Flights Recall—Remembered…

“All men recognize the right of revolution; that is, the right to refuse allegiance to, and to resist, the -government, when its tyranny or its inefficiency are great and unendurable. All machines have their friction; and possibly this does enough good to counterbalance evil.  At any rate, it is a great evil to make a stir about it.  But when the friction comes to have its machine, and oppression and robbery are organized, I say, let us not have such a machine any longer… from ‘On the Duty of Civil Disobedience’…by Henry David Thoreau

Ages do past and often we become; sponges, gifted, gregarious and often bent with insight. We are anchors of both worlds; one frightful and one enchanted and filled-to-edge, truthful with wisdom. This truth is both; scary and fearful, as wisdom sometimes becomes you as aged body bends and frees spirit twirl. And! From twins of two a power of life sparks and alone-never again places begin, and mends ends. When ‘surfs-up’ and high waves reclaim shore-reaches and land, would rather dwell in the Villages of Fisher-folk than where Mid-bots dwell, without spirit machines and without reasons-to-produce and stand with us as wave-crash claims our everyone. Together, we have already finished everything.

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

Beneath surface and faraway from a heating Sun, (7.9) billion people inhabit, function, endure and stop whilst perpetrating both permanent love, and incessant hate. Nights of starlight turn and returned. With forgotten reasons remembered, mind switches between laminated illumination and as blind stir slides, between neon’s shine and this semi-sweet chocolate named darkness. Light saturated in creamy grays and night, is thick swirls of vanilla and warmth blended with shadow shakes; machine wonder often guides the processes of robot arms and legs while watching through robot eyes and listening through robot ears. Often they weep robot tears and die ‘never-ever-even’ when a book or ten books call living ‘sins of flesh’ when spirit robots must live and die and forever venture along dusted star-streams and dance among a trillion light twinkles sketched across the evening’s sky.

Correct notes! Pipers of those silver flutes held ‘gainst heart beeps’ strong as fair seafarers often pass others into light as others ‘cross star-streams-to-suns above sea and beyond sky. Civil layers never die. Tradition slips, and graciousness forgets. So are whirling dances and twirling songs. Touch lips and fingers. Kiss your lips to mine, then time space while moments’ race. And! Silence, then carefully watch tonight. Sails do catch sparks-of-wind and high tides to run-to-sea-you’ll-see, won’t we? Struggle is perfect for the winner. The impartial distribution of resources never legitimately occurs. Productivity costs: over time with all intentions of some loss and some motives to divine.

The soft swishes of breeze gently shift pine needles ‘cross autumn’s forest base. If impulse is response, then decision is evolution? In 1610 Johannes Kepler chanced a walk across the great Charles Bridge in Prague, Czech Republic. As snow began to catch on his woolen coat, he brushed away the six-sided flakes from the cloth covering his arms. Catching more of these flakes he realized they were all six-sided. And! Johannes marveled concerning the convenience of this find and the very perspicacious brain and the extraordinary curiosity of the human mind quantified within the quality of spiritual being.

The lonely mountains o’re—And the resounding shore—A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale—Edg’d with poplar pale—The parting Genius is with sighing sent—With flowre-inwov’n tresses torn—The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.” by John Milton

Still here! Beneath this heaven our sea swirl-twirls and we hear whale singsong our mother into a necessary-sleep. Whale singsongs the heating of blood-self until warming is good. She rises from emerald seas and from black sands where tide pulls current and lines of moonlight are perfect and disappear into the dustless night. Now! Touch the Dancing One. Now! Touch the Witch-of-life and taste her sweet creations. Goddesses do create ‘cross Heavens-Earths and Moons-Suns while passing Spirits-to-flesh and back again. Spirits do form and substance is free.

