Seaside And Star-ship Lights…

“You live in a church
Where you sleep with voodoo dolls
And you won’t give up the search
For the ghosts in the halls
You wear sandals in the snow
And a smile that won’t wash away
Can you look out the window
Without your shadow getting in the way?

You’re so beautiful
With an edge and charm
But so careful
When I’m in your arms

‘Cause you’re working
Building a mystery
Holding on and holding it in
Yeah you’re working
Building a mystery
And choosing so carefully”…Sarah McLachlan

Teach-speak now and explain a celestial giggle-wiggle as slashes and dashes or dots and lots are only heard and never seen. Star-ships! Have been ‘round about this interstellar gash and back again. Seek-the-safety-keep without that numbered sleep and twin-spin hieroglyphic’s deep—into poetic speak that trance and dance to learn to turn and to almost burn again. Vacuum’s void avoids an empty space as often counting does come alive, to sum that dust-of-many particles, that swirl and twirl into shape and into mass from nothing-into-something then into unseen not seen and ‘never was’ or will ever-be again.

Star-ships start slowly, move-motion straight lined from safety slot tucks of home port to gentle slides and simple rides. This year’s light-race-space outbound-to-leave blow leaf reach and careful teach that travels’ dust rush touches light winds riding shores from here-to-there and everywhere. Skies beneath the far above when heaven’s cross winds with light’s speed fast or lesser sails are ‘star-bright or star-light down Nebraska’s highway sky-way before dawn’s misty arcs or Denver’s distance and night-light.

Lengths and tangled notes, brine soaks and rotted ropes. Twists! Candy-cane twines sans white-reds color dead from baked suns’ times and sea-salt’s rhythm and rhyme over and under sun’s shine. Sometimes the timing of dancing words, seashells and wind may dust shorelines rhyme. Sometimes! V-shape flights, great shadows bound northward toward stops and starts and the marshes of Horicon and then again until touchdown is home. And! Great ships—straight line from dock-safety-to-sea-tide-high-be and free bound south toward sea-wide reach below right beach and around the African Horn or into the Orinoco Flow.

Again, to be and to see! Love-the-loving of hands joined-to-body and dance. Of swings and wings and peaceful sighs and spirit sings. Through creations the Witches smile and for instants within this moment in time—‘tis’ good this loving rhyme. So! Follow this time—this twine re-wind.

Scorpion shapes and Physics makes, common reach and teach through uncommon words, and the boundless twists of honest computation and manipulation contrived to derive, common wisps-of-wisdom, extracted and reacted and contacted; then, rejected and projected with twists forever turns to be melded into simple sense and corrected logic. Paradigm shatters and whispers matters while sails and ships of storm’s tatters, up righted-ignited-provided-decided and once-fears now tears along with seed sowing acknowledge knowing and either real or almost correctly forgotten and then remembered.

Sunshine’s understanding of Star-ship’s search; deeply goes, inside heated globes round sources of death-life and life-death and gravity and things-holding-wings and globes of mother-ships, many times ‘cross Universes both small and great together, combined with magic glue and crystal twirls and Witches’ swirls. And! Equations’ speak concisely; from clutter squeak, to quantitative modes, derived and survived together with fury storms and qualitative norms. Ponder ways-and-means often, long before android notions mediate the distances with perceptions; laced biochemically, senses five to teach six-seven-or eight and reach, hand stretch inside sunlight’s core, not to feel the burn but just-to-learn.

Lives gather together and the strengths of one or two or many more than them or us or we be power of scatters no rules followed no moral folly or man and the fools of Gods’ squeak. For those ‘world words’ are songs of death of control of fiction to swiftly suffer lies, against spirit speak and Life. Women Love! Men Love! Love is perfection and touch and peace and spirit and song. Love is sweetness ‘gainst canvas and lines. Circles dance and soft songs play and—laughter reaches diners’ corner. Open doors are calls to come inside. Secrets of ink motions and canvas wet with colors. Scents of orange of green of blues and browns and yellow are perfumes inside night air and dare and wear and fare or; future moments, again without layers of walls climbed or discarded. And yes! With you—I do ‘taste beauty.’

Again, to be and to see! Love-the-loving of hands joined-to-body and dance. Of swings and wings and peaceful sighs and spirit sings. Through creations the Witches smile and for instants within this moment in time—‘tis’ good this loving rhyme. So! Follow this time—this twine re-wind.

 And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘What I Am’ —Edie Brickell & New Bohemians

 

‘Building A Mystery’— Sarah McLachlan

Life moves—Life modifies—And!

To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

 Ruled by the will of little people and the middling people, and by the demagogues they elected…And! Hobbled by moral laziness and fear…” Jonathan Fenby

Dream Motion before the start of another day-stay if remaining same is good and arms are opened instead of fists clenched. Rough technology is a prior to release ‘kinda’ notion. A fact to use spinning into a comfortable ‘maybe’ before the new method is regarded-discarded-forgotten-remembered-dismembered-compiled-and compiled again to use-refuse and learned—‘have-to’ —no choice but to learn and use again. Computers are shovels and there are always so many holes to dig and fill and dig and fill—ad infinitum.

