Friday, March 22, 2013

A prophet entering the 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 the 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.


Busy weaving
click, click, click, click
moving, breathing, in the rhythm,
straight ahead
Never glancing past the dance
that entrains, chugging
brain engaged to the current of song,
encouraging movement
on cue, on time, in serial rhyme,
this surreal fantasy
weaving, weaving

Always on the threshold
never really anywhere
On the road from here to there
not accepting
In motion, like a trance, without a goal
Expecting what?  A fortune to be
told?  A jaunty rainbow?
The miracle of love?

It's a self-fulfilling system, with plenty
of bad actors to go around.

Theories for social distribution of power (politics)
or resources (economics)


I was never real,
so I don't have real stories.
Walking dark streets, observing not ominous shadow
but flying sorcerers with fortunes to bestow.
-- not so much
hallucinations as willful delusions, collusion with
my bff, unsane and definitely unsafe.
She laughs in hailstorms,
blissed-out by biting pain as cold razor teeth
taste her cheeks, ears, nose, uncovered flesh.
Smoke so black deliciously divides cackling
into echoes far and indistinct.
But there's that puppy-dog barking need for love, for
status, for a wise old fool to follow into certain death
and beyond.
Who believes these things?
Who would want to?
There is no marvelous flavor here.
What little gristle of nutrition is sour and hard.
Still, if one must be a tragedy in
one's own private opera,
twould be best to entertain
with gusto, with splendor,
this dour audience.


irritable impatience of age

multi-limbed Japanese songbirds
born to nuclear land-mines, sea quakes


Knocking, hiding from the opening presence.
Lumpily wrapped, a parcel unsolicited.
To be taken in, cherished, given consideration
and love, an unexpected gift?
To be neglected, tossed in the trash, cursed
as unwanted refuse?
A gift is not meant to be self-sustaining;
its meaning is in its use.
Too flimsy at center to keep things together,
the things called human beings, or even Jo, or Al.
I can't hold them close and make their world calm,
create a place sane and safe for smiling wide enough
to light and lighten big blue skies.
The center does not hold what won't be held.
Things fall apart.
Conversation settles into meaning
The privileged have the power of wealth
The people have the numbers, and
less and less to lose

deep 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.

one tiny flame flickering in the wind without substance or purpose.  Such freedom is bliss.

Endtime Stories

I have vast wealth of food and drink,
more than one would need in a week,
and nothing to do all day but play and dream.
The end of days is better than it might seem.
It’s ok to smile,
free to feel fine
as we slide
out of time

beyond belief.

Still seeking revenge for my birth
by fading away
without worth or meaning.
Lazy, ungrateful, no useful purpose.
Unable to simply give in to being.

What if it’s not about reciprocity,
velocity, jealousy masked as scorn?
What if the secret unsheathed is
once conceived, gestated, born
random occurrences synthesize as stories?
Phantom worries, gnawing remorse
coalesce as lessons, stake the course;
but only synapse deep, lightly tangled weave.
Tales like talismans gently spin. Tell me,
tell me, tell me my name and my mission.
It can’t be my decision. I am too weak,
too tame.

Flickers, auroras in peripheral vision,
fits of flitting firefly hues, crystal
gems emitting signals in dark and light.
Constellations in the night corralling chaos.
Prayer, meditation, fast of purity, breath
centered on the wind, stillness, serene.
Not a lake, but a river, flow of history.

These stories, told as if we know,
as if they are the campfire that formed us
from mud and mystery.
These are not our essence.
We are the fire, the river, the gemstones,
ever falling from the sea.

Love in Wartime

Unfettered from declaring love.
Embracing to sooth and share our fears
in this crisis moment.
No tomorrows stand demanding proof of worth.
Who told us time is infinite?
Who forbade intimate entangling?
Who swallowed you against your will, fed on
your dissolution in distrust?
Why believe we must earn fulfilling touch,
spend so much to hide from scrutiny
that fluidity of feeling gets denied, crucified,
dismissed as crutch?
Do deities in smiling wisdom smite our plans,
playfully cut our tongues, testicles, with
viper teeth as reminder?

Schooling Rites

Circle 'round the weak;
teach 'em as we were taught
to keep to the place we're given
(not by a just universe, ha ha)
by the right of what we hold
by will, skill, better weapons.
Didn't sign no social contract
of mutual respect.
The rights we expect are
to live as best we can until
we don't.
Teach the little ones as we
have grown to learn --
the wages to be earned are paid
in lies.  The riddle we devise
to satisfy our rage is played upon
the prey we find
to circle 'round today.

Re-creation at the End of the World

The end of the world we have told ourselves it is:
Widening eyes align with changed underpinnings,
first causes, metaphors, stories of us.
Disruption, distorted transition, fear and distrust
wildly galloping trample the field, cry out the call
“Just let me rest. Just let us lie here, ashamed, afraid
to allow such blinding disarray. So much safer
to fall, over the end of the world.”
Could we, softly, sanely, edit together heavenward pleas,
harmonize with birds, bees, thunder, settling sighs?
Meme-shattering symphony accessed by
dilated eyes to see
star-crossed patterns coalesce, myths reassessed,
zest of surprise.
Would we recreate deity as an image more easily
Empathy for the 21st century?


Years of my life I believed
why wouldn’t I?
how couldn’t I?
“Give more than I receive.”
Most importantly, give to humanity.
Take in humiliating pain, let it rain,
take the drenching.  Perfume the stench
refining pretty happy plans,
idealizing mankind
as they could be
brought to see glorious peace and bliss.

The word these days is Passion
a flying heart
the ache of Art
Find where my mind takes ease,
soars with eternity, smiles with fluidity.
Learn from those few I can respect;
let go the rest.
Float, a ghost in repose, leaving regret
for scavengers to eat in my wake.
Every dawn could be inspiration,
bounteous gifts free of obligation,
uplift of
energy gleefully received.


