Sky Towers And Sunshine…

“If you’re going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you’re going to San Francisco
You’re gonna meet some gentle people there

For those who come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there
In the streets of San Francisco
Gentle people with flowers in their hair

All across the nation
Such a strange vibration
People in motion
There’s a whole generation
With a new explanation
People in motion
People in motion

For those who come to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there

If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there”…by John Phillips

A ‘Jet Show’ begins late this morning. A loud display of thunder-death-from-the-sky and the technology brought to us by another Military Industrial Complex. Do not wish to go—so bow head and when eyes close—remember Golden Gate Park and walking; both, Haight and Ashbury streets. Briefly; tears well and dry’ before a trickle path stains the face just below eyes’ blink.

Another jet drops from the sky and out falls imaginary bombs along its path…It is very quick and then nothing; but, quick-fading-engine-sounds and the imagined bah-boom-booms left behind. Nothing changes when ‘War’ is a dollar’s best friend.

This disease is not one; but, a ten-in-one-destroyer. This killer is infinite in variety and of undeniable power. Presently, nothing prevents or breaks its destruction across a country already destroyed by ‘war-stacking on’ and repetitive devastation. What was forest is no more. What was farmland is inhospitable soil. Unlimited infirmaries are absent. Accumulations of ability are vanished. Healers are in short supply. Farmers are few and their tools-to-farm are gone. Machines of commercial quantities now rust from ‘Oil City’ rains and country nothing. Presently, there are scattered boneyards for one billion soldiers. And! Funeral pyres for five billion men-women and children…’Innocence always dies before the fall is final.’

“Well I’ll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that’s not unusual
It’s just that the moon is full
And you happened to call
And here I sit
Hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I’d known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin’s eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the Midwest
Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks
You brought me something
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes, the girl on the half-shell
Could keep you unharmed

Now I see you standing
With brown leaves falling all around
And snow in your hair
Now you’re smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel
Over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there

Now you’re telling me
You’re not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague
‘because I need some of that vagueness now
It’s all come back too clearly
Yes I loved you dearly
And if you’re offering me diamonds and rust
I’ve already paid”…by Joan Baez

The Towers-of-Office are large towers. They are packed-to-brim with the Soldiers of Fortune. Towers of clones and Towers of sham. Below these structures industry materializes. Above! There is a whirling of all shares-of-measure to-be-purchased or-peddled without concern for: ‘We the People.” We are the creators of all commodities. We are the originators-of-survival for those clowned-clones-of-mischief. Offices are high and dry and lighted and—still dark. And! Hands are clean hands and labor does not occur.

These towers are buildings without prestige. They are rich structures without form. These places appear a cornucopia of shapes with no rhythm or rhyme. Lines both; hard and simple, reveal and complicate turns and curves. Synchronization of positions and flawless of construct. Elements of precision and of mischief. Often the eyes of Spirits active are miniatures. Often specks and flecks of gold and silver coats. Many are layered but still seen by beholder and beholden. Ice streams descend in slow straight lines—from rooftop slopes to solid sidewalks. Planes and plain models are soon streaks of many colors-colored glass and permit-in transitory twilight. Then, out-of-sight and with this bright-city-light appears an ‘almost-maybe’ night.

Civil layers never die. Tradition slips, and graciousness is forgotten. So are whirling dances and twirling songs. Touch lips and finger 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 reasons spent, some products lost and some reasons to divine.

Do we trust-in-truth? While promoting and demoting forms of deregulated regulations and as speculations-in-ruin penetrate permissive perversions, the invasions of individual-greed-so-powerful completely dismiss all values and ruins the strengths of our Collective struggles. Tangible wages are gone. The powers of Societies’ Unions are gone. And! A Right—Wrong transference in Economics, Politics, Labor’s markets and an enlightened American refinement are now ‘all gone!’ ‘Trickle down’ is a perpetual lie! And! Remember; ‘there are no Blue Color Billionaires.’ Why support Capitalism since it is now; ‘Insatiable and Unequal and Repressed and Tyrannical and an enemy of ‘We the People’ and of ‘Earth’s Twirling Humanity’?

“The circle safely closed—the web building starts—the markers of builders old and builders new. Star Guide—folded into original shape— until it is—again required and opened to read and follow— ‘cross sky-bridge. Bang-Bah-Boom-Bang-Bang and let the game begin—again… ‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine—Re-wind. And! While I breathe—I Hope…

Light tumbles and darkness strokes streets and sheltered bricks and flaws and cracks. Impacts collide with those scented secrets and motions flow without sounds. We are the kings and the queens of these streets. This City is our city. World Spins and seven moons; two largest, two larger, one large and three from small to smallest; replicate spins-to-swirls, along expected lines and impossible attractions. All to rotate ’round about a solitary sun of bright light and due to an impressive distance; there emerges, blue forms and purple nightfall. Rafters are those sailors of Green Brinies; Emerald Seas, Surfs’ high curls of fifteen foot crests and set-to-shoreline and way-back—stone homes and shingled stores. Rafters are too, Sky Riders. Surfs’ sky curls are shaped by eternal coasts inside the mists of the forever mind.

