Following Twine Rewind…

OG_17‘Quiet by nature—standing tall
Old stone circles—they have seen it all.
Caught like a ghost in yesterday—shadows down the hall
Are locked within the crystal ball’
— Blackmore’s Night…

This length of twine—that is followed by too many—to discover the end of one strand and again new threads in an ever growing tapestry covering world folly and rancor swift—to renew-new strife and re-spin controlling lies and hopelessness—forever twins of faithless taste and wasted twists of truth. Acting within—actions of disguise and discourse and recourse and renewal when greed needs-need-be and never enough—control whims of chaotic seams—seemingly able to fend destructive machines from those results of greedy governments and very few against the purest treasures—of women and men.

In sun—solstice twirls and the now and then becomes the end—begins as fiddle plays sweetest song and silence—whispers across fires stoked against colder nights and sleepy dawns. ‘Tis’ tide- dance we chance this time-around-the-sun and as we streak lights across another space—another day’s slide away from here-to-there—we hear echo fade—made complete in dust and  vapor and with just a rough-touch spot of gold. And! Sparking-Sparkle life—close to angel’s creation as little ones reach the newest day with tremble hands-handling first air breathe—blood—mother’s touch—new sound-sighted-delighted-ignited- requited and her whispers—Love.

Sexless Gods—we create—creations of images dreamed and beamed to radiated-radiation—we spirit-dance these sounds without vibrated vibrations or derivations’ chaos there be—than we see and be both the life of songs and silence… We shift into the object of another day with the accepted expectations of extraordinary moments of original thought and lights of splendidly created—creations through perceptions of flashing preconceived originality and overloaded repeaters across a wondrous land of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea or coffee or me or you or us or…in the becoming of a notion immortally important and into legacy’s realm—repeated and recalled and repeated—now or again—again…

‘Coke-blow’ away the white lined wind—never-end and painless needles spin unreal reality and fade body walks among shimmers of blackness—edge storms—blinks the kitten eyes and scrapes escape to rooftop stars and window shines. There are no sounds of screams—in silence. Music in mind sized level is only inside mind sized ears to once be seen in scales of notes added to working words to form verses of sound mix and chorus touch. An often dream or is this a poem of poet-speak? And! Not to know sometimes creates choirs in four-part harmony…

Circles of…Maybe Life or memory or the almost real of a now to then and back again—Sweetness speaks upon canvas—lines and circles dance and dash as songs play and laughter reaches to diners’ corner and open doors call to inside secrets of ink motions and canvas wet with colors and the scent of orange and green and brown and yellow and perfume inside a night of air and dare and wear and fare or the future of moments again without the layers of walls climbed and discarded…And yes! With you—I do ‘taste beauty.’

Lives of—gathering together strength—of one or two or many more than them or us or we—be power of scatters—no rules to follow—no moral folly or man rules called Godspeak…when those ‘world words’ are the songs of death—control—fiction—suffering and the lies against Spirit—Speak and Life. Women Love…Men Love…Love is Perfection—is Touch—is Peace—is Spirit—Song and…No rules or explanations or ever-speak required.

Again to be—to see…of loving the loving…of hands joined-to-body moving…of swings and wings and…Spirit-singing and peaceful sighing…Creation—The Witch smile and for this instant within a moment of Time—‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this time—this Twine Re-wind.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Ocean Gypsy’—by Michael Dunford

Performed by—Blackmore’s Night

Witches of Creation…


So Spirit Fly…We are all Angels! Spirit Fly—for Love protects Everyone and Love reminds us that We are the Everywhere of Everyone across Touch Universal—Spirit Dancing—Spirit’s Life. And-Oh-Yeah! Thanks for allowing this ‘Humanum Robot’ to Follow—You! Witches of Creation—for another Year…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Power of Love’—by Candy de Rouge—

“I’ll protect you from the hooded claw
Keep the vampires from your door

Feels like fire
I’m so in love with you
Dreams are like angels
They keep bad at bay-bad at bay
Love is the light
Scaring darkness away-yeah

