Category Sylvia Plath

May 20 2017

Thru Thought—Visions Sweet…

Often have we—through visits and thoughts—immersed ourselves in others’— visions-of-many-cultures—so twin—blood same—the magic of knowing this—was discovery. To hold—To Touch—Too much—No! Forever not long enough. And! The sweetest Dance—indeed…Together we—for love without—there is no peace.

Earth twirls—swirls and changes occur—either warming or chilling—either simple or killing—and Humanities’ whimsy can assist—or resist—incline—or decline—to touch-the-hand-to-hand-to handle—hearts—in memory shifts—either horrific—or—embrace wonders—of new—of difference—of Simple Similarity—of Peace—of Teach—of Reach—and Embrace the Race—of Sweet Life—Sweet Love—and Humanities’ Purest—Practices! Difference—Same—Same Difference and always “Arms open—often are.

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—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—wisps of vapor—the melody—of sing-song choir—below line where—sea meets sea—and—sky rises above—along forgotten shimmers—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.

‘From each according to Ability—to each according to Need’—Karl Marx…

Beware of any move—toward ‘Martial Law’ for those—will be moves toward—‘Trump-ism/Nixon-ism/Jackson-ism’—another—lean—mean—dictatorship in America—‘Home of the Wealthy—and—of the Afraid. Violent sputters—freedoms’ totters—Attacks-re-acts—recalls the falls of—heart-mists-tears-the-fears or the—‘WTF’—of thought sense—or are—the Nationalist ‘Whites’—another word for—‘Ignorant Hate’?

Just disappeared into a tidal pull of ‘no reason’— ‘To no doubt about It’

America’s women-folk—learning to defend—against—the violence—of America’s men-folk…And! When in ‘thoughts reasonable’—does mankind—have a single right—to rule-over—womankind? ‘WTF’—again—’ad infinitum.’ Domination—is—abomination! Be very aware—of ‘Executive Branches.’ The laws—of the land—must be our freedom-from-serfdom—donchathink?

Remember? We wish-list-aspire—to permanence—and–to the—permanent wish—of whispers. Spells cast—‘gainst unholy—Gods and priests’—scream away—the terror of life——be 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—the wolves—at night. Pine rooms—flower boxes—and—within sanctuary—the blood hungry—fear the light. So! Listen to the—Wolves—at night. Free? Why—Yes…

‘Brush to lids—of my own eyes—with sweet—your lips—touch deep—my heart—with spirit dance—your strength as—my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin wheels—together—and—taste sweet wine—in starlight bright—and—setting moons—so large that—reflected eyes—lock these—mind spaces—in—forever memories—of life. Tis—good this dream…

Tis—sweet this Night…Shining candles—harbor flash—from sea-today-and-follow-tide…Come to harbor—sirens call…Shining candles—harbor flash… From sea-to-safety-side—tonight.’

And! Beautiful you are…

 

 

May 27 2015

Liberty Of Nevertimes…

PS_97Children of other dawns—touch hand or swish shoulders once or twice or often—without the counting of times or steps or memories. Be 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. Live only—on this stretch of sand and along with—the catching up of tide flows—believe the ice and water before and behind us are our ground and our chapter of seasons lived—written against the sands of shifting grain and the wind.

In June of 1787, James Madison addressed the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia on the dangers of a permanent army. “A standing military force, with an overgrown Executive will not long be safe companions to liberty,” he argued. “The means of defense against foreign danger have been always the instruments of tyranny at home. Among the Romans it was a standing maxim to excite a war, whenever a revolt was apprehended. Throughout all Europe, the armies kept up under the pretext of defending, have enslaved the people.”

The New York Times reports, “During our present administration, according to Pentagon data, police departments have received tens of thousands machine guns; nearly 200,000 ammunition magazines; thousands of pieces of camouflage and night-vision equipment; and hundreds of silencers, armored cars and aircraft.”