On a semi-dry ‘kinda’ gentle cool, when sun dips swiftly and flatters night slips quickly, dimness folds into short -moon and gathering times begin. Alter now; customs and styles and accept hollow space and poise and repair. Darkness slides into day and ends night…Night fills lighted places and switched-on bulbs reveal grays; shadows many, forever produced and forever failing to cheer the sun. Our lives are fluid—liquid pour—consume and replace and replenish and then–recall something else—another time or some other rhyme.

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.

Still here! Beneath this heaven our sea swirl-twirls and we hear whale sing-song our mother into-necessary-sleep. Whale sing-songs 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-moon-light 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! Heavens-Earths and Moons-Suns while passing Spirits-to-flesh and back again. Spirits do form and substance is free.

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.

‘Wishing you days of Gentle winds—Soft curves and Wonder’

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Comfortably Numb’—Pink Floyd

 

‘San Francisco’—Scott McKensie

 

“Diamonds and Rust’—Joan Baez

The Fiddler’s Secret Songs…

“Love Will Come To You”

“Hey, what’s going on? Whatcha doin’ here?
Is there something wrong tonight?
Do you remember who I chose to be?
My best friend in this life
Life doesn’t run a clear course
It flows through from within
It’s supposed to take you places and leave markings on your skin

And those marks are just a sign of something true
you witnessed in your time
Of something new, like the start of something fine

Like morning dew love will come again to you
Like morning dew
Morning dew

Hey, can you tell me who you are?
The color of your dawn
When the gates are open from last night’s revelry on the lawn
And when the sounds of laughter still echo in your dreams
The smoke screen disappears and nothing is what it seems

And your tears have been worthwhile
They got you through to a different place and time where all is new
To the start of something fine

Like morning dew your love will come again to you
Like morning dew

Love is there when you open the door
and you step off the trail you knew before
Through the streets and the houses of gods you roam
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone

Till all laughter is claws on your skin
and your moments of clarity scream the hell within
When you fade like a rose in the gloom love waits outside your room

Like morning dew your love will come again to you
Morning dew”Poets of the Fall

No secrets on—the walk plain—a plan of mystery—so strange as—thinking maybe not much—as mystery as just plain—plans and sweet whispers—as dawn slips away and night’s—almost lightest—slightest sights—begin.

Now and then as a laughter of strings—from harps’ sings—happens when verses—dance along these—pages of parchment and thin—tin pictures. Dust—spreads across this land—as too much wind and too—late water—cannot not spread trickles—and tickles of streams and lakes into oceans—of fresh liquid ‘cross another salt-less-sea. And! On this dusty wind—we will caress— soft sounds and submit—to our sweetest—songs.

Dancing skates of wheels—and—those of ice rails arriving to use by—our feet and ancient selves—of balance and twists—of turns and freedom—without the gravity—of graves and again —singing strings—of violins fill evenings with—song and rhythm and rhyme. And! Fiddlers play music—late into nights and dancers form—circles toward fires—of light and away from darkness—or the empty space—of silence.

Our bags of sleep are warm—and not—the humble man’s strait jacket. We gather—to face fire for light—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—warmth 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 stay—of day.

Here—hear now—heart cry—sobs—without light—and—waiting without warning—then—just waiting—just begins—to want—again. And! What happiness—happens—is possibly happening—on dust speckled earth-side—through goals higher—than justified—to vindicate happiness—for dust speckled us? Is a dust-speckled ride—a stand-alone stride—alone goal without end—without beginning—without purpose—but-to-be-point—free?

Together—stories of life—sounds of joy—sweet harmony—and true balance—are songs of love. Tales and lies—and glories and lies—and all tall words—historic speak—heroic praise—are not required—when fiddlers play—true strings—of liquid verse and—motions toward peace—seeks hopes’ beginning—in fires of spirit strengths and—life’s power. Everlasting is—spirit and life begins and ends as—the fiddlers play.

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 folk. After—the roar and the wetting—and the flashes—gods of storms—flash-dash—dart-depart—to dash and trash—another world—apart from us—our own. Begin—those flower songs. Without wails—those sweet tales—with soft music—and misty touch— and—peace of moment—songs.

We—venture into drying—air and cross wet—sands and blooms of desert—flowers and fresh air—rejoice we of—ourselves and a certain—knowledge of knowing—certainty for another night and another brighter day. And! We understand the— knowledge of good—of something needed—and good love. Together; our story—of magic life—and world love—just is…

We— do come home. There are places—where monsters do—not dwell. We—do come home, where bombs of war do—not shatter dreams or disturb—the determinations of freedom—folly and lives. This is our place without borders! Walls climbed—do not exist. Only the religions of kings—attempt to divide—and—conquer—spirit wings and fiddlers speak.

Robots—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—silver sails–adventures of course—of discourse launch—comes—songs of sailor’ speak and— the wig-waggle ‘cross—of thousand skies complete—with warrior songs and priestess kiss and—home returns. We sail here—the sailors of these moments—friends and family—the you of me and—the me of us and—all eternal spirits be—we the power—of life inside a fold in space—or outside of—yonder rim-spin—we are…Instincts trust—for anticipation—may—often fail imagined—dragon wings and wind.

We—cannot know—standing here—if earth twirls at universal core—or still stranded and branded—dust ships swirl across a patch of dark grey—dawn and waiting for rainfall—to clean-wash us and our perch—we hear—here balance upon. We—turned peace to war and gash—slash across another spin of earth. Battles disturb the strength of peace and the balance of life. We war against nothing except the ideas and ideals of Anti-life. Remove religions and governments and kings and queens!  Better-to-fall-in-love—not-to fall-in-battle—donchathink?

