Tag Archives: life

Apr 25 2013

Whatever Storms—Wherever Gods…

We watch Storm Gods…We! Tucked inside this swirl of trash and tin bobbles and cardboard homes of glass and stone wait the confusion to rise and winds to wind these narrow streets of matchbook stories and matchstick people…After the roar and the wetting and the flashes, the god of storms dart-departs to dash and trash another world apart from our own. Begin then the song of flowers. Without wails—those sweet tales with soft music and misty touches and peace are moment songs. 

We venture into drying air and as we cross wet sands and a bloom of desert flowers and freshening air—rejoice we of ourselves and our certain knowledge of knowing certainty for another clearer night and a brighter morning. And! We understand the knowledge of the good of something necessary and good. Together; our story of life is magic and our world is… 

s81These twisted places and the rust of metal frames and broken concrete stretch before our eyes toward sights ending and evening’s growling gloom where boxes of movement use to wind along ribbons of silent construction before tears filled the eyes and wind dried water. Home is protection from bombs’ early light and for those requiring protection, home is both sanctuary and safety space. 

By the fire light of these dwindling tribes, children marvel at both the dancing flames and the warmth of these lights against the nights and outside shadows beneath their eyes. They listen as stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places not started but imagined and seen in minds’ own spaces and in their most desired regions of just before a dream and just after ‘wishing this was true.’

Paint now a picture that loves these caves and these walls and these tribes of we and me and us and them and before the storm and after the end of rains and winds and bumping things and silent shrieks once loud now absent from ear and fear and tear. Sounds of life drawn across a million miles of rock and rolling till another day of storms and another night of passion shadow dance beneath a star-lighted ceiling. Once again, share moments and lives and the power of life. Blood and love is the matter of the matter and the survival of these survivors of wherever gods and whatever storms.

And! Beautiful you are…

 
Mar 22 2013

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…

Mar 17 2013

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…

Mar 3 2013

Beginning Rights-Writes-Ending…

51Plague begins and ends as people-folks end and begin…Called! Robot death or death of substrate or the walkers that carry Eternal Spirits as Spirit passes a world or ten or a thousand places across Life’s Universe. Warmed to the form of you and me and the us and them of this here and this now.

And! Time is damned except by those tellers of time and those singers of timed songs. When futures’ laugh…Moments span the days of does not matter minutes and dances twirling into relief.

Once sweet Tsaritsa Alexandra and her babies lost life and gained the weight of bullets and steel knives somewhere before a reason and the rhythm of master-slave-king-queen-poverty-rich and lyrical poor, changed the balance of futures’ past tomorrows.

Brief times—when futures’ laugh as past smiles and memories wail softly into the death of darkness and of light. Cults rarely live except inside mind-spin-doubt-fear and folly.

Cellars split and life’s reformation happens then in now and once in Ekaterinburg—as secreted consecration both; cursed and blessed folk-thoughts people-deep as the Urals remained where mountains live and humanity touched quality-beauty-sense and balanced while steeped in pretense and folly and song.

Daughters and knives must never mix and women must never fall in battle—only fall-in-love. Let these things be written by the singer of songs and the writers of poetry and into the heart of life…

We dance Universe…you and I—hand-to-hand-shoulder-touched-lips-to-eyes and never tears. Eternal Spirits cannot cry and never Universes’ end and we are Spirit and Spirits never die. Robot once then again and again and…

Angels fly in starship to scout where next to stop-land-wait-end-and begin again-begin. In star-ships the folds of space shortens the distance between star-light and star-bright and the day of night.

In starship, galaxy edge and galaxy center matters only to the standing one at waters’ edge on planet-fall. Small is a matter of size and nothing less than sky-lights and heaven’s length.

Animals are the earth and inside the wind they are large and strong and brave as fur coats ruffle and scents bring reality to the real self and imagination. I am man and you are woman and we are both not interchangeable.

But Love! Is the spirit of heart and soul—does not require name or title or reason or permission or through the grace of…? No! Things called government nor religious-named or senate or congress or court or king or country has right or reason to legislate or forbid the strength of Love between anyone…Oh! Hell no.

Stop the builders of weapons! Too late? For sword grow as shield grows as bomb-to-drone-to- the shrieks of madness drown to silence the gentle swish and swoon of love and touch and care and taste and the sweetness of dove’s morning cry and the living sound of baby cries and gurgles and…

Instead— let us again dance across these universes while we wish to dance. Let us then spirit-dance—when the flesh of non-interchangeability sheds substances and gains sustenance. Life spark-sparkles forever; then lends light to darkness knowing this is good-sweet.