I’m so in love with you
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

The power of love
A force from above
Cleaning my soul
Flame on burn desire
Love with tongues of fire
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

I’ll protect you from the hooded claw
Keep the vampires from your door
When the chips are down I’ll be around
With my undying, death-defying
Love for you

Envy will hurt itself
Let yourself be beautiful
Sparkling love, flowers
And pearls and pretty girls
Love is like an energy
Rushin’ rushin’ inside of me

The power of love
A force from above
Cleaning my soul
Flame on burn desire
Love with tongues of fire
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

This time we go sublime
Lovers entwine-divine divine
Love is danger, love is pleasure
Love is pure-the only treasure

I’m so in love with you
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

The power of love
A force from above
Cleaning my soul
The power of love
A force from above
A sky-scraping dove

Flame on burn desire
Love with tongues of fire
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

I’ll protect you from the hooded claw
Keep the vampires from your door”—Performed by ‘Frankie Goes To Hollywood’

World Twirl—Star Light Bright…

Helen_Keller‘Alone we can do so little—Together we can do so much.’ —Helen Keller

‘Not everything that is broken is meant to be Fixed.’ Even if we had a machine that contains all our memories and thoughts—that machine would not be us…For we are eternal spirits and body inside—we are the ghosts of these machines.’ And! It is not death-freeing to free Spirit Dance across spaces-of-time and races of distances among packed stars so close and so different and so scattered to fill heavens with clusters and trail dust and a tick-tick-a-tock rocking rhythm of together power and another hour of strength joined by need and want and love and care and the knowledge of knowing that together we can do…

Across the darkest dividing distances between world twirl and star lights’ twinkle—wrinkles space-form and  benders of light join—to twisting dances started once and ending twice only to start the stopping of eternal jolt and bolts of flashes across many skies of many places seen and known and started and stopped—only to again-begin and again to sweeten life together and  dance—with drum beats and racing hearts and together strength and the ‘I’ is welcomed into ‘we’ powers to be-a-sea of them and the gentle ends of ‘me.’

Machined wonders—spirits that guide the processes of robot arms and legs and watch through robot eyes and hear through robot ears and once or often weep spirit tears and die never-ever-even if a book-or ten call living—’sins of flesh’—when spirited robots must live and die and forever move into dusted star-streams while dancing among a trillion light twinkles sketched across the winter’s sky.

And! Beware of the middle of middling places where middle robots produce the non-productive station of stationary worlds and no twirl spots without the tops of fashioned—fastening clamps to fantastic swirls of chaotic creative creations. Spaces—without the creations of wonder and joyful productive productions  crease and cease along the ribbons in space-time and the continuation of any reason to be a being melding into together and universal power. We are the light and the darkness silenced but for a moment—then flash ‘we’  across forever—riding with those sweet Witches of Creation into midnight blue and Life…

From  twins of two the power of life spark and alone-never places begin and end. When again—‘surfs-up’ and high waves reclaim shore-reaches and land—would rather live in Villages of Fisher-folk than in the Hamptons of  Middle-robots without machine-spirits—without productive reasons—and standing alone as wave-crash claims us all…Together—we do everything…

And! Beautiful you are…

Silver Prayers And Ancient Stones…

A_72“Of all the enemies to public liberty, war is, perhaps, the most to be dreaded, because it comprises and develops the germ of every other. War is the parent of armies; from these proceed debts and taxes; and armies, and debts, and taxes are the known instruments for bringing the many under the domination of the few. In war, too, the discretionary power of the Executive is extended; its influence in dealing out offices, honors, and emoluments is multiplied; and all the means of seducing the minds are added to those of subduing the force of the people. The same malignant aspect in republicanism may be traced in the inequality of fortunes and the opportunities of fraud growing out of a state of war, and in the degeneracy of manners and of morals engendered by both…No nation could reserve its freedom in the midst of continual warfare. Those truths are well established. They are read in every page which records the progression from a less arbitrary to a more arbitrary government, or the transition from a popular government to an aristocracy or a monarchy.”—James Madison, “Political Observations,” April 20, 1795