If I could turn again
If I could turn
If I could
If I

Flying too high
confused, losing oxygen's fire
infused with enthusing desire
Touch me
Don't take me down

You, who never knew me,
grasping in space where
I may have lain.
Laugh to my face
exploding in pain.
O', that's no way to survive.
I want you to thrive,
be better than
still life man.
I'll encase you in goo that
allows you to see
while you writhe

inside intricate mind.

Each molecule of remorse
creeping out of your eyes
Sweet water
of life, grace effervescing.

Rocky hazards face all who
walk this ridge.
Take it slow; let time wait.
Patience  prevails
to build
bridges, irrigation ditches.
Inch by plodding inch plot
fields of grain, barrels for rain,
roofs, walls, windowpanes,
chimneys for warm hearths below.
Flowing rivers reveal lines for exploration,
mining ores,
mine and yours,
that element missing from accounting calculations.
Earth and her hordes, a separate salvation?
Wherever did you hear that enmity
would take you anywhere but desolation?
Dear, darling man, so wrapped up in
some plan you think you've sussed;
giving up your birthright and your trust
without second opinion;
believing written history makes mystery clear.
How can I discover words you will hear?
Why should I any longer care?
Off am I, breathing higher air.
No need to share with those who
daren't climb.
Sublimity, subliminally inclined --
nothing more to reach for.
No need to aspire.
If there is a you, and you choose,
touch me.
Don't take me down.

mix phor meta

double, double toil and trouble
mix in moonbeams dripped from Hubble
with a pinch of housing bubble
dump in tons of scraped off stubble
just a taste of wry
with a twist of lime
seconds cloned from time
and, Voila! a rhyme to rollick
swing your partner, tase your Dalek
what a party tea for frolic!
double down, but “Don’t Panic!”
brewed up for fun – enjoy the manic
d a n c e

When the national project was stolen before our horrified stares
When it became our duty to kill and destroy for the convenience of profit
When humane policy became anathema, unworthy economic drag
When the will of the gambling elite gamed the rule of law to their pocket
Did you scream so loud that bitter blood poured from your lungs?
Did you set up mourning camps to gather forces,
to train grief and rage into worthy opponents against true freedom's foes?
Did you gaze into the cold eyes of propagandists and say "No!"?
Or did you march along in the parade, assured:  "First they get theirs; then we get yours."?

Century @ 21

Change, hard change, swift change, too much air to breathe change
is happening
now, and surrounding now, growing beyond our
frenzied adaptations.
The old stable traditions, The way it’s always been,
Myths to depend on
crumble in quakes, the shiftings.
Naturally, we rabidly react,
dripping fear, convulsed in rage, scattered
rants and orgasmic desperation.

Yes, in the burning off fog of tomorrow
we may be the better world to come.
I can feel it humming,
dancing into anticipation’s view,
feel the drumbeat, the hurrahs of the tribe.
Change, a jubilation, gift of laughing deities
wisdom of ages inexorably gaining speed
once we learn to jump on board,
play greater possibilities,
fueled in illumination
of expanding

There is a world here that knows itself in the way we all do.
That is to say it has a surface personality, a proper social mask
for formal wear.  Underneath, plots are hatching like fish,
bubbles displaying quick new life -- snatched into oblivion
barely formed or growing fiercely strong beneath the surface waves.

Is it a warm, wet winter?
Is the Sun supplying energy without heed to the people's stated needs?
Are ocean waters cursed with pollution born disease?
Do ill winds suffocate a nation's glory?
We could weave this world a better story, play more mindfully
constructed games.  We could take back our focus from blame,
There is a saying that what one knows is merely that
which has not been denied.

Clean Up

I dislike the implied mess of violence.
Peace is more tidy,
clean and inviting.
Why waste precious metal
in deadly intent
when a kickass party
can pay the rent --
a rant and rave relaxing
pent up pain.
Where’s the percentage of gain?
The perception that rage requires
release against this people cage,
to ease some agony of feeling less
Reflex flight or fight? Psychobabble hype?
No one needs to violently die today.

The Pandorica opens at 5 am.
And what will we see in there?
Soft beams of stars from phantom seas/
Colliding kaleidoscope mysteries/
The waft of your hair in a warm Spring breeze/
A confetti parade of prayer

The wall of your sockets demagnetized
The warm of your pockets turns chill
When each of our membranes goes fragmentized
Drifting beyond while or will
Gifts of penance lose all appeal
Too traumatized to whimper or feel
Denial replaces the space we called real
Seared to an awestruck stare

Caught in conundrum ‘tween twilight and dawn
Formerly someone, lost without form
Back to that question you asked being born
and the answer that started when?
The Pandorica

Sacred Calling

Cloistered for warmth in this area between.
 I've learned its scenery, like lattice worked into my eyes.
 Slowly turning toward wise belief, pausing at this door,
portal to awesome wonderment, pure radiant bliss
dispelling knots of pain and betrayal.
Magnetic psyche searing brand,
archetype of mystic revelations carried through
into the world of Man -- I come to the promised land,
potent stream of prophecy.
Commanded, I lay down my burden, weight against my back
of gathered assets I was certain to require.
Freed to meet my mission, to accept desire,
immortal pleasure, the opportunity to sketch,
to draw out beauty, to paint leisurely upon prism glass.
Have I reached the bridge upon the crossroads, the glimmering?
Magick's sea through which I now may travel, native soul
returned, having earned my keep, my long journeyman's
wage.  I have looked at age, a deep reflective pond.
A wild road calls, beyond this threshold, sculpted by
oceanic power, rifts and meteors.  I feel self-created destiny
shudder slowly, seismically, move me as I prepare

Medical Model

Do not pity the addict -- life simplified to nullify fear of dying.
Fantasies of flying, ecstatic skies dressed in silk-soft cloud
better to be sought than mere shrouds to deify lost faith in
human kindness, in mythology of romantic love, in heretical
heroics or epiphanies of peace.