We are not means to an end—others—may wish to accomplish…We are not tools—to be used. We are not servants of need-greed-to-be-freed—or bandages for other wounds—nor sacrifices to gods—come whimsy or rushing wings—gift bearing things—beads—baubles—glitter or flash…We are not born to be wasted or wasted-to-be-born…

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

“Inequality, even among the educated—often leads to demagogues…Demagogues rejects Openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities. “Demagogues rejects openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities” …Robert Reich

And! 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.’  It is not death-freeing to 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…

With care— we manufacture robots tiny—bundled rows of life about Earth-rise—underneath Moon-sparkle—still altered-still same and always twirl-spaced across Time bridged and rhyme. We inspire desire and require sweet diversity. Until shaped—we shift created life—a fabricated slip and tanked in agile spark from womb-song-to-light-then-back-again-to-two—again. Would have this—no other way-eh!

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

Lofty Gods’ of notions as—something novel crawls our way—those must haves—have—half twirling tales or songs or knowing—knowledge that—those higher Gods of swirl—must not contain life and the wag-of-wiggle of shaping-sifters and Robots are We…And! Oh…those ghosted machines—Us. Tiny speck-to-magic-witch…we survive—to dance life—across those many spaces of—races and kiss storm-stars known—or stars—to remember or forget.

Some—days we destroy both the wonder-of-wonder and sometimes—we die—in the—fearing-of-fear. Sometimes—eternity and realms-of-nonsense—physically—confuse or bewilder the magic-of-life and the mystery-of-death.

Gods—images created—as mirrors—we drift from mortal moments-to-motions. More-fun-to believe-in—when-images-are kind-then-rewind-the-twine. Not difficult—to-believe-in—Peace and Love and Gentle understanding.

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

Then—let us watch those winged and those with fur and feet of four or those of sea or sand or smaller against the ground. Womb songs we sing and as we—they be—eternity—All…

‘Do you wanna be an angel
Do you wanna be a star
Do you wanna play some magic
On my guitar
Do you wanna be a poet
Do you wanna be my string
You could be anything

Do you wanna be the lover of another undercover
You could even be the
Man on the moon

Do you wanna be the player
Do you wanna be the string
Let me tell you something
It just don’t mean a thing’…by Greg Lake

Dare we—touch or dare to reach the inside spaces of Code-genetics and count the current streams—to spin—to craft—to be or—leave the untouched alone—Why not touch to feel?

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

Like beach moves—a shoe full of sand—one time—one shoe-then again—then again—winds discounted-then recounted and forever—change—one shoe at-a-time—takes long days—to change beach places—in the wig-waggle of time and space. On worldwide—other place—where race-to-stop—to never goes—away spaces—never—far enough—to silence—bam-bam-pop-pops—sight—right from clutching ground—to standing away— a corner—of concrete floors and—rusted doors—gate high and wasted…

Dare we—touch or dare to reach the inside spaces of Code-genetics and count the current streams—to spin—to craft—to be or—leave the untouched alone—Why not touch to feel?

House scatter—overwhelmed by many needs— required covers to crawl into—away from street dash and gun flash—life—clean—in sweet rain and dried with winds—of howling sounds—lighted by flash—bang-bang crash—as traced along—the edge of cloud swirl and twirl—as reflected by one million—eye shine bright—into those nights—of bam-bam-pop-pops where—smoked—nasty places—tucked just outside—of caves and spaces and safe—homes—where little hands select—roses—no thorns—and little ones laugh—between flower reach and bullet teach.

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

Beneath these heavens—our sea swirl-twirls—and—we hear the whale sing-song—our mother— into her necessary sleep. The whale sing-songs the heating of—our blood-self until—warming is not—a non-fear. She rises—from emerald seas and from black sands—where tide pulls against current—and—the alignment of moon-light is perfect—and is orderly in its dispersal—upon the dustless night. And! We—exist…Not distraction—by what we are not—for we are not—not by displacement or alteration—because we always exist—in timeless harmony and within those trails of stardust—spews—quickly from alternative engines and speed—and—power…Life motions—Life moves—Life modifies…

And! Beautiful you are…

 

“Stardust” —Delain

“Closer to the Heart” —Rush

Forever—Covers Many Days…

‘Deportation Forever Continues This Illegal and Wicked—Course of Global Separation and Global Apartheid’…We are all Children of this Universe and We all have the Right-to-be—Everywhere…

“cross desert sand landings—every eye is weeping…” author unknown…

Walking hulk—sulk and climb ending stairs—skyward to beyond—this rabble-rouse and hearing pause. When money—creeps and changes—news—leak— toward—peak motions—east-west of the upward—down of truth and back again. Word crests—someplace—in somewhere time—where game-shows swirls and ‘Vanna’ twirls letters rhyme—-time-to-no-to-yes—then—back again. Confusion is great—relates to—money change—and hanging pause—while cause—of product—sells and souls—seek-un-informed—uniformity.