James Madison was an aristocrat and slave owner. Wondering if—America’s founding-fathers did spin tales from double tongues and savage intentions…Mile wide emptiness and growing. Those few will soon not see us or hear our cries. Will they still expect our deaths for causes and foundations and reasons and rhythms we ultimately will not understand? The hungry and the sick and the tired sometimes raise to revolution and another chance for real freedom—not songs and bells and another war for no reasons but ‘maybe…’ America is the only nation on this sweet world to ‘nuke’ two living cities into rubble. Must have made a statement or two and when time becomes hard-times nothing better than another war to keep us regular folk; fearful-busy-sad-productive and confused.

Write now about the left-right write side of life and sometimes-some—days that go and leave and stay and come into worlds of our own self of self-sided dreams and other things all—better than good and also bad but not too bad to do again or leave behind in dusted bins of trash-can ways and dusted evening skies. And! Under moons of double lights as the fours of daylight fade into rising sun flash…dusted bins of trash searched through to save twin scraps—surviving again for use by others—then again discarded or lost to dust to rust and ruin.

The loves of men and the loves of women and freedoms’ sweetest notions must not be divided by the capital of greed and the power of stalled legislation—an impotent executive branch—and a purchased judicial robe. Sweet truths are beliefs…that all life is equal life— that all women and men—rich or poor are above borders of  wherever boarders for non-reasons and are never judged by color—big guns—atomic death—and that eternal diatribe of isolation—individuality and Fear…

We are not notions to kill or die. We wear different packages of cloth and color and need and we all bleed red same—as liquid and air mix and body same moves across these places or other spaces in motions to exist together without pride or prejudice or of religions to-take-to-hate or to replace irreplaceable life. Poverty is a never Crime—Greed is a Crime against all Humanity.

Know of beautiful colors through both the eyes and with our fingers. Hear a lover’s voice touch heart before substance becomes words of meaning or reason or other notions. Know silence—as silence fills all senses with thunder and noise and music and notes chaotic or symphonic simplicity as duality ceases and singularity melts into universal unity and truth.

Give us a world—where women walk in day/night safety and no one understands a word called ‘war’…Where love is love and where force does not occur…Where there are no dark places called ‘heaven’ or ‘hell.’ A place where life does belong and life is good everyday…Heaven or Luck… No! We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we all Love our Children—For the magic and mischief-of-life—Gods are not required…

Philip K. Dick ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’ may have discovered that without our machined ghosts we could not dream. With our Spirit-flight we do care that our sheep are electric and our dreams are android hopes and that our loves—do kiss away our sparkling tears and fears…And! Androids do dance into Electric nights and love does lead shifting-shapes through the darkest frights and into those sweetest lights. Shadow-touch across ceilings of moon dust and spaces of time-without-races and inside these moments—Life is an Almost-Maybe.

And! Beautiful you are…

Gods of Alien Replacements…

P_95‘We cannot despair of humanity—since we ourselves are human beings’…Albert Einstein

Walls to build—too high to climb and the healing cliffs are for far fewer than require the magic man and the doctors of witch power and re-lifting structures—strictures—scriptures and ‘scripts.’ Branches and olive leaves and healing brews boil from green leaf and tea bag and mushroom blossoms and grass helping the blinding eyes to see and the broken ones to crawl—to run and to race again on also nights into soaking rains—bright lights and softener days. She is young and must live again—strong alive—medicine magic more and her chance increases the missing hits or errors of judges above the need to live where money written is a world apart and another chance of life or the liberty of living or the right-to-be an almost grown-up self ceases too soon…Poverty’s child has as much to righted life as those golden touched—few godless players of children’s games—born to—too much and fathered inside those mothers of greed and destruction.

Children born into struggle and war—our children—golden spirits among the uselessness of greedy ones and those ones just above understanding—that lines of separation are transitional momentary spaces between sharing shares of bread and revolution. And! Even on the highest ground— blood will fall across those lines between humanities’ humanity and descendents of these troubles and struggles will prevail until these also–separate by drawing transitional spaces between needing and wanting and working and flaunting and living and surviving and bleeding and dying in both doubt and revolution.

