Star-Dusted Moons and Chorus…

53

Walk the path of these days and past’s presence and today’s—tomorrow dreams. We are builders of grand places and the ancients of straw homes in tomorrow’s futures? Often music calls a spirit to dance ‘round a late night fire somewhere in distant time—We began before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…We are all Children of the Universe…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

By the fire light of these dwindling tribes—children marvel at both the dancing flames and the warmth of lights against the nights and outside—shadows beyond their eyes. They listen and stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places— no start—just—imagine and see—in minds’ own spaces—desired regions of before dream and after ‘wishing was true…’Paint now pictures—loving 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—’cross 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. Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

We are not resource. Forests are not board-feet. Precious animals are alive and well and multiplying within circle-life and when undisturbed are balance—the harmony of earth twirl and whirl across space—required for survival and never a commercial aggravation of money changers and the idiocy of gain. Precious must be protected—wise beings—remove from destruction—as our survival of future days and future nights. Unless! Flash—we stop and our carbon-based trickle ceases equal value and determination…We are not resource. When forest covers this place—land once stripped—now concrete jungles—scattered sky-buildings and layers to portions—to little—to—too much. Resource-speak—twist these places into battlefields and crime and punishment and damage civilizations— and cease—peace. Nations—  ‘battle-cries of freedom’ and blood-pours—poor laborers and slaves create— hope for many and freedom for few. Life is not—a purchase or a product—sell. Eternal Speak—of—all Life—Eternal Spirit—Forever! Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Hear pitch perfect spirit chorus pushed from moon-side to earth-side and back across ear-to-ear and from throat-to-voice and again out into spaces of hearing voices and silence. Create listener—speaker—and the quiet times of silent-speak. Gods—we create—creation 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…Not so often—the choir of silence—sings-songs the gatherings and sweet rolls of honey bread and wine. Soft conversations—land’s across—diners where breakfast—breaks-fasts of night and sleep-ends in shrugs—stretched—muscles—twitched and sounds—reminding lives of living gently—cross clefts of treble wires and bass notes—tucked beneath a bottom line. Falling trees in dawn lights at the center of creation’s place—vibrate notions and sounds both of illusive—illusions and illustrated—illustrations. We! Gods of these creations—find this to be something good—that is part—Way… Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Robot now and then and once again when creature walks splendid winds across another place of times—remember and stories of this and that—told by any-to-any-listening—of robot tales and adventures as the course of discourse launch comes—songs of sailor’s speak and wig-waggle ‘cross a thousand skies—complete with warrior legends and the strength of priestess kiss and home returns. We all sail here—the sailors of these moments—friends and family and the you of me and the me of us and all—eternal spirits we be—the power of life—inside folded space or outside yonder rim-spin—we are…Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

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…

‘Winter Trees’ by Sylvia Plath

“The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.

On their blotter of fog the trees

Seem a botanical drawing –

Memories growing, ring on ring,

A series of weddings.

Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,

Truer than women,

They seed so effortlessly!

Tasting the winds, that are footless,

Waist-deep in history –

Full of wings, other worldliness.

In this, they are Ledas.

O mother of leaves and sweetness

Who are these pietàs?

The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.”  

 

And! Beautiful you are!

‘Stardust’ …by Delain

Lights at World End…

Ships_427‘Shining candles and harbor flash…From sea today and follow tide…Come to harbor  sirens call…Shining candles and harbor flash…From sea to safety side tonight.’

Lights at the end of the world. Now! See those lights across these thousand worlds—welcome home to places you have started and places to begin again or again or on another day’s end and another night’s beginning. Drums to market those marks of time we call our own as heart beats—it starts again and ticks for awhile of wills coming around the corners of spaces in places seen or forgotten or found once for many crossings of spaces and races and time.

Steel Riders pause by waterside as tides of water—kiss shoreline wave length along with one hundred sounds and as gulls ride the dips of above and around piers of ruined wood and splintered ages where once the Calimesa City existed and tide changes mattered to boat anchored and ships sailing against the evening lines. The water’s edge and the skies of blue and pink and red and orange and yellow—as earth spins sets sunlight to softness and twinkles of sky lighted canvas sheets the blue-gray into darkness and stars light the sailor’s way along the caverns of space and place and the race of time.

These are the salty ways of salted sea and flecks of foam scatter along shore-sided shifts of sand from wet to dry and dune rise above and beyond watered edges before ruined boardwalks remind nothing of something once savored and watched and known by forgotten ones—once upright writers of the times and the sounds of ‘days of a future’s past.’ Still! We all cross spaces along these places of the races in time gathered and night ships crossing heaven’s ragged ridges…

Slaves of speed and those things filling corners of house scattered and caves overwhelmed by many needs requiring covers to crawl into and away from storm’s wrath—drenched in sweat and rain and dried with winds of howling sounds and lighted by the flash of light streams—traced along the edges of cloud swirl and twirl and reflected from a trillion eyes shining bright into those nights of storm and clutter and later—mist lifts from a million places outside caves and houses and homes now forgotten and almost gone.