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 are we sacrifices—to gods come whimsy—or rushing wings—or gift bearing things—beads—baubles—glitter or flash…We—are not born—to be wasted. We—are not wasted—to be born…

We androids—do dance—into Electric nights and—love does lead—shifting-shapes—through darkest frights and—into sweetest lights. Shadow-touches ‘cross—secret ceilings of moon—dust and hidden space—of time-sans-race and—inside— moments like these—Life is an Almost-Maybe.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Love Will Come To You’…Poets of the Fall

‘While Your Lips Are Still Red’…Nightwish

 

 

 

Tiny Bundled Rows Of life…

“The power of love
A force from above
Cleaning my soul
Flame on burn desire
Love with tongues of fire
Purge the soul
Make love—your goal.” by Candy de Rouge

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…

“It started with workers’ evening classes outside the city gates. Her kind blue eyes would sparkle as she told me in a rote, sing-song voice of the importance of awakening the workers’ class consciousness. I was happy for her and realized what a joy it must be to discover some all-consuming goal.” …by Larissa Vasilieva

By! Forcing our ‘Movements to Resist Earth’s Destruction—to regroup—and to protect their own blood—free of illegal bondage and unnecessary Death—is an absolute—WTF! Sweet-Earth-Mother-of-Mine, how the Witches-of-Sweet—Creations—Weep. Must our—Environmental crisis—be cursed–never reversed—and—always challenged by the ‘Gods of Capitalism’?

Petrie dishes’—life dollops’—creations dolls’—spirit robots’—and in the twisty-misty—mostly void—space dustless—mother ship rust-less—and wig-waggled miles to gain—before the ending day—just another way—realized—forgotten—remembered—embraced and replaced. At its most basic level all Life is ‘sanctity’ not in its mystical twirling—but in its endless swirling of supreme value. And! Androids do dance into Electric nights and love—does lead shifting-shapes—through—darkest frights and into those sweetest lights. Shadow-touch ‘cross ceilings of moon—dust and spaces—of time-without-races and inside—these moments—Life is an Almost-a Maybe.

We! Go to war for many-many reasons…And! Not often, but just once-in-a-while—we ‘the people’ almost become free people—but never-ever free of War. One can still love one’s country and hate War…One-can-still-love-one’s-country and Hate the war of ideologies—divisions of colors (‘red and blue and tattoo you’) …We share—we care, and Governments must never separate the ‘We the People’ from the ‘US’ of America…And! If the Executive and Legislative and Judicial branches—treetop high—dance without harmony—hopefully—they will always—dance—check the balance and balance the check—donchaknow? Because of this dance—we may—be free for just a-little-bit—longer…

A President?—‘Donnie T.’ just—another ‘Poser’ be—of country’s failed unity—and leadership?

Global reasons—to exist will end—as wars—spread hate—ignorance—vacuum nationalism and—abject failure of New realities—as Greed continues its evil—criminal and vile—Legacy… Any attempt—to control thought—is an attempt to—control mind? Constant learning—is another form—of survival’s attempt—to live…Often; we maintain balance—required to afford—physical nourishment (food-clothing-shelter) …What is the cost—of this maintenance—of balance?

“Another head hangs lowly
Child is slowly taken
And the violence, caused such silence
Who are we mistaken?

But you see, it’s not me
It’s not my family
In your head, in your head, they are fighting
With their tanks, and their bombs
And their bombs, and their guns
In your head, in your head they are crying.” Dolores  ORiordan

Freedom! Speak must continue—with too much—too volatile—too dark—to see—for-if-not— punctuate the—perpetually fearful—failures’—of ‘Dreamscapes’ past—present and future—reminding ‘master-crafters’—of lost-words-towards—obvious terminations—while—loud voices destroy reasons—to be-to see—or closely resemble and assemble—coming together—with the discovery—of communal ‘Mindspeak’…Wondering if creations—the FCC—a Congress-of-mysteries—or the Government of Federal Speak will test—the ways-of-means to ‘abridge’ our already purchased—precious “Freedom of the Press.” This World of Fear—Created by Control—created by Money—and peopled by Ignorance will cause Freedoms to be ‘abridged’…Please Remember! Government is not created for ‘Freedom’—Government only exists to— ‘Control.’

Never! Despair—nor accept inequalities—for wealth is not created—to be collect by the few—for wealth must be shared—by everyone—everywhere ‘cross this planet—on this sweet sustaining mother-ship—we gentle ones—- call our own—sweet—Earth. While recorded history show us—inequalities in wealth and the capacity—to create wealth— ‘cross centuries’—patterns of imbalances have changed and altered and damned our human majority—to accept nothing-from-the-blood-and-the-sweet-sweat—of genuine labor—without apparent nor equal reward. From—nations—to between nations— ‘balanced income’—is a ‘never-ever’ reality—for us—the outside worlds call ‘those species—of humanity’…Then— ‘Never-Ever’—react to these—inequality-of- qualities with—absolute—resignation…People Strong—Revolution changes everything—and through—nonviolent means—while never politically convenient—often alters—imbalance.