Build for those few humans—fortunate ones—leisure spaces and places and races and tastes and wastes and notions of better than…And! Worlds colliding will place smash and grab and death-kill in motions so bloody—that taste-the-blood-fever will rage until left in ashes and ruin—ruined humans shall crawl from that cleared wound to again rebuild the past of future’s hopes for another tomorrow until power again seals away attempts by many to survive another day-to-day and the ad infinitum of struggle—war—death—the glory of war and the industry of one nation under whatever—corrupts the notion of freedom for all into—subjection of all but a few ‘good-men.’

And! When those ‘few good men’ turn many guns toward the people—the concentration of their fire destroys the nations they are duty-bound to serve and protect. How can a flying robotic—machine controlled—creation of war—justify the nobility of protecting one home against evil? Why would a little child die and be the center of a General-of-Warrior-with-no-honor’s empty apology and worthless notions of peace and prosperity—when that coward’s notion of righteous war is collateral damage and alien weapons discharged into the home of life—innocent life?

Power corrupts and corruption is the strength of any government. Lift sword and if must—battle man-to-man into—the ‘one left standing’ doctrine…Call this a noble notion if destruction is the glorious path to the heavenly-worlds of evil’s good successes-excessively-expressed successively and please leave the little ones and their mothers alive—Leave their homes undamaged and their crops intact.  Better! Together destroy all walls of separation—share the wealth of nations—labor long days in the heat of sunshine and destroy all machines!

Oh well—not to happen in lifetimes combined into another thousand years of greed and destruction. The governments of religion—plunder and pillage and rape and murder are the evil of death…Corrupt be government! Life is Love and Eternal is Spirit…No religion or God notions required…Nothing here but words…However— May Love and Hope and the Hope of Love-words and Touch-speak in another ten centuries—be another Song for the Peaceful—as voiced by Earthy folks across a less-than-barren world—and someday may these folks-of-planet-twirls never know of Robot-kill and Drones…Keep wishing—eh?

” I’ve been to so many places-
I’ve seen some things…
I know— love is the answer
Keeps holding this world together
Ain’t nothing better-
Ain’t nothing better-
And all the answers to our prayers
Hell—it’s the same everywhere.
Nothing ever breaks up the heart—
Only tears give you away”—
Borrowed from ‘Miracles‘ by The Jefferson Starship.

And! Beautiful you are…

Cold Stars and Sky Falls…

‘The Greater the Power—The More Dangerous the Abuse’…Edmond Burke

To hold—To Touch—Too much—No! Forever not long enough? And! The sweetest Dance—indeed…Together we—for without love there is no peace. And! Riding waves crashing into shore…Ghost of Gardens—flying into space and where home is just one planet east of sunlight’s doors and along ridges of long space in sky’s silent fog. Path reaches across one trillion leaps of spaces filled with twirling lights and a trillion ground-bound souls.

Fire of Blue light and a sorted beginning and a dance of yellow streaks—red coats and journey begins. Screaming Toward Moon—light and still—Horses run Martian Ridge. We are children of the salted seas and spirits unified. Clouds do often look for skies and house sounds includes those leaving kind of sounds…Hollow man is robot without spirit-animation-without ‘ghosts in the machine’…Lucky we be not holy hollows—imagine imaginations and beyond pushes of strengths— dancing of baby birthing and powerful protection and iron love—nothing stronger than love or better than together songs and the unification of a trillion spirits.

Blue Butterfly and wishes made and wishes granted—granted those soft wings and slips and flits ride currents of breeze so slight against soft skin—often switch directions-of-fancy either willed or through desires of fancy or wearied of time—trips to beginning and endings of time shifted—drifted and lifted and forever gifted to lines of carefully crafted beings-being for a moment above moonlight or day. Spaces between lines of coded rhythm and words pouring from the bewildered one or two or twins in-step and without reasons to be or to find that certain way through tunnels and into night.