Do not spite with words or deeds to mollify some social creed.
Do not expect to enact a cure in legality or morality, nor
gratitude for uplifting heathen from their street of shame into
degradation by naming their retreat an effect of poison,
denying the deadening preceding.

If treason must be decried at seeing crumbling of
overridden lives, respect need be paid -- true attention
to lies so urgently held dear that when
bleeding cracks appear, torn by desperate scratching for relief
from sins by belief unsalved --  respect for the seeking of
the Source in medication.

In closing moments of late Winter light
Clouds sinking afire into horizon's shore
Visions shielded by day from instinct's sight
Creep into focus, relink to nature's core

Happiness -
Captivatingly fleeting, unexpected as
coming upon a gorgeous serenity that abruptly halts
all complaint; enraptured --
so in love with this moment.
Vital we know, we must hold awareness,
“It’s possible!”  This bliss experience.
Glorious, revels to carry through
lean days between.
More than possible, a commonality, even in response
to simple stimuli, gentle pleasure
despite pervasive pestilence, terror,
boredom, defeat.
I want this for you, my close associate:  to feel your presence a joyful beam;
or how could I be

sane chemical bath
serene electricity
synapses smile

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.

Dusty bones
buried in sand of ages
carried from days when sacrifice was still fresh,
still blood.
I carried you, sank into shifting sand,
drank your blood, or you mine
to keep us, to bind in eternal compromise
scythe of death, scythe of fulfillment.
Bones shatter,
scatter into oracular arrangement.
The days don't end.
They carry into Sunset
oracular bones, dust, coagulating blood
possibilities not yet desired.

Listen to the heart of bliss.
Lie on open sand, inhaling, vibrant,
under oceanic starlit sky.
Breeze breathes eternity, opening
inward to see intricately
expansive poetry --
thought in magnificent splendor.
 All art is magical; all magic is art.
Yet they are not the same, and part
of a grander landscape.

420 2012

Dazzling Genie, weaves scenes of wizardry
upon the dusty window of my gaze.
Champion of crazy crippled dreamers, lazily
giving wing o'er wondrous glades. Simple,
serene days; nights of stars, Moonbeams,
ecstatic serenades, mystics' bliss.
My nightmares exchanged for a kiss of your majesty;
enduring pain relearns its place, energy
refocused by your trail.  Enthralled, at peace,
inspired by your tales of labyrinth space and time.
Honoured, awed by your divine gift, I become
at one
with grace

Hard Rain

 a permeating terror of isolation and separation, people hiding from engagement with excuses about the way things are. The  rain is that obfuscation, dangers of miscommunication, that can't be escaped by those who have no hiding place, and are  discounted. Yet, Earthly existence is cyclical. After rain there is drought, a chance to see from a different perspective.

Hard Rain
beads between
eyes and scene
on this endless street.
Garish neon bleeds, recedes in hell-dark alleys.
Shadowy tricksters, their
exotic wares whisper through.
Rain, ubiquitous wet
sky to sodden ground, over
sad mad months, eternal seasons.
Cinemas, bars, clubs,
gatherings of covering collars,
shiny leather, hurrying
into dry enclosure.
Out here we soak oblivious
puddle to splash,
unable to tell tear from
mere atmospheric surrender.
Breathing in the rain.
Not drowning
all these years
of adaptation.
When the drought descends,
will it take my breath away?
Will arid clarity
unveil swollen eyes?
Who will emerge
without the terror
of the rain?

30th day of Poetry Month

Resonant words align.
Mystic energies manifest,
call to neural chambers: "Come to play!"
Sparkling children fashion dance.
Innocence against a random nightscape
humbling the wise with unknown unknowns.
The moment flown, eyes carry to the next entertaining bit.
We've had our fun, perhaps an epiphany or two.
Inner ears listen,
merrily engage in lingering song.
May dance displayed as heady words
Mystically lit lanterns
illuminate without end.


Sharal the Hunter runs from the Warrior of Destruction.  She has lost all honour, all reason, all possessions but the skins that  cover her.

Her village burns, all she has known forever ashes.
This ought to be a nightmare.
Here, now, it is horribly ... overwhelming.
Heart, blood, breath, these are what matter understands.

Mind is elsewhere.  It has screamed into submission, reptilian --
Heart, blood, breath.
Terror reverberates
shakes tree limbs, wavers
vision.  Terror waits ahead.

Grabbing strength enough to veer,
steer clear,
running thoughtless through loss,
unafraid of the unexpected, uncharted,
Unencumbered by old terrors,
Ready by necessity to make do,
to start from simplest principles.
Who am I, today?
Tomorrow will take care
of itself.

Spring Fever

Such a psychotic mess.
Such a mood slave.
Prickly dendrites, echoes of abandoned lives.
Voiceless words compel, demand hearing.
Why do they beg at my door, cloying, whining,
grabbing at my eyes with scarring claws?
I who possess only obsessed carvings of dried blood,
only curdled nightmares where I've lost my way,
lost the thread that was to sew me whole.
Shiny coins twinkle, fit so comfortingly in
cyborg skin's mechanical slot.
Brite tinkly musical phrases effervesce.
Beautiful, hungry dancers consume,
piranhic bliss.
No magical kiss, no fated lover to heal
and carry me home.
My gifts spurned or derided for their
inexcusable tackiness, stinking with mold
and decay, cannot pay any price.
Mock, if you must for warmth.
I curl against entropy into a trashed
cardboard box bleeding stale air.

Picture This

Miles of silken meadow
 Green grain and brilliant petals
Lovely buzzing, lively hopping
Warm, yellow light at play

Luscious wash of pleasure
Rolling flowered meadow
Mellow, serene
Fragrantly clean
Humming "come what may"

Caressing stream of moments
Bare, free dancing, senses open
Daring, darling revel
Along this lively way

Sense caressing meadow
Green grain and brilliant petals
Lovely buzzing, lively hopping
Warm, yellow light at play
Luscious wash of pleasure
Fragrant, rolling, mellow
Miles of flowering moments
Celebrate today

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.