‘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 are you…

 

“Back to You” …Jacob Bellens

 

“Human Touch” …Bruce Springsteen

Swinging Toward Blue Sky…

“And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence”…By Paul Simon

Riches flow about the words of sound—tongues known and tasted—treasured—accepted and often heard in other spaces-places seen—felled or yelled against gloom—gathers where sunlight is wishing—spaces scattered among stars of reaches—stretches across skies of night and spaces between word sound—and light. Sand and leaves—together speak—rustle—whisper—murmur and moan of death—not found—of life—not known. And! Still—notions of her away sounds and her silence. Feathers and Leaves and Sand and Ashes and Seas—quiet see—and thunder— ‘cross sky and wave splash onto shoreline—and skylines—and time. The share of poet-touch and story-spin—of exile’s faith—of disaster’s private pain—as speech native—fails—creative spirit—often maims—creature-speak and often confuses the never-place-of-everywhere.

On swings—would push you again—higher than sky and into the blue of day…Before the walls about and around us reach sky high and we grow layers wide as our legs lengthen and our tears change size and know other reasons to fall from inside lid closed—to ground. Would hear our laughter and see our happy smiles without notions of future days—again reminding us to quickly run fields of spring grass and clown-speak and dreams of mint candy and ice cones of summer’s sweetness.

The People should never be afraid of their government…Their government should always be afraid of The People …Bombs to feed our Children—WTF? ‘Swords to Plowshares’—How Simple and How Sweet…Worlds without Rape and Murder—Absolutely! And!’ Sleeping in Safe Arms’ Wonderfully—Wonderful…donchathink?

‘History’s Wig-Waggle’

“June 1950! B29 bombers bombed North Korean targets. These bombers left Andersen Air Force Base in Guam—just days after Kim’s grandfather dispatched his armies into South Korea. North Korea was devastated by the US Air Force campaign. The head of the Strategic Air Command (SAC), General Curtis LeMay, claimed that; “the B29s’ bombs killed (20 percent) of the North Korea’s non-combatant population and left not a single village unscathed. On August 29th, 1952 the North’s capital Pyongyang endured over (1,400) sorties in one night alone.”

Sea winds against faces as we wrap arms and sail our little ship ‘cross Calimesa Bay. We—the you of me and the ‘us’ of them—caress life of never-ending times—imagined images of worlds before and behind us as together we gather the stones and posies and roses and rising winds and soft raindrops. ‘Tis beauty of life—lifetimes ago and here and near and dear and forgotten to be remembered on another world—or planet—or place—or pace’s running away or traveling again to backward spaces and smiles.

The Walker—a silhouette tuck—tucked low—beneath Grand Moon rising—careful-to-carve—a cross-dark-sky—too close to be real—and—too real to be—proximity’s cost—close—to-shapes-to-shift-shapes—and closer—to buildings tossed— ‘cross landfall—to sea-line-to-skyline. Tide shifts—in evening time—and—changes along season’s—mix-or-match—same as sunrises—as sunsets—and—shadows do play—twin moon seasons—with splashes—textured cloud colors—and—star twinkles—too-far-to-see—or—too close to be—and—not to catch eye—noticed-in- brain—with spirit touch—time same.

The Created-creations—lost an ‘Eden’ place—when the ‘She’ and ‘He’ of the ‘It’—either happens—by an accidental-accident—or fall from—or is pushed out of—the wonder of— ‘Immaculate Contraptions’—and through construction—‘divinely discovers’ the—‘other than’ robotic being—and joins the ‘Spirits of Twirl’—while discovering choice is better—than and more difficult than—the straight-in-line-crawl—toward golden lights—cave dwellings and scrawling—dots or dashes against walls—without reasons or rhymes or the ‘Rhythm of Love.’

The commune of Paimpont—is near the city of Rennes…Is Paimpont Forest—Brocéliande? Magical—mysteries of planet space—a place—where the Lady of the Lake—Merlin’s capture—a tree where imprisoned—he may still remain? Or! Mystery rich—Merlin’s tomb—the Val sans Retour—enchanted land—where ‘Morgan le Fay’ casts spells—to—imprison—her loves? And! Remember—that once Rennes—was Condate—tiny village—of wonder spells—twisted whirls of twirling—tells—story rich—and tame.

The Walker—glides ‘cross jumble-tumbles—stone dust purple—made by rain—visible—as digs—once moved dirt—above rock face—and dragged—these weighted ones—from place-to- special-place—buildings built—or—structures moved—restructured—replaced or destroyed. Needed things—as times required—when places—were homes—and buildings ruled—seaside—land-side…And! Little death—be only—notions of—Lizard Kingdoms—where the motions—of ‘we-be-pills’—available—or needed—from car trunk glory to—never matters—what gates—we fall through—matters not—what star burns us…Matters—that gates open—matters—that stars are hot.

We do not summon gentle love…It whispers to our spirits—and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance and routes of layers and lives inside walls too high to be climbed or under or around or about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love heart touches and reaches—into body frail and those impossible attempts to hide among—thrones of thorns and weary costs—already paid and already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality of equals—woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient—sentences of life inside body—minding body.