Speculative Capitalism is both non-social and immoral…It is an unproductive financial system that channels greed into speculation and usury. It is irrational and unstable and a Crime against Humanity. Oops! There goes the right to: Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…The collapse of Capitalism is inevitable…And! Capitalists do eat their young.

Crisis investing causes the ‘markets, about this fine world to fluctuate; up-down and all around…A hundred plus points up or down—causes non-productive investors to jump up- down and all around. She or he becomes nervous and begins to whimsy buy and sell. Using sound financial practices becomes mute and the destruction of many billions and lives ensue.

Wealth and Whimsy and Luck—oh my! Speculation is a Crime against Humanity? Per Pope John II— Centesimus Annus: “Ownership of the means of production, whether in industry or agriculture, is just and legitimate if it serves useful work. It becomes illegitimate, however, when it is not utilized or when it serves to impede the work of others in an effort to gain a profit which is not the result of the overall expansion of work and the wealth of society, but rather is the result of curbing them or of illicit exploitation, speculation or the breaking of solidarity among working people. Ownership of this kind has no justification and represents an abuse in the sight of God and humanity.”

…Abusing the rights of the Workers-of-the-World is a Crime against Humanity…Like Genocide and Sociocide; speculators destroy life and the freedom of people everywhere on this sweet planet. Are we free if we are wage-slaves, anyway?

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

We are all Children of the Universe…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

Tiny Robots And Witch Smiles…

Epona_173Robots do sun touch —We often stop when sunlight fades and spirits require rest and shore minutes. Then—tiny fingers snap…And again—worlds begin.

Dream dances in touch memory and spells of angel’s sorcery and you. The witches of contours soft and exact sights and scents and imaginary visions of places inside restaurants with deep—rooms tucked inside a place of bars and dancers—of clamor silenced as pounding hearts and whispered flights of twin fancy—love touch and wine. Booth for two and drawn drapes—of places—secret worlds—others not required—where both the twins of women and men dance private thoughts and touch and smile and whisper and share and without forms—spirit swirl and twirl and whirl with life—either with or without substance. Touched by moments of time touch and butterfly kisses — never lonely spirits in dying worlds. Life for a few heartbeats is a very good thing of ring-circles and fancy and the rhythm of loves. She is miracle…She is life…

Brush lashes to face and form dances in both dreams and seems as long pauses without voice—just breath-to-breath with tiny freckles and lips to laugh and eyes to almost quest together—vision with quiet word songs and gentle spaces between silence and whisper-speak. Dreams-then if dream quest ceases—creases in time curtains altered spaces and beauty may die and visit again on ways to star-side—just to recall knowing times of sweet unions and love. Life for a few heartbeats is a very good thing of ring-circles and fancy and the rhythm of loves. She is miracle…She is life…

Upon a sailing ship—her gown; as morning sun enters through a window and fills the doorway-sun-side and frames her body opaque—texture of cloth changed through magic light— wrap into a thin and transparent breeze across the shadow of her curves. Lighted creations and the witches of magic cross star-walks between Sirius and Mother ships—images of imagination and textures of sacred curtained places are found and lost and found again— Life for a few heartbeats is a very good thing of ring-circles and fancy and the rhythm of loves. She is miracle…She is life…

Little Robots just became—because of Eternal Spirits spirited re-entry—entry and started the starts of blast off and crash before the burn—the newest giggle-to-wiggle-to-someone’s sorting and another’s starting and ending and all is just alright—OK? Little Robots feel just as we feel and laugh and cry and live and as we; you and I laugh and cry and live and die and wiggle and giggle and sort the carding players around this table or that corner when warmer or colder and we watch them watch us and again we begin a circle or dance within that same ring at end galaxy or in a bright new world. And! Harbor ships safely tucked away in security—are safe…But! Are ships built to forever be in a safe harbor? She is miracle…She is life…