We are Children of the same Verses of these Universes—We have the Right to be Everywhere…

And! Beautiful you are…

Nov 11 2012

Of Moment We…

The You — I of this moment…Memory of meeting you somewhere set in a-twirling time of music and sight and rush to fill senses and blood with warmth and a continuation of day. Spectacular life streamed in direction not known and into the glimpse of this and that feeling, the merge of lives and whimsy and project and reasons to begin—Together time!

Twirling and the whirling and the loving of a so-strong-love; the silent touch and responsibility and protecting and the sing-song dance filled blood-time. Creation and duality were without processing—wanted and welcomed.

We! Danced with the life of lives and the together strength of twice-folk-joined. Together! We danced the universe without gravity push or pull and for moments we; free of doubting fear—sparkled.

Life and the Dance! Hand-hold and we touched those of mystery and magic and stop and start—alone with ghost dancers and us.

At ocean’s crest…Breathe the scent-of-twined-together-spark in the harmony of push-touch and the rhythm of twin-strength Life…Touched hearts and eyes wide open…

And! Beautiful you are…

//

Aug 26 2012

Maybe and What…

Wondering of spaces between life and physical death; between the yes and no and the knowing and the forgetting and beyond what is not felt and momentarily realized…

We invite experience and receive experience in washes and tumbling that are wished for and torn away and into similar, as watching ocean waves or being swept out to sea by a storm or an accident. We reach for broom or mop or both, still we are never completely cleaned or dry.

Wondering how we fit between the softness of time and the steel reality of flying away from what is almost known into what is quickly learned or remembered. We are born knowing everything and instantly taught to not know. We spend another life learning to physically survive and toward the end, we realize the passage of time and our knowing returns in spared memories and past recognitions.

While learning necessary survival we forget what we were and are and desire in the worlds above and below as we cling to this one. The hardest moments of this life are waiting for stupidity to understand anything.

First we remember; the horror of birth and then the softness of mothers’ caresses and the survival of love within her eyes. For Love-is-Life and Life-is-Love So! Transition world and onto road—here we come.

And! Beautiful you are…

Aug 17 2012

Peace Harbor and War…

Once there was a Great Lake called Michigan and a harbor placed north of Milwaukee. While walking across a series of bridges, flocks of birds perch or take wing either nervous or called south by late summer’s notions of warmth. On beach-side rocks are scattered both large and small across sand and into the water. Lake calm—neither a ripple nor waves. Remember! Brain-cry to cross this lake and pass thru the Saint Lawrence Seaway then onto the North Atlantic and to sail away and to go home…

We walked these piers dressed as Naval Officers and as civilians and as warriors. We walked along the water-fronts in both Annapolis and in London. We stood on the bows of ships-of-sails and of merchant steamers and on the wooden decks of sinking ships damaged from fire-fight with broken masts and crater sized openings in both hull and deck. We survived and we physically drowned from war. We neither required air to breath nor understood fear beneath one hundred feet of water.

We listened while both fiddler and accordion played harmony on Bourbon Street without those cars and those trucks and those noises—too loud and too distracting. Cajun violins and songs of both happiness and of sorrow still dance and wail through the night and through these dreams.

We rounded the Horn of Africa and we watched those light-housed flashes bounce off Cape Hatteras. We traded cannon fire and death along the European Coastline and onto seas and ports protected by forts and friends and foes. We sailed from the great northern oceans as adventurers and ports away called us to find something unusual or new.

We gained shores with strong forces and off-loaded horses and infantry of sailors and marines of combat strength from five hundred ships. We marched and rode toward those carefully engineered and magnificent castles. There, became a leader of warriors and a master of nothing except  war and impending death. Time warps and the fires of arrows as skies darken with too many shafts and feathers and blood. The launch of spears and  skill opens great wounds and both men and horses combat one another and death. Life does stop and start without the knowledge of living or the hope of peace. This finality continues with ruin and the slap of spear to flesh and a fall from beast to sand and the continuation of living inside and outside the body. We gain the freedom of watching battle unattached and the non-fear of living and of dying. The fall ends and life stop/starts and freedoms continue through the strength of billions and the songs of battle and of the harmony of peace.

Still the fiddlers play on into the night and the drums cause those millions to dance and swirl and twirl and mock death until it all begins again and ends and begins and ends and begins…ad infinitum. Simple choice? Not to fall in Battle—but to fall in Love?

And! Beautiful you are…

//

Aug 16 2012

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…

May 11 2012

Dream Touch and Curves…

He dreamed of you. He dreamed of you last night or this morning. You and there in a room off the main restaurant-bar place. Not real except in memory, in imagination and in places of sound and silence. For a few minutes, they were hiding as they always did, away from everyone. He searched through the few moments of privacy, where women and men or women and women or men and men go to touch, to smile, to whisper, to share and to be alive. In those precious moments of time touch and heartbeat, he was never a lonely soul in a dying world. You were life for a few heartbeats.

