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…

A Here and After…

What is a representative American group? America is a melting pot. Are we melting or diluted just enough to seem civilized? Our influences are creations. These creations are combinations of  causes and effects ad infinitum. We blend these until yes and no is our very own thing. We are the country. America is a ridiculous hodgepodge creature created not to move but destined to fly. We are from different places and from a variety of beliefs, abilities, fears, sorrows, happiness, shrieking madness and terrifying constructions. We are put together with a lot sweat and too much battling whimsy and all the other things, spicy and nice and not recognized by any eye.

All of us have the freedom to explore and improvise within an uncertain framework.  So! Do we improvise with words?

Then Shift to:

Fear of not noticing this life and this death. No! For he is fondly remembered and has not been fondly remembered by all of us that knew him. He is sure that they cannot remember his name. For he has forgotten many of those faces that had trusted their images to his memory. He has also forgotten those places  trusted to be static and not revolving around stationary constucted worlds. How many imaginary worlds spin around an imaginary sun? He has always been an alien not wishing to intrude but longing to belong. Is acceptance another loss within a simple victory?

Presently, he does not enjoy the stares of strangers or laughter when not with him but about him. He has often been too frightened by an overwhelming jumble of sensual adjustments. He has always been a waif, alone and among many and wanting to go home.  Among us, he is a familiar spirit, a mirror we stare into and recognize when the moons have disappeared into the light of an ancient dawn.