And! Rain does pour from sky onto roof and through spirals; both, short or long gutters or just eaves from leaves’ soak or arcs ‘golden-tricks-of-night-light’ inside as outside water splashes ground and collects on sidewalk’s flooded cracks into pools of wet and of mud carvings and pavement soaks. Night fills lighted places and switched-on bulbs reveal grays; shadows many, forever produced and forever not cheering the sun. Our lives are fluid; liquid pour, consuming, replacing, replenishing, and then recalling another choice in another time or with another rhyme.

The circles safely close. Web building starts. Markers of builders old and builders new. Star Guides are folded as intended. Original shapes until these creations are again needed and opened to read and follow across another Sky-Bridge. Sail this sea and let the games begin, again. ‘Tis good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time this Twine Re-wind. 

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Call Of The Mountains’…Eluveitie

 

‘Home’…Unsun

 

Inhale-Exhale—Inspire-Expire…

 

 

“Just for a minute
The silver forked sky
Lit you up like a star
That I will follow

Now it’s found us
Like I have found you
I don’t want to run
Just overwhelm me

I want to see you
As you are now
Every single day
That I am living

Painted in flames
All peeling thunder
Be the lightning in me
That strikes relentless

What if this storm ends?
And I don’t see you
As you are now
Ever again” …

The Lightning Strike (What If This Storm Ends?)
Written by: Gary Lightbody, Jonathan Quinn, Nathan Connolly, Paul Wilson, Tom Simpson

Time begins a whatever sound of music never ending through the never ending starts of measures measured and notes sent bouncing across a five lined staff of tremble and rhythm, of rock and rolling as those tremulous ends of beginning starts and ending stops. An octave away and sound still rocks an ear or two toward silence; not to hear yet, still vibrating life and crossing spaces between sound and whispering wind without pine forests or desert sands.

And ‘coke-blow’ away the white lined wind and never ends the needles’ spin an unreal reality. Faded, the body walks and talks among those shimmers of blackness and along the edges of storms—blinks the kitten eyes and escapes to rooftop stars and window shines. There are no sounds of screams in silence. Music in mind sized levels are 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 knowing may sometimes create choirs in four-part harmony…

We are beings in this place of stress and salty tears.  We are the used-to-be folks and other things-in-place; where laws are enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street spaces with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’  conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘We the People’) as the Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We are these beings in this place of stress and salty tears.

‘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.” 

Are we not all travelers-in-time? We are scattered across a someplace time at a somewhere place. 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—corruption dished with a splash dash of hopeless and fanatic fantasy. And! Does protection always equal servitude? When brain understands humanities’ wonder, the wisdom-brain holds to Love-to-Peace-to-Touch and to-Trust…No charges-no gains-no loss-no rust. Then flash among the realities of reality and touch sweet spaces, an instant before lip touch and as co-mingled breath warms the cold evening air. Then discover a rational response to rational insanity.

Along Martian Ridge along one line, eye stretched far there once was a stutter of thorn then throne then thorn then throne. This repeated until distance failed seeing and sight disappeared when ridge merged sky and matter dropped from surfaced rust. And! On these staggered thrones writers’ names were etched, crystal tags attached along the top-front of each and every throne.

We measure all things known and all things unknown by quantities of lengths, of short and tall and of large and small. We sing-long-song-tales of beings and of being above and below and within and without and still we are the singers of verses loud and soft and often true and often false because; we are, Spirits of Creations—Creative Critters—one-and-all.

Sparks are in this world! Without a spark of ‘Sparkle’ — ‘Life’ couldn’t or wouldn’t evolve; as it has, during this moment of time or this place-in-this-space. The spark is special and often starts by touch or begins through an ‘Unknowable Kingdom’ of muse, of enlightenment, of genius, of anger, of thrill, of joy, of wonder, of magic or by accident. Watch from inside the shadows of bridge and steel. Watch as wooden shapes pass beneath the towers of man; created, when young species roamed earth-bound and the constructions of shapes and water passages filled their worlds before the tearing days and summer’s songs died. A night bird cries and another winged one settles, protected within thick tree grasses inside the shadows of the moon.