Listen and hear—the many-edged sounds of laughter and the salted taste of tears. And! Once books printed—did exist and often read—about the firelight of thousand Candles Street and in scattered places beneath orange colored sky towers—dirt streets along—Bridge Ridge and Liberty Park…The Martian outreach—was a hard travel for Noah and his family…They had reached out to him—the Builders of Star Ships—the ready ships of Earth Spins and moonlighted paths along new waterways—of places to begin—other fleshy forms—a place without the Red worlds. These were the Making Forms—the places of rocks’ motions and creature speaks and the songs of the Glass-Beaker Folk…

We begin before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…Fire and shadows ‘cross a sky—Color moon of blood and gold—Simple songs and thudding drum—Stars light up another home—We move by wind across this place—In sunlight waves and dancing twists—Of silver rain and stretching space—Ship’s gentle streaks in skies of grace—With muted voice and silent rooms of—Blood touched throat and emptied tombs—Bridge walked toward and skylight’s scream—By taking flight and falling dream—Warming suns of days ago—With salted mist and taste of tongue—Lights of passion—times of rain—Wolf cries shout of sands and home—Across this universal stretch—Window shine in candle’s light—And let us touch another peace—Of safety sleep and lover’s reach.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Sound of Silence’…Performed by Disturbed

 

Of Love’s—Rhythm of Love…

wd_311Dream dance—touch memory—spells of angel’s—sorcery and you. Witch of contours—constructs—sights and scents—imaginary visions—and—places inside— restaurant deep—rooms tucked—inside—place of bars—and—dance—of clamor—then silence—pounding hearts—whispered flights —twin fancy—love touch and wine. Booth for two and drawn drapes—of places—secret worlds—others not required—where both—twins of women and of men—dance private thoughts—touch and smile—whisper and share—without form—spirits swirl—spirits twirl and spirits whirl—with life—either with or without—substance. Touch—by moments—of time touch—and butterfly—kisses — never lonely—spirits in dying—worlds. Life—heartbeats are good—of ring-circles—of fancy—of love’s rhythm—of love.

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.

Sailing ships—her gown—morning sun—pours through—window ridge and—fills a doorway—sun-side—frames body—in opaque notions—textures’ clothing—with magic light-wrap—to thin—almost transparent— ‘cross shadows—across her curves. Light creations—witch—twitch sprinkle—as magic ‘cross—star-loss touch—somewhere else—betwixt Sirius—and Mother ships—images—imagination and textures—secret places —both found—and—lost and touched—again.  Life and heartbeats are good—fancy of ring-circle—are fancy so good—into love’s rhythm—of love.

Little Robots become—because spirits reenter—entry and starting—the starts—of blast off—and crash—just before the burn. The newest giggle-to-wiggle-to-someone’s sorting—and—another starting or ending—and all—is just alright—OK? Little Robots feel—we feel—and laugh—and cry—and live–as you and I—laugh and cry—and live—and die—and wiggle-to-giggle—while sorting—the carding—players—‘round-this-table-or-that-corner—when warm or cold— and—we watch them—watch-us-watch—and–again we circle—we dance—inside same ring—-at end galaxy—in bright new worlds. And! Harbor ships—safely tuck away—are safe…

Now! Walk down—carpet aisle. A forever aisle—covered deep-knees-deep—in blood and flower streaks—incorrect colors—red scent. Perfume—scent too sweet—unreal—while plastic grows—from metal stand—and—glass vase. The memory—a scattering-rattling—of failed movies—no projector—mid-mind-side—and feeble…So few survive—shatter hours—loss—to much loss—baby loss—is ‘sacred loss’—savage proof—child loss—is never—sufficient reasons—for life. Loss-is-loss—and—hell-is-never–reasons-for—light.

Casket born—and—little ones. Tiny box—giant sorrow—unexpected—unresolved—and— not replaceable—for unnatural—is this grief. Inside—October City—the pressure of the cooker—is great—is steaming beast—as real—as puppies–in May—and the death—of baby. However—puppy becomes dog—and—too soon lose—interest while—chasing streaks of yellow or green—ribbon. Timed—Robots we—must rest—beneath bright suns—warm bones—and—slow with age. We live and we should—‘move on’—naturally. Born this world—into cycle—into pleasure—into pain—and—when animation ends—racing spirits move—‘cross space and time—no heavens—no hell—just sweet life—for  heartbeat and whispers—are good—and—ring-circles—just fancy us—into love’s rhythm—of love.

‘White Dove’

“A place without a name
Under a burning sky
There’s no milk and honey here
In the land of God

Someone holds a sign
It says we are human, too
And while the sun goes down
The world goes by

White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry

Waves, big like a house
They’re stranded on a piece of wood
To leave it all behind
To start again

But instead of a new life
All they find is a door that’s closed
And they keep looking for
A place called hope

White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry”…Scorpions

Let us find together—The beat we’re looking for” by Klaus Meine and Rudolf Schenker

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Rhythm of Love’…Scorpions

‘White Dove’…Scorpions

Close Eyes—Then Gone…

93467Interior Space—Exterior Place—matched floors and streets—flat—long hauls—of halls—ways to connect—carpet flat—and—city blocks—round rooms—not matched—latched doors—open floors—walls of tree lines—bricks’ high and open sky…Copy—rob—and steal—the steel of round house—church mouse—and dwell with a well—of deep means—and always seams. ‘Tis grey couch—reclining chairs—and poster songs—four corner beds—break the way—from street side moans—to safety homes—still space—sidewalk place—straight lines—curves and sky…

“And it disintegrates, literally,” Bahia says. “Dust! Dust amid dust. All of Aleppo, by now, is a monument to unknown citizens.”