Now! Walk down—carpet aisle. A forever aisle-covered deep-knees-deep in blood and flowers streaked incorrectly with colors of red scent and—perfume too sweet to be real— plastic growing from metal stands and glass vases. The memory—a scattering-rattling of frail movies without projectors—mid-mind-side and feeble. Few survivors survive the shattered hours of loss—incredible loss—of baby loss; a sacred loss—a savaged proof—that child loss is not a sustainable reason for life. Loss is loss and hell is not replaced by heaven. It never disappoints those suffering the curses of death and sacred loss. And! Please-oh-please— don’t let me drop her… for she is Miracle-she is Life…

Casket born and the little ones. Tiny boxes and sorrow; unexpected— unresolved and not replaceable—for unnatural is this grief. Here, inside the October City, the pressure of the cooker is a great and steaming beast—as real as puppies in May and the death of baby. However; puppy becomes dog and kittens lose interest in chasing streaks of yellow or green ribbon. Timed; they must rest beneath the bright sun—warm bone and slow with age. They live and they must pass—naturally. Born this world—into this cycle—into pleasure and into pain—when animation ends—racing spirits move across space and time—no heavens—no hells—just sweet… life for a few heartbeats— a very good thing of ring-circles and fancy and the rhythm of loves. Street magic and witches smile—again… for she is Miracle…she is Life…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘A Rose for Epona’ by Eluveitie

Gathering Precious Life…

20“May you hear every song in the Forest…And if ever you lose your own way…Hear my voice like a breeze whisper soft through the trees… May you stay in the arms of the Angels.”  From—Lullaby for a Soldier’ (Arms of the Angels) by Dillon O’Brian

They gather—arms length apart and touching yet never flesh feeling—just being the same as each cold breath catches and inhales—exhales steam across a longer line of waiting and hoping and living and dying and thinking of praying of leaving or staying until few cents ago coffee warm warded away cold from form—vision search began again or ended for the evening bright of Street magic and Star-ship’s light.

They are these same—the you of me and the I of them and longer lines both start again—many more than were—when workers gathered here and sweat sweetened voices strong to hear and labor filled now silent nights with metal fires so bright to eyes that strained to see the darkened night and wash away the rust of steel and shrieks of altered shifts and morning stirred the sleeping ones to start another day of sweat sweetened voices strong to hear and fresh came the strength of labors lost and won and lost again.

They gather here for rooms-to-find-to-fill—have filled again and nourishment—gone again and others line the grates of grate-covered heat—blown from Calimesa underground to ground—around those standing watch or asleep in one side-warm and one side cold or one side dead or one side gone. Again; the living and dying and the thinking of dying and praying of leaving or staying another moment or second or minute or hours of night-time’s twinkle or morning wrinkle—where once flesh was fresh and spirit smoothed times of ages changes or faded lights—start and stop and start again.

Dance across these flashes—lighting ways beyond night sight and grate warmth—blown upward from far beneath long sidewalks—a few bundled folk and empty clatters of empty bottled sighs and dies into another locked out night of old coats and steam and snow. Scarf and scrapes and scares and prayers unlisted— unlicensed—unheard—unspoken and spoken again to gathers of dreams among star streams traveled—untouched—unhinged and again the disconnected prays of homeward places or warmer spaces and not tonight and available on the bright slide of tomorrow’s light.

Never broken these dark—park—places tucked on down-low—beneath the ruined twists of short time pasts when hill house reached sky-high and bright furnaces smelted-melted steel to pouring—porous casted wheels and the sparking wheels of plenty ones—turned twenty hours days of sparks into things usefully—useful into gains and losses—tossing cares to windward sails as hoisted spinnaker—boats raced wind and waves beyond lake bay and deep water and play…

Aminadora once visited Calimesa City. She watched the twirl and swirl of living and the dying waves of folk-sided hopes and the fear of tears and another day passed without the end of gray cold and dark snow. She touched the grate of heats and slept close to other dreamers without a dream among the few. At winter’s end— Aminadora left City-side… Soul seeping—drained the sucking of nuances from madness and soon began an Era of Distraction…For a few moments—we do stop here—to help little ones become big ones—donchathink?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Lullaby for a Soldier’—performed by Maggie Siff