Robot now and then and once again when creature walks splendid winds across another place of times remembered and the stories of this and that are told by any-to-any-listening to robot tales and adventures as the course of discourse is launched through songs of sailor’s speak and wig-waggled across a thousand skies complete with warrior legends and the strength of priestess kiss and home returns. We all sail here—the sailors of these moments—friends and family and the you of me and the me of us and all—eternal spirits we be the power of life—inside folded space or outside yonder rim-spin—we are…

This time of days of times ago and present time, the old man vision touched those other ones and whispered, “Not this time—Not this time—our children will not go to war.” Others knew that this time of times would not be the time for dead children and metal touch-to-flesh-madness—For these moments in time—warriors were not necessary…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Islander’—by Nightwish

Before Thunder Words…

F34bCaution now and then the laughter of strings from harps as happens when verses dance along these pages of parchment and tin pictures. Dust spreads across this land as the too much wind and too late water cannot not spread trickles and tickles of streams and lakes and oceans of fresh liquid across a salt less sea. Lifelines of service—tonight we caress soft sounds and submit to our songs.

The dancing skates of wheels and those of ice rails arrive to use by feet and ancient selves of balance and twists and turns and freedom without the gravity of graves as again the singing strings of violins fill the evening with song and rhythm and rhyme. And! Fiddlers play music—lately into the night and dancers form circles toward fires of light and away from darkness or the empty space of silence.

Together stories of life are magnificent. Tales and lies and glories and lies and the tall words of historic wars and heroic praise not required when the fiddlers play true sense of liquid verses and the movement of peace endings and hopes beginning in the fires of spirit strength and life’s power. Everlasting is this spirit and life begins and ends as the fiddlers play.

You do come home. This is a place where monsters do not dwell except in the mystery of children’s thoughts and their laughter. You do come home, where bombs of war do not shatter dreams or disturb determination of freedom—folly and lives. This is our place without borders.  Only the religions of kings attempt to divide and conquer spirit wings and fiddlers speak.

Our bags of sleep are warm and not the humble man’s strait jacket. We gather to face fire for light and we turn away to sleep. Quick is the night and into the mists of morning’s gathering we shift and shape and move as substance occurs and flesh begins—warm of blood and energy. As day we begin another time without restrictions or reasons or thoughts except to begin as light spreads and we muscle our way into another way of day.

And! Beautiful you are…

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…

Songs of Away…

Touch your breath with mine on this night. Lips warmed with kisses
On this silent and this windless night—
I come for you

Brief shore time and great time away.
Universe of sea and water
Wind and storms and planet touch—
I come for you

Away from mid-Jan’s night magic and soft
lips and kisses without sounds with us.
On this silent and this windless night—
I come for you.

Now! Sally Born-She Sea-ness-And Salt-ness-Upon foam-less-Night seen-Day-loss. Alive life-Before time-Raining time-And night-Out begins-Or Senses.

Now! Sally ridge-Run summer-Without fall-Not winters-Spring ins-Reason outs. Just blood-Blue or- Red wiggle-Or warming-Self to- Air pushed-We then-In Breathe-Out then.

No! Quicker now- Quickly not-Without Sally-Sound gone-Remembered now-Forgotten or-Mourning willed-Minded danced-Without Sally-Home dreams-Picture silenced-Of life.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

 

//

A Coven Telling…

Consider a grave and unforgivable sin. It is a combination of joke and Holy Spirit. Spiritus Sanctus is the shrouded figure rustling freshly starched sheets as it follows a flickering light caused by the cool breeze, to dance across the memory of some distance room. Leather clad horsemen hold to the tree side of a snow covered field recently planted, tended, harvested and turned under by figures dressed in black robes with unseen faces or shadows above the neck. Unnamed warriors and priests appear and disappear in the gloom and inside their robes and armor. The horsemen are silent and snow covers the dark fur of their horses. Snorts of steam rush from beast’s nostrils and the ax and mace form crosses beyond the locked arms of both fighters and champions. Spirit flies on a breath of wind and Cease-world ends.

What was the Coven? It began as an idea that came and lived and died before Plague. Are these old ones necessary? Time changed and changing and people come and go and live and die. No reason, but all the reason to live and the reason to believe a reason. Coven— people?  These folks were the lucky ones, the live ones, the magicians, healers, killers, doctors, medicine-folk, angels and the high-ones. These names of more or less depend upon the watchers’ points-of- the-views.