 Rising from Green Sea and lights…Black sand—gatherers by thousands—year-tears—and covers—for century’s waste—taste—more than less. We are little—tucked underneath—schemes of earth—still larger—together—than the stars—of giant size—and burning sights.

Our Governments destroy our achievements—our history—our languages—our futures—our dreams—happens—and we become—the winds—of ashes—then gone—we never exist. Genocide destroys flesh—and so much more than bone—destroys Blood Rivers of Life…City—now a monument to—someone no one knew—beginning in ruin—and—ending in rust..And! Will Monument—people sweep up—the dust—when Blood Rivers and rust—are gone—in a daylong—tomorrow steal..

After war—is there—anywhere left—to plant flags of—fundamentalism–dust covered parks—graveyards of market—marks—death—child widows—and–rivers of blood? Walk— Now mind walk—Follow?  Following smoke wisps—or the sounds—the sing-song-choir—along—line—where sea-meets–sea and—sky touch be—above—forgotten shimmers—water stretch—beyond eye watch—while body—waits. Walk upon—these salty waves—of dead-seas’ roar—as melody pour—disappears into mists—into sea sounds— and—dawn. Those little matters? Matter-less—Cease then gone—again.

There are times—when good silence—makes ways for righteous noise—when sound-speaks another word-or-two—then makes way—for—good silence—behind night-lights—and morning’s hush. Of Freedom! No concrete meaning—attached—to the word. Freedom—as idea—must have definition? If Freedom—is principle—it must have—definition—to allow implementation…Opened-Eyes—Opened Mind? And! Seek protection—from ‘taking-a-stand’—refuse to admit—the nature of—what is accepted—is accepting—plans designed—to achieve serfdom?

Still! Love and believe—in Freedom…What crime—committed—if ‘crime’—is not crime—and has not—occurred—in memory-man…What crime when ‘no—law’ provides—for an action? And! Still—inside ‘gainst outside—we know—these things to be—either right—or wrong—knowing strong—the rhyme—of crime—truth-to-lies—to mix–those twin—motions—into convenient—the inconvenience–of life and strife…Vapor we—exist…We are—not distraction by—what we are not—for we are not—not—by displacement—or alteration—for we exist—in timeless harmony—within trails of stardust—falling from—other—wind-songs-spin-speed—and power…Life motions—Life moves—Life modifies—And! Spirits Dance…

Flakes—light falls—‘gainst cover ground—sparkle trees—little square—village core—quiet save—church choir—practice and season’s sound—round yon  hill—above memory—shape—and silent night. We walk—pace slow—sidewalk cover—snow flake–no more. Without wind—snow fall—without sound—lands where—it could—when it should.

“They said There’ll be snow at Christmas
They said There’ll be peace on Earth
But instead it just kept on raining
A veil of tears for the Virgin’s birth
I remember one Christmas morning
A winter’s light and a distant choir
And the peal of a bell and that Christmas-tree smell
And their eyes full of tinsel and fire”…by Peter Sinfield

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.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘I Believe in Father Christmas’Greg Lake

 

‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day’Sarah Mclachlan

Little Robots Five Miles High…

imgprix.comLittle Robots become—because—Eternal Spirits re-enter—entry now—then starting—starts of blast off and crash—before burn—The newest giggle-to-wiggle-to-someone’s-sorting and another starting and ending and all alright—OK? Lucky we be—not Holy hollows—Imagine—Imaginations—Beside pushes of strong—Dances baby birthing—and the powerful protection—of—iron Love—nothing stronger—Love or better—than—together—songs– and mixes—of a trillion spirits—strong. Path reaches—‘cross one trillion—leaps-of-space-race—fills— twirling lights and—one-trillion-ground-bound souls.

To hold-To-Touch-Too-much—No! Forever—not long enough… And! Sweet Dance—indeed…together we—and with—no love—there is—no peace. So!  Ride waves with me— crashing ‘gainst— shorelines…We are these—Ghost-of-These-Gardens—toward space flying— where home’s—touch ‘n’ go—is just one planet—east of sunlight’s door— and below—ridges-of-long-space—in sky’s silent misty world. Concuana—with—fifty  generals—and—the one hundred thirty-nine—gather all—outside the Proper City—a place—placed well below—the ‘Five Hundred Mile High Mountains’. Some villagers outside—the domes of—City fearing—destruction—gather their gatherings—as others seek—to welcome her—a protector -gainst another—Watcher Army. Concuana watches also—gathers—her magic—her coven and shrugs. Placing armor beneath—ground reach and—good—sky-high-silver-search—silent slices motions—well above and race-space—still along sides—high rock-stacked rock—and—stacked rock—until far—out-of-reach and—far- out-of-sight…Proper City and Twisted Gate—domed—crystal and glass—fortification—of weapons—enchanted spectacles—and—doomed to either fall—or gather—their gatherings—while—standing still—fading smoke—into nights of ice and winds of pain—reign—the ring-wings—of golden pods and silent ‘copters.