Beltane 2012

season of change

Kind wind, scent of Spring
travels still extending
Tingle of choice
bound up in change
Colours mingle, edge into
mauves and teals, wisps of shade
and Sun, moody, descending

Eyes alert beneath flirtatious
puppy-beg for Summer,
whining to get out to play,
to burn kinetic
With thrust of flame,
to weld
a tight, unyielding hinge

Swinging door
to untested vistas
carries with its motion
changing definitions of out and in

Crossed roads, slowly swaying
entrance beads from day to night.
Slip in between to become
for that instant of life
dancing gypsy calling to
Moon, to storytelling stars.
Embrace that mystery, train tracking
adventure.  Breathe forgotten fields,
lush or shriveled, dependent on water
and feed.  Let go of all but one brave
hand solidly grasped to the doorway.
Let go; let fingers fall reaching.

Summer Again

movin' into summer
wind plays in cloud formation
drifting into deep elation
sun rise
blossoms to a
rhythmic peak
sending out, sending out, sending out
radiant vibration
reflected in summer skies

I need to tell a tale
of fantasy and careless
leaning into tall grass,
fruited trees, languid leaves,
brilliant sunshine warming
melting melodies
The tale unwinds in brightly
colored ribbons,
dances gypsy comedies
of breezy, dimpled romance
In silken perfumes bathed
sweet and scandalous
deign o dainty smile
laughter bubbles out,
bursts, raucous music flames
filling summer eves'
glistening fairy light

Tell a rollicking tale,
we demand of the piper
We have paid all the long
seasons of darkness
It is time to reap an early harvest
of moonbeams dancing to dawn

Begin, Being

Soft Summer night.
Stars and open carless road.
Kicking up bits of stone and dust.
I could be anyone.
I could start here.

What is beginning?
Aware of the first rays of
conscious aloneness.
Summer is harsh on
fragile skin, newly opened eyes.

They catch eager forays,
studies in communication;
simple truth hidden in rules,
mine-like cages, punishing
rewards that bind and itch.
Beginnings are not the point.
They are portals, not the
mystic river,
the sand so burning insubstantial,
the forest enchanted in
eider and whey.
Beginnings never warn of battle
flame or drunken dares.
They only promise vague
adventure, valiant possibilities.

Looking up to the night sky for
solace, a soft moment,
an endless road
to ride along home.

Loosening from light, long hazy days ebb golden,
corn fields and buzzing
early harvesters of wild lore.
Cold is still a legend, a remembered song
soon enough we'll be singing,
huddled into aural lamps for communal warmth.
Tonight, as twilight melts into familiar
constellations, migrating like flying life,
early harvest still feeds celebration.

Crossing the Threshold

At the crossroads at midnight
my lady did swear
that she must be alone
to face up to her demons.

"Please understand that I must
be aware of just who I am
and where I've come from."

I sat by the bridge
as she set forth her flames,
her sorcerer lore, her alchemic runes
so she'd know who to honor, to break
and to blame,
what she'd been made for,
her journey, her tools.

At the crossroads, past midnight,
just before dawn,
my lady thrice nodded and
stamped out her flames.
She beckoned I join her out on the meadow
to kiss and rejoice
and reveal our true names.

A to the core belief
in the self -- miracle of seed expressed
sweet spot of bliss and exultation
deep reward for daring to feel complete
creates no war, no competition, no other to defeat.
These illusions of aggrandizement belong
to self doubt,
to desperate deifying of right and wrong,
to self-alienation.

a sad thing in life is when you meet someone
over an evening, dissolving separation,
finding eternal meaning and validation,
learning to be in love
until reality of the human kind steps in

grand fantasy set free to wander
obsesses through your mind
Don't let go -- just be who love has made you.

Not a Lucid Dream

She is not some willowy fragile damsel Queen
awaiting champions to compete
for her hand.
She is not grand, imperious.
Not more than a child, yet strong of will,
of purpose.
She sings herself to sleep,
deep lullabies to entice
prophetic dreams.
Potent streams, unconscious bliss,
offer drenching.
Hydrating water falls
drawn down, release all pretense.
Surrender to fate --
or collaborate in adventure.
It takes a Queen to drink
from the sacred cup, to
read the trails of sludge,
to answer.
She heeds serendipity's call,
heals her aching wound,
hears soft moisture mark her path.
Cracking ice spells runes to
guide, sprite luminous shades.
Wavery blue, ectoplasmic arms
trace salutations.
This is not lucid dreaming.
This is the sign promised.
Taste the frozen blood;
know its story, sharp, shining.
Live the legend,
even when
it is furthest from your mind.

We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
webbed space and time.
All that ever is, like sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
or other illusions
into effervescent poetry.


Desperately reaching to convey
imagery haunting like
a phantom stalker
pervasive elusive illusion
I intrude, I do
and make panicky getaway
Intrusive, illusive, a sultry sigh
I tried to tell you
I cried

Accept our human coil
wrap sweetly as eider
cozy, drowsy, dreamy
into a field of play
Engage in battle strategies
Enrage when others fail to please
all the while that deep wide smile
sees outside the eyes and miles
into a great well of laughter

Nihilist explanation
Formless in quantum relationship
Stark drifting beyond living landscape
Such blatant ego whining contradicts
bliss, wonder, biology,
squandering the price of admission

A forest is a poem
in a language of life, of action.
Symbiotic swell into echoing song.
Bright catalytic light, dark layers of still
nurturing long decay, fragrant rhythms
tune to animal play and parry,
seeds join in emergent glee, new forms
for old, set in sound and fury.
the word itself carries intrigue, tales
of magic and remorse,
of maidens hiding from horrific beasts and
handsome knights sworn to fealty.
Sweet sprites, winsome serpents and ravens
whisper oracular spells to trap or free.
A mere parade of words may create no sap,
no clinging moss, no berries enticing birds
to build for a future family.
Yet a forest is most certainly
a poem.