These were the people of reminders and remainders. They built the Plague and they lost words with filth and life and nothing more-evermore. With plague they lost and won the Earth. They were the parents of the parents of those high folk in a Smokey Place of mountains and valleys and meadows and red dirt.

They were the Mystery of Rule. They were invisible except in Sity. They traveled in groups; men and women. They brought the fires. They cleaned the land of plague. They stoked the funeral pyres or ditches or more. They smoked through their hands and cleaned both the bodies of the dead and the land of the dying.

Sometimes it takes a long time for like to act like—like..Millions of families suffered and died. Crowman remembered the names for the extinction of humanity. First the Apocalypse and then the rapture and then another name for too many wars. There was never time to solve the issues of death, decay and sickness. When plague came it was expected. The illness was a combination of creation and complete failure. When a system breaks and then breaks again and again—those broken survivors faced folly and the greed-of-destruction.  Crowman had seen this on a world or two or ten or one hundred. The Crowman was immortal…And! Some called him God.

Crowman thought of a god as a creator and the Crowman was no creator. In his short lived experience, across a mere one hundred worlds, he had created nothing—he had saved nothing—and he had prevented nothing from beginning until it ended. He was not Gabriel or an Angel of death. Crowman was the Crowman…And! He lived on and on and on until it was time to pickup and take himself into another place.

He was a Watcher.He could not see except on the notions and visions haunting his dreams since he was born or created. He was just another joke to a mysterious creator-type that pumped out creations and scattered into another oblivious oblivion or a region called Universe or the great forever. He had seen it all or had seen nothing to compare with the next ending or another beginning.

Crowman was from Fólkvang. Once a warrior—Valkyrie lifted and a favorite of Freyja. He had been discovered by a Coven witch years before the Plague. He had been near death on a laced up boat and a platform of plastic drums and wooden sticks—a raft. He had been found face down and covered in oil sores. The witch said, “Crowman purchased earth to save…” The old witch died on her 237th birthday…Witches had a shelf-life just like humans but considerably longer. Today, humans die soon after birth…Witches live forever. Such is the trade between magic and mortals.

Crowman was not a coven priest. He had been a healer, a wealthy pilgrim, a murderer, a father, a magic man, the Wizard of Sity, a teacher, a king, a fool, a lover, a complicated and a simple friend, a drunk and a terrible god to the most holy.

Crowman was a man…He could not be Coven-Sacred. Only women and magical things were Coven-Sacred.  And! Only Spiritus Sanctus survived the Coven-Sacred. It was also known across the Sity proper that the Hurts were Crowman’s children…However; that is for another Time and another Book and another Reader.

So! As the Hurts often say, ‘Let us start at Sity-Door-Wide-Open.’

And! Beautiful you are…

From…’A Sity of Voices’ by Philip M. Edwards

La Serrata…

Under attack here…Economy, Unions, Education-(Koch’ coke’ Brothers) and the further destruction of our precious middle-class and the way of life enjoyed here in this place for a few years…Without wars and its profits we diminish into a hungry-crowded-mass, shivering in the doorways of a thousand snow covered cities or towns or villages or neighborhoods. Without jobs that pay what… for which or what hope or my future or yours or our hopes as a people or a nation or a World. Let us keep this separated and scattered and confused except for us—the greatest people on Earth…Oh no! We did say the Elitists?

It is not the Muslim or the Christian we fear. It is not the people or the immigrants or the outside nationalities. It is the changing of life and a saturation of places and people to blame. Newsy! Everyday explanations in a million words and verses of the virtual excitement of the blame-of-game and oops—we have another one. Call it a lost debate…Call it a loss of future. Call it hunger and thirst. She is beautiful. He is handsome. She is rich. He is famous…And! Who gives a.…?

Venice was once a powerful city of commerce and opportunity and education and craftsmanship and medicine and science…Gone and almost forgotten. Now! In this country, the one percent are building the latest and greatest castles. By adding motes and security they gain separation. Keep others away from our wealth and destroy anyone from a brush-at-arms-length and we remain the most powerful and richest country  on the planet. Which Planet? Does anyone really know? Must the hungry folk care? And! We call it news when one pretender does unto someone other than wife or husband or cat or dog or..? Who cares!

The truth in entertainment is not entertaining. Anything entertaining is notably bereft of truth. If we require truth—we must be living and dying every day? No fun and no hope and nothing except a show called…..at 10:00 PM.

Note: However, someplace hidden well inside the comedy of life is a smattering of truth. Oh! Just here or there or once-in-a-while. Search and you may find and do not let the rhythm of the night cause you to dance by yourself.

