Port-Passage In Sight…

1bIs nature the force that causes us to move through lives of our own creation? Are we able to remain as objects without motion? If this is a force, are we able to creep through life quietly—afraid to disturb a silence, too loud to understand or tolerate?

So much perspective longing by people of sanity or madness…Need to make or cause words to do what is wanted. May direct words…Listen and they will sometimes come…

Our endless supply of Creators…These presented God-Gods reach hand clasped and hand-handed across a bridge between faint notion, through foggy prayer and space jamming Orion – Virgo and Leo into an obtainable notion beyond earth-life somewhere beyond stellar distances and new portions of gravity-bound existence.

Wonders often; if the passage of time is as dreadful as the gaining of age and fearing nothing save remorse and regret for opportunities missed…still wondering if aging as terrible and menacing; for it cannot give anything back and has nothing to return?

Often wagged by both life and death – So/such a powerful confusion that one cannot be without the other? And the anti-poetic freak – a – spirit, too afraid to both soar and remain too grounded? Therefore, these fears reconstruct the affirmative impulse?

We do not quietly pass through this life. We remain in constant motion even when sleeping…As fearful travelers from unknown to recognized and then to the great unknown everlasting quality of not being, dead or very dead. Even in great everlasting we change and we further die…

When rest stops us, do we finally slow-down or do we simply vanish into…It is with a trembling self –we have seen it all, again. Alive and real across the heavens
of time, civilizations more or less and a part of these.

Alive and real among these columns of Mt. Airy granite through the shifts of sands of time both substantial and real. Alive and alone and having walked across these deserts and seas and upon these surfaces of time. We cause great and wondrous meanings from-confusion…

Yes and Yes and Yes! I and me and we and us have seen it all, again. The Universe from a speck to a mighty and hurtling Earth, a cross of heavens filled with multitudes of this and that. We see it all and please sweet dream-side, let us see it all again
until, I and we and us may again recognize – OK…

There and perched high on dream-side at a flip of mind-sigh, we move across the Universe so fine. Alive and gone and alive and gone ‘til counting-time catches us with mind-sides swirling sight of mind-light bright brings the way to see…

And Oh! What a wave to see,
to be, to know and again to have seen.
Yes! To have seen, so it seems and to
see it all through Love! Again…

And! Beautiful you are…

Sweet Songs and Whispers…

60Here the eternal spirits swim and wait for day’s beginning and star-light’s fade. Somewhere the familiar are new and the same and also very different.  Watch now as we pass—swimming in deep water clear and blue and green.

We breathed the same air and often we never surface. We do not require space above the sea. Together all of us—animals and fish and forever spirits….Never cease—we are alive! We are verses of the same universes—We have the right to be everywhere…

There is a slip off the main channel of a River called Manatee…The Sentinel watches this curving slip of water between landfall and islands of reeds and grass and palms and sand. Bear cubs and Panthers kiss the sweet liquid of combinations both salt and fresh and dance along the edges of knowing their way and sea-side rhythm and of verses of silence.

The GrefShane come this way…They are not frequent folk to line these shorelines; however, they love the Sentinel and the Festival of Bridges—occurring every thirty years. And! The GrefShane watch no sweeping clocked hands or sun’s pitch or star travels across a darkened sky. They are existence and they happen when they are timed to form and to appear.

They stand beneath moon light and within the form of Draped One and their motion casts gentle designs into an easy night. Tall and short and large and small and gathered to hear the soft waves scatter across the shore and just beneath their feet—bare and warmed in the air of night.

They watch the shadows of bridge span and steel as wooden shapes pass underneath the towers of man, built when young species roamed earth-bound and the constructions of shapes and water passages filled the world—before the tearing days and summer’s song. A night bird cries and another winged one settles protected within thick tree grasses inside the shadows of the moon.

The large ones rise to surface and water gently swirls behind them. They are slow and sweet and strong inside a current they know as their reasons and their purposes inside the strength of their being strong and imagined as real.

They rise to meet the GrefShane— protectors of these moments-in-time and places-of-being simply life and nothing more or less. The River Manatee sleeps and its current survives.

And! Beautiful you are…

We! Born to Be…

Whitnal Lake_1The great bird—without wing flap glides three inches above water surface for ten seconds then moves wings, strengthens and glides again…Sea calms on motion’s day and the watchers silently visiting shoreline, wait the happening and the night.

This is the day of Lions and caught between the water deep and surface wait the Griefshane and their moments in sunlight along forest’s edge and sand’s start. They are a few of many…Liquid born and water borne in ceaseless mixtures of salt and waves and sky and shoreline; trees, rocks, hills, valleys and mountains.

They are the mysteries of society and culture. They are…Legends of mighty warriors and caring givers-of-life. Their women are strong and their men powerful. They build worlds and are from other places and galaxies and wars and peace and forever.

We are their beginning and our end. Sounds as Godspeak—told by men and by women in times of peril and of need and of superstition and…We spin tales that become truth and power and magic. We craft the moneyed ways of future’s lost and tomorrow’s end.

People-governed through fear and the fabrication of religious lies and wealth, turn to burden. The revolution of death’s start-stop dance and the futility of power continues in any name except Truth.