Her face and form danced within his dream. Tiny freckles, lips to laugh, eyes to dance and ears to hear the music of words and silence. Underneath a table and cloth they pressed together knee-to-knee. Then dream gone…Never explanations of nothing but life and why and gain and lost and oh…he thought you may have died and visited on your way star-side, just to let him know they were still…

Once upon a sailing ship, he saw her gown as the morning sun poured (if the morning sun can pour through anything) through a window and filled the doorway-sun-side framing her body as the opaque texture of her clothing changed because of the light, into a thin and transparent breeze across the shadow of her curves and her beauty and…never before had she been more naked or more clothed than she was on that morning.

Friends and caskets and funerals without flowers. Less mourners and small lines. What is left are folk circles talking and laughing and…Caskets usually look the same except for the little ones. These caskets are always too small and too heavy and hard to carry. A spiritual death?

This depends on the casket bearers and their knowledge of the little one. Inside those tiny boxes is a sorrow so; unexpected, unrequited, unresolved and not replaceable as the sorrow is unnatural. But 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 a baby. It hurts and the parent so misses the child that is no longer with her.

However, puppy grows into dog and kittens lose interest in chasing streaks of yellow or green ribbon. Instead, they rest beneath the bright and benevolent sun, warm of bone and slowed with age. They live and they pass by naturally. They come into this world, into this cycle, into pleasure and into pain. And! With time their animation ends…

The mother cries against his shoulder and his shirt is damp because of her endless supply of tears. She is phantom. He fears that on this long walk down this even longer aisle  he may let her fall. This path has been followed too many times. The long walking aisle. There are those memories of other mothers and widows and fathers and of old men, and not so many of them anymore. He has never dropped anyone. Grief and grief and more grief and the gods listen to their cries and watch as tears enough fill basins as grows this insane sorrow.

No failure – because they lean against one another for balance and weakness and sorrow and memory and love.

Now! He walks with her down a carpeted aisle. It is an aisle-covered almost knee-deep in flowers that cannot be correct. They are too sweet a perfume to be real and they grow from metal stands and glass vases. Memory is a rattling frail movie without projector but still inside their minds. He has helped a few survivors through shattered hours of loss, of incredible loss, of baby loss, a sacred loss and a savaged proof that 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.

He is positive that he has never dropped anyone. Yes! Their precious sorrow and the gentle leaning into one another and following this worn carpet toward the words and tears that ends a little dream and begins another and well-oiled reality, is the now in this moment of life.

And! Beautiful you are…

Coming Soon: PME Radio Network

Jun 18 2011

Blue Sky God and Death…

Part One:  Rejoice in this freedom from God the Death Maker and God the Destroyer…Something to see today and not by the use-to-be-seen by only prophets and who-would-believe ministers of blue sky and those spinners of grief and invisible fear.

Damn! Tis time to saddle-up and ride into battle and to die. Since living is just a slow way to die, let us all die in this final and complete battle.

Today nothing heard in this news filled nothing to report except so much of so much of the same and never more than the voice of ago and ago beyond the drop of sound wasted and never noticed by anyone. Without doubt, let us ride to the dragon.

Finally! God has stopped by to destroy us and we will not easily go down…And! Our voices often carry in song and with courage on this fine day to die. We are the guardians of Earth. We are ready to battle and to win!

Today, we will sleep the silence of quiet without that pin dropped into a never mattered sphere of soundless noise. Is chasing a dragon more similar to a dragon dance with the last Princess of the End found and then lost?

Oh! to be once again consumed with everlasting greed without the limits of history’s future before history is realized. Scars of deep sound and again these shallow scars will shriek in pain and without the agony of dragon fire across the blue cold of this field just before the battle. Our horses stamp and snort in this rich air sharp with cold and ready for dying to be done all over again.

Friend! May you bear witness to the death of this fine battle in places removed from reality and blinded by bright red blood against this morning clean and cold.

Bright sword will sparkle from the sun and the cold and the blood because what goes around comes around and battle never changes the charges of strength and death.

Come on damned angels of death and test these warriors deep in wood and belief in victory scattered across worlds never seen and never known. Do not longer wait damned spacer. We will meet each of your substitutes head-on and with fine swords and the endless firing of a necessary death all along these towers and beyond this sea.

You have selected these places where we will die. We will dance with the dragon and we will happily die. War against a now visible foe is a good war and any death against this tyrant is a good death.

Carefully pick this world to change with simple death and with slight chance to win. Take your babies into our heavens. From beyond our stars you jumped into our worlds to rule with blue sky and the threat of eternal damnation. Our fearful ones are many. Why so few favored ones? We do love death for we are very good at the living and dying in three-quarter-time. 

Multitudes are left behind to fight and to experience that sudden death without debt and finally without fear. And! Our death shall be noble death. We will die by any means necessary. Sweet and righteous-why? Yes!