I wind into a tight cord
expel ice-tipped thorns to repel
your good intentions.
You are not my troubled mind.
You are my  always touchstone,
my center of reason, promise of peace.
In psychotic chaos, moments torn,
my instinct turns sharply inward.
Primal wariness, protection against
irrevocable reverberations of violence
shattering our sacred bond.

Glow World

Go with the glow, bioluminescent
inscrutable bright night flare
a grove of ashes
a nest of vipers
a tangled garden lair

The forest is old,
wild road stained in adventure,
obscured in ghosts and mysteries,
sculptured by drifting seas, fallen stars,
exulted pleasure,
eternal embrace of decaying leaves, sad savagery.
There is primal fire here.
Glowing coals that never relented
keep warm our restless slumber,
feeding us through famine
burnt remnants, perennial weeds, piquant renderings.
The glow screams of escape --
our demons free
through fingertips, lips, oozing.
Cauterized wounds re-inflame, never heal.
Scenery, like a trellis
slowly turning, pauses at this
shudders seismically.
Angels of light,
diamonds in the night
shatter into promises -- pristine
honour, repose, strength --
of charismatic grace.
Go with the glow.


Could Christian Fundamentalism be the dread AntiChrist,
 and greedy Wall Street his ravenous Beast?
Could the Second Coming be prides of young
claiming back the streets?

Could Prophecies feared and hoped
to bring Sinners to our knees
to lift the Holy into just reward
by Blessed Hero's mighty sword
defending, avenging the meek --

Could that parade be before us,
just not the scene we believed,
preached to prove the righteous right?

Has the final fight foretold been taking form,
storm clouds positioned for a hard rain to fall,
untidy time of transition as soothsayers call,
alarm bells chime?

Is the end of this trial of dependence nigh?
Can we break the Jesus code, create out of
Apocalypse our own golden age, reign
of Peace?

We Didn't Know

Efficient development requires deprivement
No profit, no playground to feel alive in
Those few groomed for career cheer, mocking
"Can't you hear; that's freedom knocking."
"Work for rent, or stay in school, dude."
You get no cake for being a loser.
Orwell warned "Big Brother is watching."
We didn't know he meant on you-tube.

We didn't know our life was a crime
Sentenced from birth to pay all our time
Cast from the truck to the roadside to rot
Drawn outside of luck, all about what you're not.
Media screams their required truth feud.
Sell saturated garbage labeled food.
Orwell warned; we were warned:
"The best of you will be co-opted."
We didn't know they meant on you-tube.

Scryed from my mind, upon this cyber page

It's not that everything old is new again;
or that nothing unique arises under the Sun.
Creative thinkers derive and develop ideas
already in their psychic maze.
Meanwhile, unfazed, unasked reality evolves
along its merry way.
New maps for old appear each day.
Most of us just follow the crowd,
caught up in focus on our current task,
using what tools come to hand,
what we've been taught.

(Badmouth the disorderly man -- the message lost,
never usefully discussed.)
We want to believe in stability,
in natural laws that are fair and make sense.
Convinced, we are happier to float in a bubble
outside of duration,
insured against consequence
of change.

(from a fool's journey)


Will o' the wisp wending a land of dreams
Daisies, bright blooming weeds,
mellifluous, grand.
Whoosh! Genie arms wide into flight
above foam and sea.
Beyond fear,
absorbed by awareness -- sheer horizon
confined by no mind, eyes
or reason.
Who imagines,
and in that magic space settles
to reside?
Women in velvet and fur, swan necks,
arrogant tresses,
sip marvelous narcotic, sweet as fire.
Upheld mirror portraits, glowing strands
of wire and prismic hues,
vibrant perfumes call to wander,
to stray.
Will-less, free, each step,
each feather fall
a gift of mystery, of mystics' play,
caress of bliss.

Sea Sons

The Sea is changing.
Aging beauty, seething with rage
of the forgotten.

Once your tempestuous lover,
violently seductive, wild mystery.
Legends of monsters and gods
poured from her essence
into your sleeping ear.
Challenge of fear and glory brought you
to her shores, pleading for
acceptance, romance, adventure
and all its chaotic promise.

The Sea swimming with life,
unbound to expectations,
inspiring song and trepidations,
immortal as her sister, Earth.

We are all changing, aging,
wearing down.
Less arrogant hero than
teller of tales,
what will we teach
our grandchildren
of the Sea?


Words, the challenge of song
to carry along in sound the meaning of
tiffs in lush trees, rambling bees, the power of
peeping dawn high in colors of awe.
Here, in a world of fog and fury,
dirty eyes strained and blurry,
hard-edged streets sparking with pain
and dreary drone.
Not a nourishing home,
not a place to find peace,
not a fit way to learn.
Clouds, not of rain,
but waving
transmissions expand
swift awareness
that this place
is but a tragic scene we can believe away,
ennoble, enable, sway.
The challenge taken,
the task engaged,
a world in play.

Where the Wild Things Fade

my ability
to survive outside
Yet at my core
impenetrably wild.

Day after day unattended
Night after night, no Moon defends
my right to howl.
I'm a city girl now --
held in dimensions
socially styled.