Fire of Blue light—sorted beginnings—and dances—of yellow streaks—torn coats and journeys. Scream Toward Moons—light—the dark night— and still—Horses run—Martian Ridge. We are— children of—salted Seas—as seaside spirits—unify. Clouds do—look for skies—and house sounds are also—those leaving-kinds-of-sounds…Blue Butterfly and wishes—granted or—made and–those soft wings—of slips and of flits—ride currents of breeze—slight ‘gainst soft skin…Switch often– directions-or-fancy—willed once—or often—through desires-of-fancy or weary-of-time—trips-to-beginnings-ends-of-time—shifted—drifted—-lifted—and forever—gifted-toward-lines of carted—crafts—and— beings-being—for a moment—above-moonlight and just-below-daybreak.

Protection—must not—equal servitude? When—heart knows—humanities’ finest moments…Love—Peace—Touch—and—Trust…No charges or gains or losses—Flashes between—the realities—-of reality—and—those sweet spaces—-an instant before—lips touch—co-mingled breath—warms-a-cold—and—evening air. Rational response—and— rational insanity. A moment—and—no one dares-stares into—space—without—noticing starlight’s—star bright—and—starships passing between—light-speed and arrival—and—silently appear. When everyone—everywhere—in-all-places—between skies—realize—that—what we do not have—does not mean—anything… Feeling color—through both eyes—and—with our fingers. Hearing—a lover’s voice—touch our heart—before—substance-is-words—meanings-or-reasons-or-other—notions. When silence—fills all senses—with thunder and noise—and—music and notes—chaotic—or symphonic—simplicity—as duality ceases—and singularity—melts into universal polarity—and—almost—truth.

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

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

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

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

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Children of the Sun’….by Poets of the Fall

‘Stardust’….by DeLain

Bridge Ridge And Candle Night…

HC_54‘Baby’s so high that she’s skying,
Yes she’s flying, afraid to fall.
I’ll tell you why baby’s crying,
Cause she’s dying, aren’t we all’…from Taxi…by Harry Chapin

Loss world—another time or place—race—case—drive body or eternal spirit…And! ‘Everything is gonna be OK’—alright—maybe never now—or just a little later than right now—maybe Ok—or not and—that is even alright—right now—donchaknow…Listen and hear—the many-edged sounds—of laughter—and the—salted taste of tears. And! Once books printed—did exist and often read—about the firelight of thousand Candles Street and in scattered places beneath orange colored—sky towers—dirt streets along—Bridge Ridge and Liberty Park…The Martian outreach—was hard travel—for Noah and his family…They reached him—the Builders of Star Ships—the ready ships—of Earth Spins and moonlighted paths—along waterways—of places to begin—other fleshy forms—a place without—the red—word-of-worlds. Making Forms—the place of rocks’ motions and creature speak—and songs—of Glass-Beaker Folk…

Thought be and different—differences—happen as wall forms—protect—to forget—to remember—to be again lost—where ships sail toward ships—and seas-once-clean—are dirty seas—of dirty ships—lost lines—shadows’ creep-keep—sleep—underneath—a bruised sky—swollen colors—dawns’ gray and fright—light—weep. No wind stirs—these masts—without sails. No fuel—cold furnaces—boilers—empty drums bare—no air. Eyes adjust—and follow silent ships—as each—slip-past—one another. Horns moan—breathe—sea—odors of—tears—wheeze—coughs and oil spit—mixes puddles of—water—separated—oil and swears—that the Line has moved—closer—too close—to shore…Ghost ships must not—disturb—an oiled sea—or move silt—onto dead shoals—along invisible channels—of sightless-sounds or soundless-sights.

Now—watch for next fire—to begin and end—as another begins and ends—until tower eyes see not—the next and the next—and—the eternity of signals—meaning—absolutely nothing—to valley people—and those framed—against a November sky. Those notes right—are—played thru circle flutes—held ‘gainst—heart-of-beeps—keeps—of roaring seas—pass others into light—and—set others—‘cross star streams of suns—beyond sea—beyond sky—and—into love.

Taste now—liquids—of life and of death—while running from—bolts of steel poison—as darts—dart—or fly from bows—crossed or long… Pack—life and live—on nights—wolves’ runs—start-stops. Pack—hunters’ life—of streaking—runs-runes—‘cross full moon’s light-right—toward—kill-still—and sated—salty-taste-of-plenty-blood—spread—beyond the quick—and the dead… ‘Tis a good moment to live and to die in three quarter time’—and—it is hard to be an— upright walker—and hard to be—an angel…at the same time? Would rather pack-run—and—drink—honest blood—at an honest pace. Rather to—forever moon-howl—than hide—inside truth—less self—of both questions and fears. So follow now—the wisps of vapor—the melody—of sing-song choir—below line where—sea meets sea—and—sky rises above—a long forgotten shimmer—of water—stretching—beyond eye sight—and runners’ slight. Walk upon —salty waves—a dead sea—between melody’s notes—and—the mists—of another dawn.