In his new book, ‘Rise of the Warrior Cop’, journalist Radley Balko illustrates that the militarization of police departments developed—several decades before 9/11. He mentions—a few appropriate applications of modern—tactics and weaponry—obscure—routine use—each day—against U.S. citizens—accused of ordinary crimes, in ways that would have been repugnant to the nation’s founders. “To say a military tactic is legal, or even effective, is not to say it is wise or moral in every instance,” the president noted in his recent speech. “For the same human progress that gives us the technology to strike half a world away also demands the discipline to constrain that power—or risk abusing it.”

Silencers—Machine guns? Now! Why would local law enforcement need that sort of gear? No shot to ‘ring—out’ and body still falls? Bullet Gods—Kingdoms of Death—wondering where freedom was lost and found—began or—an end—of—ghosts’ whisper ‘Life—Liberty—and the Pursuit of Runners—running out of streets and roads and places free of ‘No—Don’t—will not and not going-to-happen’—Amen again—again and Amen again?’ When life—back turns—and runs away—when unarmed couples die inside anything—when does ‘Fear-of-Life’—End and when does Murder Begin?

Early morning when sounds are soft against ear and movement does not play darts and goes and stop and start. Reflect or not to think—but to happen as life happens—in the sweet flow of quiet seashore in bright moons—light. Waves—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 are—barefoot children of yesterday. We leave behind—dancing—little paws—marks—in semi-wet sand—cool without sunshine.

Pipers play and—children dance into a ragged sorted night—and as they dance— Goddess flash—darkness thunders and—those claps of little hands and rings join songs and laughter—only as a child laugh–sings. A piper of the raggedy—sorting day and the role of rolls—the answer ones—dance behind and beside the flute of silver crafts and a simple dancing song. ‘A better day,’ they shout and everyone agrees.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Never Enough’ by Epica

Never Enough

Jun 16 2014

Star-Dusted Moons and Chorus…

53

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

By the fire light of these dwindling tribes—children marvel at both the dancing flames and the warmth of lights against the nights and outside—shadows beyond their eyes. They listen and stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places— no start—just—imagine and see—in minds’ own spaces—desired regions of before dream and after ‘wishing was true…’Paint now pictures—loving these caves and these walls and these tribes of we and me and us and them and before the storm and after the end of rains and winds and bumping things and silent shrieks once loud now absent from ear and fear and tear. Sounds of life—‘cross a million miles of rock and rolling—till another day of storms and another night of passion—shadow dance beneath a star-lighted ceiling. Once again—share moments and lives and the power of life. Blood and love is the matter of the matter and the survival of these survivors of wherever gods and whatever storms. Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

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

Hear pitch perfect spirit chorus pushed from moon-side to earth-side and back across ear-to-ear and from throat-to-voice and again out into spaces of hearing voices and silence. Create listener—speaker—and the quiet times of silent-speak. Gods—we create—creation of images dreamed and beamed to radiated radiation—we spirit-dance these sounds without vibrated-vibrations or derivations’ chaos there be—than we see and be—both the life of songs and silence…Not so often—the choir of silence—sings-songs the gatherings and sweet rolls of honey bread and wine. Soft conversations—land’s across—diners where breakfast—breaks-fasts of night and sleep-ends in shrugs—stretched—muscles—twitched and sounds—reminding lives of living gently—cross clefts of treble wires and bass notes—tucked beneath a bottom line. Falling trees in dawn lights at the center of creation’s place—vibrate notions and sounds both of illusive—illusions and illustrated—illustrations. We! Gods of these creations—find this to be something good—that is part—Way… Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

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

Brush to lids of my own eyes with sweet your lips and touch deep my heart with spirit dance your strength as my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin worlds together and taste soft wine in starlight bright and setting moon so large that reflected eyes lock these mind spaces in forever memories of life. Tis—good this dream…Tis sweet this Night…

‘Winter Trees’ by Sylvia Plath

“The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.

On their blotter of fog the trees

Seem a botanical drawing —

Memories growing, ring on ring,

A series of weddings.

Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,

Truer than women,

They seed so effortlessly!

Tasting the winds, that are footless,

Waist-deep in history —

Full of wings, other worldliness.

In this, they are Ledas.