Trained in Self-betrayal

It's not that sex is sin, bad for moral purity,
or euphoric nature's gifts an affront on
All That Is Holy.
(Biblical disposition adapted to
Providential vision, a biased capitalism
based on self abnegation
rather than a healthful view of wealth.)
A powerful profit model built upon
slavery of responsibility to dependents --
sex for such purpose must issue descendants.
Hopelessly hooked on corporate licensed medicine,
treadmilled to produce high-cost enriching energy.
See our computer graphic charts:
"A work of Art!" too valued to despoil with your
(I'm sure)
busy little lives.  Education must
align with labor needs projections --
hiding useful information behind well
developed lies.
(So be assured, these words will fade as you awaken.)
Virulent slime fed in work stations and schools,
popular entertainment snacks,
our patented brew,
captivating memes
blow through airwaves,  as your lives hurry through.
It can't possibly be slavery if we make you believe:
You own you.

Careless Luna
She peaks and sways
tattling on windowspeck gleanings
leaving traces of singing memories
taking in dreamers

I am in love with your communication
Teasing photos floating in the quiet
of storm lifting breeze
You inquire, look for a temperature
of my wellbeing
I am on to you;
pushing out that cerebral switch
previously known as "off"

Another kind of rabbit hole
Pitch dark and bruising
No appetite for wonder
No luxury of childhood fantasy
No Summer tea time story
Only caustic mud awaits below
at tumbling's end

Carry life
Carry water
Compact electronic battery
Where colored codings float
assorted cakes and candies
carve traces
back into the neural pool
When the winds blow
heady confection

Perhaps the greatest illusion
Is not that we are alone
Nor that we are multitudes
But that we are definable
By words or emotions

Sacred Art

Wee one, brought bare into cacophony,
this emergent pantheon.
This is your place
of smell, touch, blaring light.
This is how we show our face
annoyed with your lack of social grace.
Immersed, made into a person, a defined moving space,
bound in time, mesmerized roughly, softly,
swirling colors, voices, hands demanding

Outcast from warm womb, safe discipline, of
tribal faith
to create from beyond common form,
the pain of separation, bravery called by
life's instinctual desire,
tricks of the trade.
Within this sad parade --
the human will to cure, kill, carry on
courageous --
if the art is true, burnt pure in sacrificial
flame, aimed impeccably
-- cathedrals of
awe and inspiration, hallmark of salvation

Taste!  Be made aware
of sensation -- touch this instant a place
beyond who you've ever been.
Beyond glory,
graceful soul-wrought energy
pours through these
sacrificial clowns
poisoned by immortality.
It is for you we bleed,
we cry,
imbued with such weight -- to hold
that spark you know could set you free.


Sky born, lifted into life above
Water, Earth, primordial mud.
Bare breath and lilting light float, carry insubstantial
tongues, bitter yet sweet. Exultation, daring
to swoop, touch,
taste, briefly complete with
flowering waves.
Winter Gods glaze over mountain peaks,
rocky rivers, mother's eyes.
She gives suck embalmed in memory,
engulfed in smoke of smelting flame,
gasping, tropically turning, blind, yet
beyond fear.  She regurgitates paste of
air, light, instinct, held together with spit
and love.  Taste her sacrifice.
A world drifts.  Black night backlit in
pinpricks.  Atmosphere built like bioluminescence,
symphonic, symbiotic.  Hear as rippling elements
grow words, symbolic histories, into a Summer game.
Out here, sparkling rain weaves rainbows.  Reverence
casts poetry as shimmer and shadow play.
Up here, beyond boundaries of ordinary days,
the only Commandment to penetrate --
Be Peace

Class Conscious

We make them monumental in our minds
 Assertively attest:  "They're not our kind.

How dare they go disguised in human form!"
 How dare they speak, to criticize the norm?
To suggest some claim to what I've mined,
refined to specs our kind defined as wealth?
How dare these filthy beasts expect my help,
relief for degrading and disease, consequences
of our industry?


Deep in the mud, in the murk, in the sewers.
Sharing convivially with cast out pests.
Biased by looking forward to avoid looking up;
sick of the sight.
Mining waste of unappealing lives.
Getting by surprisingly well on the barest belief.
It's not thievery to see value in what sin
has left behind,
sensing like one blind to glamour's fads.
Dancing along backbrains, pleasure neurons,
bodies ache to expand.
I carry no allegiance -- this land, this opportunity
to breathe -- what do you want of me?
I am only a slave if I care.
Take the best of me
if you dare.

Was Luther a Gnostic and just didn't know it?
Who packaged Locke's critical message and sold it?
Who has freedom or its choices
when money talks louder than living voices?
Brain-shaper mad advisors dressed in vestments
"Profit is our best road to atonement."
So we build this fictional prison to own it.

I see the secret of the Moon peek through historic mist over this hidden valley

Dark cosmos surrounds, a deeply soundless eternity
Gentle caress, self-possessed drifting serene
All possible meaning encompassed in this simple scene

The Play's the Thing

Needless waste of ruined lives
rippling into vast tragic waves.
"That's how the game is played."
That real lives are lost
never enters the ambiance.
Whose shame?
We are to blame for getting
caught up in this jolly old game.
Letting the players carve our name,
fashion the rules.
What has our honour cost?
Who is paying?

Aesthetically Rendered Themes

Outmaneuvers inertia
catalyzes action, ideation,
attraction -- magnetizes
elements of essence
toward true North --
fuels adventure

Sun greets Earth
a hearty slap
hot and sassy

Economies of Scale

Consciousness skewed out of the bounds of reality
Living some self-inflicted insanity
We're all crazy, idiosyncratically
Pretending at rational being
Mass illusion for safety's sake
Shackling on identity -- shield and sword to brandish
Noise pollution obscures
naked screams

Who can afford to feel alive?


Big, fat, buttery Moon.
Baby's face in the sky.
Tell me why you cry
fat buttery woe.

Does angry Mars threaten from above you
so far below, about to dash past rooftops
down to the safety of setting
of settling.
Like so many men I've known.
Where is fierce pride of independence?
Why is the best we expect
repentance, regret and remorse?
So much more was on
in the cards of romantic youth;
or were you just a stagnant pawn?
When we reconcile alone,
where is the virtue
to keep us warm?
Who are you, fool Moon, to cry like
a brat in the night?
No Solar solace -- pity-filled
lesser light.
Moon falls out of my sight.
I've no stomach for dawn.