Angels—and Demons dance same pin top—tip-stop—one fall and catch below—to climb those—ending stairs—and—dance those short pins—needle threaded—truths dreaded—and ever-speak—sometimes noise—and sometimes song. Sing-song—the swirl-of-twirling lies—Truth man says—he is and-–-not-the-same—this time plain—and this fact is not—creations—to entertain—or to—confuse. So! Believe in Truth man—Bogus man—Bogey man—fearless lies and fate fears—drowned by somethings—to buy—and keep—and throw away—again-to-buy—believe—destroy and build—again-to-build—-to buy—to keep-to hold—to throw away—’till death—do ‘We’ depart.

Touch me—in Sing-Song poems—forget the world and touch me with voice—we two—too need—those requiring—words of hope—and verse of love’s—together-forever—in dark dancing—with rhythm in—our mind and drumbeats—in our hearts…

Brush—eye-lash-to-face—form dance in dreams and seems—as long pause—no cause— without voice—just breath-to-breathe—tiny freckles—lips to laugh—and—eyes to quest— together. Visions and quiet word—songs with gentle—space and no race—blends of—silence or whisper-speaks. Dreams-then dream quest—cease—increase those—creases in time—curtains’ climb—spaces die—and visit speak—of ways—of star-side streak—of starlight sweet—of gentle union—and love. Life—lives and mingle—heart touch good —as ring-circles—fancy-dance—into love’s rhythm—of love.

Still here—beneath heavens—our seas—swirl-twirls. We do hear—whale sing-song—our mother into—necessary sleep. The whale—sing-songs—the heating of—our blood-self—’til warming is—non-fear. She is—from emerald seas—from black sands—and tides do pull— ‘gainst current—and—alignment of—moon-light—is perfect—is orderly—as it moves—across—another dustless night. The Witch—Creations’ Witch—creates—those Perfect notions-motions—and rewrites—alter—truth—confuses lies—of need—of food—of fire and cave—to survive—this night and live—another day…OK?

“A commodity appears, at first sight, a very trivial thing, and easily understood. Its analysis shows that it is, in reality, a very strange thing, abounding in metaphysical subtleties and theological niceties. So far as it is a value in use, there is nothing mysterious about it, whether we consider it from the point of view that by its properties it is capable of satisfying human wants, or from the point that those properties are the product of human labor. “…by Karl Marx

Freedom Cries…. How may walls—separate hearts from hearts—family from families…Walls of fears—falling tears—stain—remains—trains move—up sun runs—‘cross—sailing winds—toward better sound—coming round—‘cross—better boarders—better moments—toward better days. Does objective truth—deny that government is—the provider of enjoyments—and new progress—accepts—enjoyments do become—’entitlements’ and ‘entitlements’—become—’the right of the people?’ Standards for human rights—disappear? And! Still elites determine what constitutes—without a real constitution—the rights of humanity? These Elites are—also the ‘Body Politic’—purchased—bought—traded—faded—commanded—demanded until—the ‘rights-of-the-people’ are not products of objective truth—embracing relativism—but are the results of coercion—and brutal power… Political power—is how much gun smoke—pours from barrels—pointed toward the—people? If true! Then how must—political power be—executed—or limits once—as smoke evaporates into precious air? And! The ‘universal continuation’—continues.

Ages past—and often we become—sponges—gifted—gregarious—bent with insight—anchors—of both worlds—one frightful and one—enchanted—and—filled-to-edge—truthful with wisdom—both scary and fearful—as wisdom—sometimes becomes you—as age—bends body—yet frees—spirit twirl…From twins—of two—a power of life sparks—and alone-never—places begin—and fixes end. When again— ‘surfs-up’—and high waves—reclaim shore-reaches—and land—would rather dwell in— the Villages of Fisher-folk—than in—the Hampton’s of—Middle-bots— without spirit machines—without reasons-to-produce—and—stand with us—as wave-crash claims us—all…Because—together—we have done—everything…

And! Magically—birds transform the air they breathe—into surprisingly sweet songs…

Physics common reach—teach—uncommon words—boundless twist—of honest computation—manipulation—contrived—to derive common wisps-of-wisdom—exacted—reacted-contacted—rejected and projected—twists boundlessly—and melded into simple sense—and corrected logic…Paradigm shatters—whisper-matters—while sails—ships of storm’s tatters—up righted-ignited-provided-decided and once-fears now tears—along—with seed sowing—acknowledged knowing—either real or almost correctly—forgotten—and then remembered.

Are we—not all travelers—scattered across—someplace-somewhere? We are not timed—or blessed—or wonderful—or gifted—or fortunate—or meant-to-be a ‘something else’— without a price-tagged-branded-commodity—of enhanced—steroidal—surgically modified—blast of cartoon fashion—or lip-stick mouths—pouted and mounted—on another pictured—perfect and—replicated glossy—imitation of sport manned—model swished—dish of corruption—with a splash—dash of hopeless—and—fanatic—fantasy. And! Does protection always equal servitude? When—brain knows—humanities’ finest moments…Love—Peace—Touch—and—Trust…

‘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.”

 

And! Beautiful you are…

Big Sur…Porcelain Raft

Radioactive…Lindsey Sterling and Pentatonix

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…

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…