Forever Memories – Forever Life…

RG_66‘Life is a Dream—Realize it’…Mother Teresa

Once! Calimesa City was a small port town scattered along the fishing piers and docks of an Emerald Sea called Simprus. Ocean Simprus connected worlds-to worlds-around a twin mooned planet far touched yet still inside a Galaxy of Milk. Throughout the whirly-twirly of a single day folks rose— consumed—worked—consumed again—and cared and thought and dreamed and made love and fell asleep—satiated weary or tired. Others spent times away and copied daytime dances into night long labors and dreams and love and thought and twirled the whirl of short nights and sleepless days.

Aminadora stood in Land’s Court and courted a notion of national worth or a woman’s right to sing in harmony with free life and child speak. She voiced power and the logic understood by those witches-of-creation and instead of swords to kill—medicine became strong and well mixed with balance and cure—even the children of war-weary places smiled. Since! Many have fallen and died in scatters across so many spinners of ground and sea and tree and created along sky-ridges of cloud puff and star trails—these star trails traveled by ships of fire and scout’s chariots for reasons lost or found or again lost. And! Still along these ways and many spins—children of war and creatures of sorrow smile when medicine is balanced and the mixtures of steel and flesh cease—ends.

Simprus Sea floated water boats and ships of travel and commerce as trading carried both witches and creators of goods across lines of sky and water to many places too many times to be new-renewed or rediscovered. Golden shades of rock and change of currency once stored by few—powered the many to cliffs of silver stores and caves below life’s reason to know sunlight kisses against warming cheeks and muscles sore through labor’s greed and timing slowest creep. Food supplied from plants of land–reached and needed—as sailors discovered reasons to stay and trade balanced the in-between of have and not and wanted before the light of early dawn and evening time.

‘Brush to lids of my own eyes with sweet your lips and touch deep my heart with spirit dance your strength as my own often fails. We—you and I—do spin worlds together and taste soft wine in starlight bright and setting moon so large that reflected eyes lock these mind spaces in forever memories of life. ‘Tis—good this dream…’Tis sweet this Night…’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Photo’ by Iain McKell

‘While Your Lips are still Red’ by Nightwish

Makers of Melody…

128_WHTucked somewhere inside a vaulted cliff— a series of rooms and rambles spread across ‘half world’s end’ and scribes of universe gather there to read the recorded messages of blood sigh and sky crossed turbulences. These mystics of word and those wizards of type—scroll the scopes magnificently magnified into thoughts and render unto the whiners of wars or the bits and bytes of peace—parcels both of truth and of folly. And! Dreams are again reality.

Makers win as last arrow falls and blood spill seeps into the sweeps of steppes won or lost and again taken from the takers to the makers. Gods bless the politicians of lies and fancy word-pour hanging just outside ear-rage or the reign of toothless gambol and corruption-squeak. Truth chance—changes the worlds of distant gambles and card tricks money from table setting to pocket—unearned coin clinking into purses of capital greed and hunger. The Voices always hear…Learn to just listen…

Universal scribblers of notions or potions written with oceans of ink spilled across a trillion motions and paper stain—caution stained along with those killers of hopeful faith realized—discarded—regarded and launched along with those words of ‘will-power-hour’ and less than…just before light set or mourning day. These rhythm of makers scan desert sands as their riders write the composition of windy-whirls and storms once known and called the race of human pace and taste descended from sky high to night fall upon deserted cities of time and future speak.

Robed white and sun bronzed figures ride the ‘Makers’ across a sand sea of grain and pain to rein in many gathered portions of willing folk unable to find or flourish or self-believe their own worth-selves and unwillingly shelve dreams to reach their stars of dream touch and love reach—found and then—lost. So! Face the rising sun as warmth covers face and scatters across chests-to-waists-to-legs-to-feet firmly planted against sands wet with desert rain and early cold.

Touch hands of two to many and then as joined jointly across the windless floor of land now and yet-to-be become the once shelved selves of Spirit walk and magic talk…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Wicked Game’ by Emika