“For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin….
I am the barren one, and many are her sons….
I am the silence that is incomprehensible….
I am the utterance of my name.”
‘The Mother of Creation’…A voice of Feminine Divine Power

 

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Lightning Strike’ (What If This Storm Ends?)..Snow Patrol

 

 

 

 

Keys And Doors…

D112Often a magic key or sets of those unlocking instruments are an imagined tool to escape—to find—to prevail and to become again lost in secret recesses—accesses known only to a favorite few or in the plain-view of everyone. There are so many secrets discovered and so little time for those secret solutions. And! The way to hearts is always through hearts.

Keys are for the gate or the vault or the power over everything or underneath ever day. These bits of magic are always certain and almost—mostly remain undiscovered. On somewhere worlds of somewhere places keys of several plus two bring together and combine to open portals of sometime space to those able to find those magic tools.

Open now the valves of hearts before the ending winds of fantasy and miracle crafts of ancient presents start the sound and close the jeweled reminding remainders of once was and will again be—behind this closet space and scattered among the norms of whimsy. Combine the key of blood across a place knowing the unknown knowledge and uncertainty of places developed—forgotten and reminded as ancient sketches text ruins of things and times to remember.

We did not find ourselves within swirls of gold and pebbles of purple stones. We touch beneath the blue of sky before clouds reasoned our reason for running toward our cave of gray rocks and soft dirt. We touch blood-love dry from rain and warmed away from wind howl and storm. A key of warm blood and heart surge and the air of together gate and through a portal into forever—ever place.

Key then we and we are—before the rain and after the mystic portions of storm and war and wind and rain and gain and pain and the losses of yesterday’s mystical memories inside today. Across a world of life the same blood moves and time exists only in those carrying the sweetness of a nothing concept or a notion of not this moment. Time is never-key. No time are magic keys of forever places and spaces between raindrops and years-to-end.

And! Beautiful you are…

Solar Life and Flashes…

Sun_532Solar Lighting begins late in the evening sky and continues through the following weeks; first scorching the million-acre-land around Calimesa City and ultimately damaging the domes of cover across the skies above those made at home. Life ends and life begins. A different life also creates-stop-start inside several thousand—where water begins and evaporates.

Rulers gather and die.  The death of middle worlders on surface is many and rarely varied. A renewal of the hidden memories of power in times of sorrow and danger and fear prevail.  Wealth again moves and poverty descends from above the sunlight and below the ground levels of cave dwellers and their children.

Across spaces of lighted atmosphere and spaces absent of everything except views above and across an angled galaxy, war of rearranged arrangements begin and end in victories and losses. Some obtain more of less and some lose everything to those others dwelling above these spaces and below this ground—stretched places of caves and cave-ins and areas where life hides from death and awaits the end of silent lightning and the reaches of flash.

Once again upon these skies, a spinning whirl of land and seas of salt and lakes of salt less liquid, warriors stage the wars of rearranged arrangements and wealth distributes where the winners rejoice and the losers lament. The dead are discarded beneath the soiled blood and inside rocky renditions of those of victories in death and legend. Quickly forgotten are the response of battle and the rhymes that end with hunger and rearranged arrangements.

For these days of peace remember pleasant moments of above ground splendor and days of night and night of days as knights begin an uncertain dance of daze. Swords and shields never rust and the lightning of solar ruins again gather in place of suns and along a galactic twirl of swirling earth filled with the salt of sea and the breaking winter waves along the shorelines of a billion lakes without salt and filled with many lights of star sparkle and life.

These are the days of women and men and children and reaffirmation and survival’s rearranged arrangements and offerings. These are creators of ways and means and love and care in heart shaped reasons and certainty. The responsibility of these creations are moments before another war and the death of songs forgotten from those last days battled when reasons were few yet responses necessary. Always…Rearranged arrangements? Blood feeds the form and those forms cease flesh without it? Let it be written so let it…

And! Beautiful you are…