It's not that people are greedy; but
(I hate to inform you)
people are mean.
It's not that we desire the piles of
gilt and coin -- that's just a ploy.
We want to enjoy standing above the
hoi polloi.
We want with great passion to dance
at the top of the heap, to be elite.

Nature Cure

The wild has been bred out of us.
We are creatures bent to city form.
Citizens of common culture
down graded along the main stream,
abraded to fit
today's fashion scene.
Wild instructions tug deep,
feed bloodlines unappeased,
misnamed disease.

Cross Purpose

At time's crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
irradiated 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 devised to make us strong.

Final Will

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

Call and Response

Clinging to the stories we learned at tv's knee
Ensorcelled by those glittering stores lining every street
Sure that might has taken the ground defining rights
Cynically forsaken, belief in heroic knights
We aren't sheep to slaughter, although of bone and meat
Nor cattle to be ordered by our grades of beef
We're children, with our wonder obscured by others' dreams
Chastised not to blunder, to supplicate and bleed
To break from such enchantment, from thrall to All insane
First learn to break the viral binds, vitalize, reframe

Those who lose their souls to religion
Caught up in frames against their better angels
Might, if the spirit so o'ertakes their vision
Come to discern divisive righteousness's dangers

Speak in Peace

Useful communication requires common metaphor.
(Myths forged for tribal survival divide. )

When I feel alive, rooted yet wild, outside of frame
a twirling child, free of security derived from shame
able to rise beyond the schoolyard game of divisive naming

I see within my eyes distant seas and shores,
forest fae blinking in the haze,
journeys rending years into days.
Hear the whistling, touch the swollen fruit,
amazed -- counting down as I tumble.

How do I explain in this tongue we mumble,
barely getting through a random chat that
gives no exit wound to that ache beating inside
to grab a hand, touch your mind, bring to being?

Yet, why would you want to see what I am seeing?
It's only poetry; only curiosity; it's only
miracles of sand, twinkling, breath of fire
combusted glass, twisted into culture, class.
Beauty survives each blast, more adored for her
scars.  Allured by her charms, may we doze
and stumble into sweeter reveries.

In sleep, relaxed, uncoiled core may cry in surprise
to be free, awaken realigned.

Speak friend and enter.
We have much to discuss.

This Is Not a Sketch

Not the fire in the belly,
but the air in the lungs.
Fire warms, then burns in passion,
flaming, shameful, conflagration
of sin and victory.
Buddha-like compassion,
saintly wise, learned in cycles
of hard labor, blessed bliss --
messages like this mentored, memed,
given credence in electric market,
synapse scent, inhaled essence.
This is not a sketch.
This is awakening
from deep, drugged entanglement
in eiderdown.
Memories march in hideous mime.
Despair hangs heavy, grey,
Coarse, textured currents,
slowed for inhalation, beckon,
wave, invite companionship.
Bubbles surface, break
like flowers expelling seeds.
Breathe the inspiration.

Far beyond cruelty
into a whole other realm
of horror, dishonour and disdain
to observe crushing pain
and serve utility
by crushing more

neural circus

variegate shades
symbols of ancient trade gaily parade
coax wry smiles shaped to tease
sinuous pleasure
cleverly she spins, sways, sweeps,
catches a whirl of trance
better than life
her blood, taste of iron
and butter,
sweet, salt, serene

the thrill is in the taking,
the rushing and tumbling
unobserved, unexpected,
trick of the eye laid bare

delicious secrets
creep into sight, strive to misbehave
for acknowledgement
small, frantic, overburdened
Is such awkward love
this bright moon midnight,
enter the circus
mirror fly on the wire
transform as incantation
come alive
free, beneath galaxies,
perform miraculously
to your gleeful applause

Peace to you all in this Year of Prophecies (may all your world ends hook up to better worlds beginning)


Tonight, the quiet sleep of Heaven
blankets tenderly, affirms bliss as promise.
Angel song, encoded blinks of highest aspiration, leaps,
wafts kissed smiles, clear skies. Peace shimmers.

Long, piteous, songs of buried shame, spite and spittle flung like pennies;
flagrant frenzied relief upon unclean graves...
Who makes this call? Who answers?

Tonight crows, patient vultures stand at crossed walls; they
have no leader.
Standing, too, are mute trumpeteers, stranded infantry.
Twilight, trace forecolours of dawn, silence deepens,
counterstroke to what is to come.
“Strike!” Bold reds, bloodied swords brand these walls
seen crumbling as light extends.

Jung and Yang

Archetypes, subterranean schemes,
walk city streets, ride subways as commoners.
Shadow of Substance.
Ethereal siamese twin,
to the mundane, every day.

I long to tell you,
yearn so I loudly whisper,
but only if you really listen.
I cannot say these things twice.
Memories seep through,
acquire form.
Stand straight and true
as soldiers or Marines
swearing full allegiance
to any who will take that load.
There are Gods foaming in excrement,
begging relief in the balm of sacrament
potent and deadly.
Angels and Demons wage sacrosanct war;
dice from a grail
foresage trial or comfort.
Hungry Ghosts moan and wail.
Vampires and beasts
of desperation
seek shelter before
travails of daytime
break them.
Morning Star
winks salaciously.

In wild’s kingdom
all manner of creatures
thrive, entwine as before
the invasion.
Eagles soar.
Lions roar.
Whales sing.
Humans open
veiled third eye.