O mother of leaves and sweetness

Who are these pietàs?

The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.”  

 

And! Beautiful you are!

‘Stardust’ …by Delain

May 11 2014

Acts of Actions…

43Walk around Village Square…A great man takes his son’s hand and they wander the snow-cover and light-fill places…Trees—huge and Sky—bright. Hillside and just above them—choir call—past songs—of moments and coming days, “What do you hear?” he asks.“Music,” the boy answers…”And what else?” Little children…hear the magic of sound—present and questions are never answers…“What do you hear—Daddy? I hear flapping wings of middle angels and the thunder of snowfall and the twinkling of lights and…you.” he answers.

Just above cloud-fall she drops to Earth without trumpets or warriors or cries or the wailing of terrified folks. No swish—angel wings or the usual thunder just after lightning bolts from sky-to-ground or back again. When angels fly—sound becomes the music of both rapture and fear…Why do arriving angels come in lots of two? Why either soft or hard? Why arriving as a girl or a boy? Are angels of any physical realm saved or seen by the nonsense of non- angels? Why do angels arrive here from somewhere other than here on planet-side-of-heaven? And! How do they cross heaven’s length from where-to-wear and back to where-ever they begin? Tis magic, wizard, dragon, fire, storm, calm, wind, rain and war?

Heaven’s gate is hard to find and many have perished-the-thought and died attempting to pass from star-gate to star-fall of the planet-slide of hell or paradise. Angel is alone–both hard and soft and ready to purpose the reason of her travel and the message she whispers to mysterious magic folk and the very quick or the very dead. Angel—she calls herself and she imagines her image as double self and triple purposed with a silent drum—of butterfly wings and the knowledge of both living and dying before the end of twin-planet sins times fourteen.

Power at the end of wit and the beginning of the rhyme of substance’s cessation. She is—good and evil and her reasons—either a knowing or a complete confusion to those able to see or hear or know or imagine her path from sky to planet-side. She saves a few and a few are lost and those lasting through her visit–survive. No! Angel is good—Witch of spectacular whimsy and crafted stories—often means—magic men—disciples of both Gods and Men. Once upon a moment, Angel does visit—Earth-land. Earth-land—landing is—missing—reasons to be missing the place of promise or ruin. She exists and…She calls to us sometimes and sometimes without sound—we—understand?

From these ridges of snow and ice, horse mounted—Iron Riders watch and wait from a mountain-top. Below the wide valleys of snow and ice covered trees and roads of dirt and rock across the villages and towns and ‘Sity’ scatter—from clearings and pastures and forest—they wait. These are warriors—women and men—armed to war against what requires life-death or more or less. Behind the clouds and dancing lights—planets spin about suns and above—lands—three moons—fill the intervals of darkness and the setting and coming of twin sons. Behind clouds and high above the Riders of Iron and Horses, suns—rise and set and—moons come to walk-dance across the sky.

Iron Riders battle for the love of home and for the happenings of war. They do not fight against what maybe or is not happening or for religion or for the government of destruction. Think about it: Isn’t government—word same—as religion? The days of controlled weather and magnetic storms and the rule of one against many—died times ago. Deliberate had the—One’s creations been and destructive—either planned for or occurring accidentally—because technology happens—with and without—complete control—especially if a ‘maybe war’ requires corrective measures and especially if a ‘maybe war’ just needs to happen. Build it and destroy it and build it over and again or just because ‘we can’ and you cannot win and since you will lose we need to change your thinking or your social structure and remove your past from everyone’s history. We win—we write—you lose—you cobble together what remains from rocks and sand. “Oh well! Don’t understand?—We do!”

Walk! Mothers and Fathers and families are forever—as are people and memories and songs and dances and sorrow and laughter and Life…Life and Dance! Hand-hold and we touch mystery and magic and stop and start—alone with ghost dancers and with us. At ocean’s crest…Breathe the scent-of-twined-together-spark in the harmony of push-touch and the rhythm of twin-strength Life…Touched hearts and eyes wide open…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘You’…by Keaton Henson