We are born-to-be-wasted. ‘I want to unite with you Eternal Spirit…Help me awaken to that great goal’—unknown author.

And! Beautiful you are…

Lion Echo and Light…

A time of early morning when sounds are soft against ear and movement does not play darts and goes and stop and start. A time to reflect or not to think but to happen as life happens in the sweet flow of quiet seashore in bright moon’s light. Waves even—gently lick the places of sand castles fading as eastern stars’ faint twinkle and the roars of today’s day touch the future and stops.

We—barefoot children of yesterday, leave the mere and slightest of indention in a sand semi-wet and cool from the absence of sunshine.

We—the children of another dawn, touch hand or swish jacketed shoulder once or twice or often without the counting of times or steps or memories. We are the happening of breath and silhouettes angled away from us by the western moon to fade or go by whimsy cloud or art.

Smiles not required and laughter not heard, not from or by our own design or folly. We are born of yesterday’s parents and tomorrow’s ruin. However—right on this moment and now on this side of second slide, we birth this moment or instance or day or past night’s hour.

We—live only of this stretch of sand and along with the catching up of tides flow believe the ice and water before and behind us are our ground and our chapter of seasons lived and written against the sands of shifting grain and the wind.

Care for life and alive and steeped in the reality of earth-beat and washed in the eternity of spirit and even alone—never lonely or forgotten with passing days or endless years of grooved space and the distance between here and there and everywhere.

And! Lion’s sandy paws follow our fading footsteps washed away by gentle surf and the settle of a constant settlement of earth and sky. We—you and I are instantly together and drawn by this moment and the notion of the simplicity of knowing we are beings beneath the fading light of moon and the coming of dawn-light and shadow. Those fading prints of sandy paws disappear and Lion call echoes somewhere across the bay. It is the music of this night and the rhythm of today.

And! Beautiful you are…

Children of Summer…

These are summer’s small ones. Little boys, a lake, a sun, a length of blond hair, red hair, freckles and frogs. Brothers, little and younger, play in tiny waves too small to thunder toward the sandy shore.

And wind wandering through the pines that grow in rows along those rocky places where shadow, fern and grasses cling and mingle with swimming life, aquatic things, rainbow-colored trout and fish brothers  hoping to catch…

These are rafting days, orange and yellow circles filled with air and ridden noisily across a quiet bay.

These are singing days when shouts and shrieks and whistles call across the harbor where wood-hulled ships rest, as their bell claps set to sound by the rocking of a wave and the setting of their sails. Snake twins, those boys, those brothers made of blood and the eternal bonds of water and of blood.

Water children held above the line by the knowledge buoyant unafraid and free, defeating for the playtime, gravity and restrictions of a drier Earth.

Then sunshine turns westward and slips beneath the sky. Nymphs forgotten, paradise found and summer’s little ones.

Little beneath the scheme of earth and large beneath the stars. So bright! Those stars, filling the lake with silent sparkles, dancing gems and laughing diamonds… Tiny brothers sleep fast and safe within their dreams. Father listens to their brief and passing sounds of laughter.

And! Beautiful you are…

Witch Sparkle and Light…

TP_319874_WALL_cavalia_1We are the lathe of civilization’s mischief and magic and misery. Let it be known, to those spirits in the wind and in the dust, that we are the children of a meek disaster. Give us voice to tell our stories and with those spirits in the wind and in the dust, that we are accidents of this disaster. Give us a voice to tell our story. And! Forgive us if the stage we build and our actions are both frail and strong and our harmony scattered and our thoughts poorly articulated.

We cannot speak those perfect words. We cannot commit to ledger those wondrous numbers. Sometimes we do not understand how we feel. But everything has a name: every verse, every chapter, every song, and every reason, pain, notion, activity and hope. Hope! We create words when required and our lists of names are long. We match object to word and definition expands as does our understanding of that object. We speak, we understand and we communicate our stories to the wind and to all those equipped with ears and hearts and inclined to listen.

It is night and with the night, we touch the light of the moon. It is bright. It is the brightest sign that we are not alone. From high above parted clouds, drawn back by the magic wind, we see it both clearly and completely, for it is the rejoicing moon. We sing, we laugh and we dine from the harvest feasts. We bathe in silver dust and clean ourselves with new rain as it falls from a star-filled sky. We sing and we know these songs.

We understand the prose and we hum the verses with our hearts. Once again, we are children of summer and parents of another day.

And! Beautiful you are…

Confused or Just Overwhelmed?

Machiavelli wrote, “There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things because the innovator has for enemies all those who have done well under the new.”

Changes are underway so remember: We are not alone and we are of strength and courage and we will enjoy a hint of fear for balance and for the sensation of being underway.

And! Beautiful are You

PME Radio is coming soon…

How It was Named…

Tesh Morgan was five years old when she chanced to meet another five year old somewhere between the Cola-cheen and a broken piece of sidewalk. This particular sidewalk chunk was the place children stopped to visit, drink a warm cola and share some candy pieces if they had candy. Tesh was already well into her monologue when a five year introduced himself quickly as he sat down and offered her a piece of black licorice and asked how she would spell “City”. Tesh took the piece of licorice and thought about his questions and answered, “Sity.” Jackie agreed with Tesh and that is how the Central Sity was named.