When All Fails

And it’s always on to the next adventure.
Random leaves flicker roads of desolate
trod and cried
Fallen, dark quicksand depths,
flight essential for survival.
Frozen wings, sudden sparkling cold
traps damp, unforgiven.
Bent below, tramps
expecting handouts,
bankers expecting deeds,
women expecting hollow forcomings.
There is no easy fantasy.  Tales of fates and
lie on quantum desperation, haunted nights.
Winter always lurks on Spring’s horizon.
Keep moving; keep life singing, gyrating for
The road long saturated with evil, rise above.
Learn, grieve, abandon.
Envision grander hope, shining spire

Spell In

Focus certainty
laser pure energy
intimate presence
ultimate sacrifice
Submit to desire’s
vast encompassment.
Draw the circle.
Say the words that bind
to time and place expected.
Accept responsibility for
all creation inspires.
Ground with grand incantation.
Power is belief.

Drumming in a Different Circle

Limbs, core, Limbic awareness
Drums of my circle hold tight; shared stories magnify the night,
chant rhythm through my day, embrace of safe vibration.

Aid to meditation, listen in.

Beneath my skin, blood flows to jungle’s beat.
Quantum entanglement dance,
essence of tumbling trance taught by memory.

Soft sets the Sun as I stumble the shady side of street.
Terrified I might meet circles a’sway to violent drums.
Chaos of charismatic voices churning
carriers of variant choices.  Not kind.  Not my kind.

Traveling alone, rhythm revives my inner song,
touching ground alive with
cadence of home.

If the sky could, it would dream of stars nova bright raining through galactic clouds.
Move inward
as Sunlight descends.
Cob-webbed lantern, too weak to flame,
forgotten among rusted childhood trains, stranded tinsel,
abandoned hero’s fantasies.
Sharp cries, wilderness passing.
What is not foreseen, not written
for screen or stage,
can reveal
unclaimed aspiration,
changing horizons.
Chatty stream of energy
breaking news, ideations, elegant cloud formations
tip of the lip to the ear. Endear or outrage.
So many unpleasant faces
ruin a beautiful view.
Angry reds, too many bruises,
instead of cool blues,
pleasing balm easing with calm.
Deep inebriation of oxygen, enlivening
wind delivered to
on wings of whistling
intentions set wild.
Love is not about
seamless melding
perfection to perfection,
but all those cracks, crags, crevices
hoping (aching) to be filled.


Hunger too redundant for horror.
Each night to feed wrapped in repugnancy.
Hidden, alone, hunting streets of death.
No hope, nothing legitimate.
Days escaped in self-made darkness
without relief of dreams, blocking memories,
Creature of these streets, cold, abandoned,
preternaturally cruel, air of sulphur, tar,
pain of rot sans remorse or resolution,
unnatural world without end or warmth.
Even when blood runs hot into aching jaws,
pallid, empty,
no warmth penetrates.
Nights go nowhere.
More filth, horror
too familiar to offend
solitary hunters crowding all the secret places.
There is no exit here
No sweet release of sleep, no prayer to soft salvation.
There is only dead degradation of soul.
Not possibility, no properties of love or fond relation.
Trial of existence with no useful expression, no expiration.
Yet in this ceaseless horror, in this carnal Hell,
in this my filthy home, cold, without mercy,
in this cage of unrelenting dark,
a spark, a circle of red and black calls to enter.
Here, where awareness centers, threads of rotten vein
play at art, at shocking beauty.


We willingly expose,
offer blood and agony.
Sacrificial phoenix, a’blaze
upon charred altar’s throne.
Seared eyes, scalded tongues;
bitter acid drips to anoint,
to hallow, to invoke,
again and again to approximate
Each coronation marked,
perfume of condensing steam,
carnate fluids.
We surrender hope,
our innocence, familiarity,
for the freedom wisdom implies.
Loosened grasp on mortality,
slipping digits still desperate to hold
the next piece of the code.
Power – so slender, so sleek and bare,
air that moves worlds.
Burn raw, pure, to feel beyond
what thought could imagine, to know.


Golden night rises above
high fields of fallen seed.
Aglow, spirit of Pan serenades
romance, lust, lingering hope of thrill and release.
Amorous nymphs a’hum in ripe foliage
answer in bleating rapture --
chirrups, nightwings;
mingled weeping and merry cries
slowly reveal
stragglers on night shores.
Legends these hoary voices echo
kiss and tell, and merry on.

Winter is Coming

She arrives!
Cold, clear, glorious crystalline air.
Happy to roast by the fire, spin out yarn for warmth.
Happy for cozy aroma of home and hearth.
Euphorious, heart singing, blood roaring fun.
Out to run, slide, ride through white mist,
escape from resistance; engage with bright bliss.
She alights from her carriage, a vision of charms
carved in ice.
Look into the prism’s flame, wondrous worlds
never twice the same, mesmerized.
Happy to have this gift, this season, this time,
open eyes.

Winter is coming

She arrives
Glorious voice lifts up the night,
trails splendor, soft drifts of white.
Taste delight, pure as ice, sweet as fantasy.
Soulful reflecting safe by the fire,
caught by flame’s magic,
aligns with the greatest of stars, the finest of galaxies.
Wild Wind whispers “Higher, my love; ride my mystery.”
Deep flow of desire; snow lit in moonglow.
Reclined, widened eyes ablaze to behold.
A fabulous sleigh swoops from above, aglitter with glee.
She alights.
Swirl of romance, adorned in brisk excitement,
stunning aroma,
clear aura of peace.

Winter is coming

She arrives
Conviction strong and glorious
Brilliant astral presence, at last.
Swollen with destiny, swirling in ecstasy.
Feel air breath-moist beat to Her sway.
She drinks, uplifts the cup of our prayers, feasts upon homespun tales.
Listen! She reveals.
Torso spun forward, head arched back
dervish aware. She incants, caresses, blesses,
sweeps through this startled assemblage. Chase if you dare.
A child of shadow slips behind, catches at her tresses.
Slow secret smile grows, their silent delight
snow white, bare of guile.
Time freezes. Hungry eyes press against
icy glass. Inside, twinkling eternity blazes, laughs.
All of space awaits. We need but reach through