Remember? We wish-list-aspire—to permanence—and—to that permanent wish—of whispers. Spells cast—against unholy Gods and priests’—scream away—the terror of life—the strength of truth—unknown-the-knowing—and—the eternal hunger of—sleep. Maybe—damned and maybe—never to walk—stooped shuffled with age—doubled with blood hunger—and the vampires’ wish—for—complete death. Legends never die—alive with moon howling—and— running with—wolves of night. Pine rooms—flower boxes—and—within sanctuary—the blood hungry—fear the light. So! Listen to the Wolves—of night. Free? Why—Yes…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Taxi’…by Harry Chapin

Sea Of Sibilant Rhymes…

1277‘Refusing to acknowledge an active force in things and instead “simply to absorb this force into a command of God’s – a command given just once in the past, having no effect on things and leaving no traces of itself in them – is so far from making the matter easier to grasp that it is more like abandoning the role of the philosopher altogether and cutting the Gordian knot with a sword’– by Gottfried Leibniz—from ‘On Nature Itself’

“The third then handles those words that end in a sibilant or near-sibilant, and the last picks up everything else. Signals are distorted, sibilant, and overly compressed…‘Sibilants are louder than their non-sibilant counterparts, and most of their acoustic energy occurs at higher frequencies than non-sibilant fricatives.’ Sibilance is a manner of articulation of fricative and affricate consonants, made by directing a stream of air with the tongue towards the sharp edge of the teeth, which are held close together; a consonant that uses sibilance may be called a sibilant, or a strident.”

Counter now—Mt. Over-World—not demons’ wrong by rhythm or rhyme—not times’ happen—when both forgotten and known are lost and found through sets of eyes—right-sighted—united—divided or shared ‘cross ending starts—as beginning—to finish one race and begin another time—another race—to wind-wined—win—to lose or race—place again and again—ad infinitum…

Spirits now carry this soul-touched shiver—into—under hills—dark spaces—where life is born or formed from spark or care or wash or wear—and always—far from lights and sparkle…Coven Isles—remove from ‘Martian’ Beach live once and—recognized by diamond eyes—now dry of surface rain—though still alive and seen through other selves of other times and other places. ‘Tis driest in desert winds—away from darkest sights and silent nights—sleepless slights of magic lights—‘cross crater crash and runners’ dash into caves where life is born—cycles form and disappear into light-slight and—fright…

Music calls and spirits dance ‘round late night fires—lost—somewhere in distant times—We began before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…Of muted voice and silent rooms of—Blood touched throat and emptied tombs—Bridge walked toward and skylight’s scream—By taking flight and falling dream. Warming suns of days ago—With salted mist and taste of tongue—Lights of passion—times of rain—Wolf cries shout of sands and home. Across this universal stretch. Window shine in candle’s light—And let us touch another peace—Of safety sleep and lover’s reach.

And! Beautiful you are…

By Eluveitie…’The Call Of The Mountains’

Layers of Flash…

Star_735“Know I’ve done wrong,
Left your heart torn
Is that what devils do?
Took you so low,
Where only fools go
I shook the angel in you

Now I’m rising from the ground
Rising up to you
Filled with all the strength I found
There’s nothing I can’t do”…From the song ‘Love Me Again‘…written by John Newman and Steve Booker—

We are not layers of flash and fear and afraid of flash and a million directions without notions of where and how to go or leave or approach or fade away. We are not human…we are alive—life—simple of reason and always on our way away to leave or stay or afraid to simply fade away…Climb now— branches high—winter nigh—leaves not springing—sprung—prior budding and climbing high and tucked just below frost line—mountain soft and night-time slow. Tree high and not moving twin-spin—slower—motion still.

Foreign—not home and light-year long—away from places seen and spaces known before earth-fall—tunnel bright—tunnel sight—and—a space of place between real—and among the magic ones. Planet guided—peace pleased—run coming to streaks of night flash and day dash and a clash of two…And! They come by copter churn-twist-chop—by lorries-engines-rush—by cart-horse-pull—by men stretch-manned-carried—and all wounded ones or twos or many more or less and behind the layered flash of red-pink-nights—we wait and wonder and gather-to-elves notions—of life to stay or life to pass away—today.

We are the daughters and sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true—except when suppressed and distorted for unnecessary gains and a perversion called wealth…We are the eternity of spirits—no need beginning and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life. Symmetry with no form except wind and rain and careful storms of chaos and figure. Go figure—the here or the now and still history is not preformed or manufactured except through the controllers—of spins and twists and the thrill of the lie. Or—go figure with the smile of Leonardo or the Lady’s laugh or the chatter of many minds or—just a few—of many hearts. Is it better to flee or better to dig livelihood from the bottom of one’s own grave?

Arrives—those machined boxes machine-sweet—and together in minds of same or alternates where we twirl the whirl and call the laugh or two as boxes open and away we—they separate into some things or less or the loneliness of crowd bridges or twin screw moments of those spaces of time without seconds. And! Yes robots—we—search blood and find taste good in mingle – tingle moments—touch-amazing—touch not those imagine sources of unnecessary wariness and one becomes another and brief the flashes together spread the separate into singularity no more than once…Again—again and again.

Wind across this liquid—sunlight and thick wave dance—lights and slivers of silver and gold. Followers watch for scraps or bits to fall toward their reach either diving for something new or rocking gently on this clear sea of warming suns and moonlight’s dance of song and silence. Our nature to run with and from the many or the few? See often through the curved ceiling of doorway when curved light enters twenty-one tiny windows round these openings to escape places and leave regions. Still more a spirit than the body proper until chemicals of doubt and satisfaction rule body self ending sometime in time without mere reasons to be except—a rhythm to complete.

We are the daughters and sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true except when suppressed—through layers—distortion—or flashes of fear—tears…We are the eternity of spirits—never having to begin and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life.

And! Beautiful you are…

Love Me Again‘…performed by John Newman