We! Are the watchers of the single percent of wealth? We are a twin political country. Our duo political entities have practiced the sport of La Serrata since the two became either vote for me or vote for them or lose” called freedom in America. Freedom of what-who-where-why and how?

The one percent has destroyed opportunities of commerce for new or incoming entities…The common-world already wage-slaves a life away to furnish the finest for the fewest.

Many names are used to describe the elite of this planet. Sadly, they are so involved in self-interest that La Serrata will be their final conclusion. Come out from the doorways and the rain and the snow…Closure always fails! American strength developed because America was an opened place. Through closure, America has already failed us!  Is it not entertaining to be locked outside in the cold?

And! Beautiful you are…

Spirits-Song Dancing…

Albert Einstein developed a Novel dance. It was called the ‘Theory of Relativity.’ This new dance—stated that ’matter is the same as energy…’ So! If a person consciously departs their body and enters a non-physical world or place would this spirit be neither matter nor energy?

Is there a formula or a discussion in the Scientific World for the existence of ‘conscious’ or ‘spirit’? No! Why? Are there only three dimensions? Is ‘time’ added to those dimensions? We as physical beings—also have five senses. So! Why is everything beyond normal—considered or called: nonsense, hallucination, superstition or religious? Our world is a magnificent construction of religious constructions. We believe or do not believe in derivations of inclined-living or higher-self or soul or spirit or great beyond-the-mean- averages of life or death.

Or! Do we simply wish better—God Self or Angel beyond the physical? Do we remember other self before birth and after death? If we do—then we are Universal Spirit?

Do we see outside our rejections and failures—as learning to be better or do we forget what we are? Remember when warmth was without fire? Remember when our mother’s blood fed us and whispered love into our blood-hungry souls before we became Scientific?

But! What of spark that travels into the light of joining life inside and outside the days of pasts-present’s-future.

Behold Spirit Dancer! Do remember when warmth was without fire and strength absolute without the Science of dimensions and senses and all was: nonsense-hallucination-superstitious-religious and without name. Before time wig-waggled across the universe spirits began.

Witches are the power of lives and life and choices and dictates and control. They are the fire builders and the rain of oils that fall from somewhere-to-there without distraction…The Coven hurls great sounds and flashes across sky and through the clouds.

In a world, the Cosmic Traveler visited and saw deserts and fertile valleys and green and salt and clear pools and the warmth of Blood-taste.

And! Beautiful you are…

Hearing Mozart Play…

What if we heard Mozart play? A phantom whistles and we know the sound and the song just before the melody begins and long after it ends. A piano strikes cord and rhythm flows from twin-brain to hands to fingers both grand and awkward. Remember practice. Recall recital. Remember applause. Recall joy as the music stops instantly after fingers rest. We are the classical singers of a distant voice, his melodies yesterday and today and tomorrow. Mozart still plays beside us well into the days of past’s future.

Pussy Riot and Putin’s Folly: Only power remains if all else fails either—through revolution or by insolvency. Power is government complete with economic and social inequality, corruption-malfeasance and the restrictions-destruction of the rights of the people. Three girls/women; freedom’s singers, creators of noise and bangs and chants and songs—silenced now by Putin’s Folly. Twin years of prison for ‘singing songs and carrying signs.’

The world of free people: We will spit on Putin’s Folly and the Liars of America’s failing government. It must be the days of ‘Gag and Puke.’ We’ve already heard that the Tea Party equals America’s Taliban. Tomorrow must wonder about today and shrug away yesterday…

‘Tell me – Tell me True…
Baby – Baby
Night child of blue.
But I do long to see
You, in sunshine and lollipops
And those rainbow colors
Not by my eyes.
And never teary unless
Streaked – smiley streaked and
Song-whispered in the night.
Baby – Baby
Night child of blue.’…from ‘New York Diamonds Ride’

By Philip M. Edwards

And! Beautiful you are…

Watching Phoenix Fly…

We await Phoenix. We are the gathering folk washed in starlight and dusted well with truth-dance-sing-song-spirits and waiting for Phoenix rise. We gather beneath these snow-stretched spaces among the twirly-whirl of soft-speak and touch and silence.

Once machine master and the rage of quick-timed-start-stop imbalance and dances across twin tight-ropes at once, too high and too brief to walk or survive sanity’s hoppity-skippy angel of light. Presently! Both snow and darkness fill our sight and blood warms our communal veins and we wait for Dragon-fire and Phoenix-flight and Family.

We are children of life and the survivors of that well scattered stretch of distance between tower-watch and destiny. So! Let us dance this life and play.

And! Beautiful you are…