in other lives.

One day she wasn’t there when I got home. On our kitchen table was a note: “Gone to Sanctuary. Don’t try to find me.”
For some, one stay is only the beginning of a process hopefully leading to better life skill development. I seem to have gotten there, for now.

I respect her need to find her way without me. We each get to work out our own salvation, with Sanctuary for back up.


It’s a tale many times in the telling
Of wisdom and wonder and enchantment foretold.
Captivating, yes compelling.
But catch it now, before you’re old (We’re so soon old.).
Cross country wide and free; a gypsy’s life by caravan
And what is yet to be is stretching wide, without a plan.
Try, if you can, to imagine just how you’re gonna end.
. . . You’re gonna end.
Past ships and planes and miles of dusty road,
It’s all been told . . .and then retold.
We’ve lived a thousand lives before, we the vagabonds of Earth
But let me try to tell to you my story, it’s all I own
Whatever be its worth.
It started in a coffeehouse so many years ago
Where poets of our century were wont to waste their days
And in those days did bright mindwaves cast their nets and flow
To catch up young unruly souls and charge them with the craze
For adventuring — for “something new”
To catch a star and follow wherever it should lead
To search out the holy answer to the ache of human need
To be the first new holy breed to wholly shake the Earth
To usher in a promised age, so many years in birth.
It was a time of carousels and colored lights;
A time of feeling grandly strong and right;
A time when Life was just beyond our sight.
What made it go? Which corner was the wrong one turned?
Or is it merely time to take things slow,
To gather up the threads of what we’ve learned?
The darkness cast upon us, how was it earned?
Oh yes, I meant to tell you of brilliant desert skies
And city street romances that sparkled ere they died.
Of Denver’s summer snowstorm and LA’s winter flood
And secret, solemn friendship pacts seal’d in summer blood.
Of a much awaited sunrise within a foreign town
Of food and flowers and incense freely passed around
Of turquoise rings & violent springs & jails of many brands
And music wafting through the streets
Of gentle smell of smoke so sweet
And wondrous madmen once to meet who read witchcraft in your hand.
And so much more; yes, lifetimes more.
I would give it all to you, asking nothing in return
But that you seek, in your own style, for yourself to learn
Of corners waiting yet to turn before our time is through.
And perhaps one day you’ll say to me:
“Yes, the answer’s here! Yes, the answer’s clear!”
And you will say to all of us: “Here’s what we must do.”
Before our time is through . . .

A prophet in a year of prophecies

a view between Heaven and Earth,
Above and Below.
Chilled, burned, abducted by prophecy,
by Gods, Demons.
What creature, fearfully aware of mortality,
prays to be the prey of fate —
prays for salvation from the other side,
accedes to forces beyond control
of flesh and mind?
What kind of sniveling, conniving coward
bends the law, the sacred trust,
covenant with all that is holy?
Cast into a class that laughs at rules,
what holds grimy chaos at bay?
(Fools at least are pure, are gay and
without malice.)
Cunning schemes are not forbidden honour,
if they carry careful depth, just weight,
that integrated code.
How much is sold?  How much kept
for seed and nourishment?
This is why we invented numbers —
to have some objective measurement.
So good we become at spinning stories,
descending backward from our source,
so easy to proclaim:  “Of course,
everyone knows,
obstruction is the obvious choice.”
Because our goal is not solvency,
but Salvation; not solving common sums,
but absolution from our sins —
merry though they may be.
If Greybeard in some quantum sky,
hallowed by Name,
presides o’er rewards, blessed bliss,
cries in flames of perdition,
why would such a power be amused,
indulgent Grandfather bouncing willing
child on some ectoplasmic knee,
promising eternity if baby will but
keep still?
Wouldn’t such a benevolent progenitor
expect more joyfully creative heirs, better stories

for the choices given?

Ivy dense,
tangly generations,
insulation encircling
mortared brick, aged,
for days that never can return.

Collar up against the wind and dark.
Rising smoke creates warmth illusion.
Wrapped in sanity’s delusion,
fog’s memory of mist, imagined tide.
Seated here, salt-etched wall
alone between vast sand and
murmuring waves.
No one sings.
The notes, the voices

Degree of my natal Hekate —
a liminal year for the dweller
on the threshold.
The search is for clarity,
expanding borders, introducing
elasticity as integral character.
To see, to feel, to merge and undulate
through; to discover, uncover, swim
in the glory of original grace,
ecstatic beauty.
To see, to feel, to breathe in
all exquisite luxury of  prescience; to hold,
transmit as cellular energy.
To paint upon translucent canvas
subliminal etchings, private symbols
generously revealed.
Sagacity gifted, re-gifted,
planted in potent fertility
of visions, of cantations.
The tinsel of starlight;
the subtle scent of conflagrated pain;
the feather touch of eternity.
I fall into velvet voice, enchanting form.
Move with the rhythm;
caressed within word and worlds’

Cozy wise old fire djinn awhirl in sumptuous fantasies.
Grab tight to this wondrous globe of fortune;
shake for your life, your destiny.
Snow descends, rapture alive within desire’s fortress.
Light, free, prism-pure refraction —
colours collide, sparkle, glow, pleasuring eyes,
soothing, exciting

Lost in extreme streaming, radiant stars emit molten fire.
Resplendent figures morph through incandescence.
When the smoke of apocalypse clears
what consciousness remains
will lack or benefit based upon
perceptions created now.


Whose prophecy is worthy to invest our hearts, hands, minds?
If our world makes a circle — no end or beginning —
may we slip between a then and now?

The weight of the world
The sadness of oceans
The endless pain of life a’borning

This is a year of prophecy.
Abandon hope all who enter,
oracular oratory sings
through collective inner ear.
Remember reason.  Remember Preacher.
Fall into whispered memory,
the best of scenes in dreams, in ether.
No time left for hope.
It’s do or die unsung.
One scene at a time.