Wing Sounds And Silence…

Drop“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

Spirit is in this world…It doesn’t belong to it. It does not belong to the illusory world of matter and of time. Spirit maybe the spark of antimatter firing sparkles… Without a spark of antimatter called ‘Spirit’ nothing called a— human being could have evolved into what ‘It’ is today? This special spark is uncreated—divine and may begin through the touch—of an ‘Unknowable Kingdom’—Muse—Enlightenment—Genius—Anger—Thrill—Joy–Wonder—Magic and….Creative energies maybe Creative Spirits…With the beginning of Christianity—the existence and essence of—Man—were three entities—Body and Soul and Spirit…Both—Saint Paul and Saint Augustine believed this to be Truth…However—future Councils and through the decisions of Pope(s) and the Roman Catholic Church—what remains for us (we the masses) —are the Body and the Soul and other Ghosts—Outsiders…What happened to Spirit? Has Spirit conveniently—disappeared?

Stand beneath moon light —and above-the-form of Draped Ones and cast motions—gentle designs across this easy night. Be tall—be short—be large—be small and gather to hear the—soft waves scatter ‘cross shore and land beneath feet—bare or fur-covered—both—warmed in the air of night and safe inside the darkness of this easy night. Watch the shadows of bridge span and steel as wooden shapes pass underneath the towers of man—created when young species roamed earth-bound and the constructions of shapes and water passages filled the world—before the tearing days and summer’s song. A night bird cries and another winged one settles protected within thick tree grasses inside the shadows of the moon.

Large ones—rise to surface and water gently swirls behind them. They are slow and sweet and strong inside a current they know—as their reasons and their purposes inside the strength of their being—strong and imagined and real. The River Manatee sleeps and its current survives. Life is—without color and as important as survival’s Gravity…Love is—without gender and—must be universally shared by everyone alive…And! The Witch Smiles…

Listen! Our streets vibrate with good life—sweet blood and the strength of poverty covering America…’Feed my People’—strong words—weak wills to solve and still solutions are apparent and ready to use for many willing to share and to simply end greed. And! Please remember that a Police State is allowed when governments—desire only—to protect and maintain—Societies’ Hierarchy—and be damn the People…The wealthy have forgotten with whom they once danced—and from where their worth began—developed and multiplied…Why are the many sounds of poverty silent—when greed deafens—growls of hunger and the pleas of need—in the Mystic— ‘Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave?’ Protest and Speech Politic—twirls now toward the swirls of grenades that flash and crying sprays and Robocop of ‘all-dressed up’—and still—the You and I of—Us against each-other…We are a place where laws were enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and the notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street—places with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’  conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘We the People’) as their Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We still are…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘From the Beginning’…by Emerson, Lake and Palmer

From The Beginning

Sweet Spirits Laugh…

743“Isn’t it a shame
The reaper said
He is quite alone here
And still waiting for you
Oh I really did fail for the first time
Spoke the fiddler, poor old fiddler
The fiddler on the green
The fiddler on the green
It would be nice…

Take my hand

Just hold my hand
I’ll take you there
Your pain will go away”

…from ‘Fiddler On The Green’—by Demons and Wizards

Spirit Dances…the chances of creations—combined in shrieks of plenty—night cries—disturbed wings—motions—seen—never noticed—always—a happening of life-death and future days and forever pasts. We are sweet spirits—laughter ‘cross these starry nights— to plunge into another —day—somewhere—someplace—placed in time—at almost—ever-spaces—inside the wind. ‘Tis a good wind—‘tis a good—day. We are ever here—even unknown-to-know—the knowing of Spirit’s speak and notions’ seek. We—live only—along this stretch of sand and—along with the catching up of tide flow—believe the ice and water before and behind us are—our ground—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.

Rigid to—regularity—then—sweet chaos—systems dynamic—‘dynamo-hum—where’s that dynamo coming from’ (Frank Zappa) —And! Suddenly the regularity of phenomena—no longer measured rigidly—now burst into the probability of theory—though dynamically and universally common—plain-speak and stench—drenched in fractal messages. Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away. Input-Output’ and many layers hide—within? To count those hidden layers do—counters—count the ‘Input’—one or count the Output two or just ‘1’ and ‘0’ then reverse the flow—skip entry once—to find point then—continue while—depending upon the flow—within? Matters not the incline of the incline—matters—those inclined to forward—reach and backward—catch?

Stop—‘Rockets-red-glare-or-bomb-bursts-in-air’…Rubble crawls are not familiar fare…Homes built should never-ever-be destroyed—Life builds—Always builds. Hồ Chí Minh -[ho̞˧˩ t͡ɕi˧˥ mɪŋ˧]–His name a synonym for the ‘Bringer of Light’…Born Nguyễn Sinh Côn—and wishing his country free of the—Imperial tyranny of France—while in an idealistic—dream— sent letters to Woodrow Wilson and Harry Truman (presidents of another Imperialistic Nation—called the world’s greatest Democracy’—to champion Vietnam’s struggle for independence from France—He received no answers…

“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”by Ernest Hemingway…

Survival’s portion—portioned and scattered across understanding simplicity—and the variances in relativity—either linguistically determined—or silenced by rain—loud—gentle beginnings or the whispers of fire-fly wings and lighting…Wait! Eyes—tightly closed—to hear thunder—rolling across separated skies—as unseen flashes—knight the ocean—and crashes boom into the silent space—between raindrops and life…‘Plant your flag on—truth…’ Science eternally dances with superstition…Once and often either—momentarily wins something-of-else or another choice-to-follow…Crossroads to matter—chances to spark—and destiny always flirts with other up-and-about—perhaps…Real Sea—we’ll see—and another and another—of water-ships and places far away…This is here and between landings another beach—reach and as quickly discovered then thrown away…Dragging the lines of surf’s fall and rise—as waves dash high into moonless sky and crash along miles of sand and shoreline. Sea inhale and exhale and breathe again and time marks nothing—when endless and everlasting.

A World where women can walk in day/night safety and men do not know a word called ‘war’…Where love is love and force is Never …Wherever—Whatever—and never is heaven or hell…A place where life is belonging and life is good everyday…Heaven or Luck… No? We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we love our children. So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away. So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away…OK?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Fiddler On The Green’by Demons and Wizards

Ribbons Of Peace And Names…

P_36Sky-Light Ribbon is a river of stars and just a slip-slide from—Ideal death…When plague wars and gun wars and drone wars and political wars and the war-of-use-to-be-still-is-always-will-be—Imperialism—Capitalism—Colonialism—Socialism—Communism—a hoping breeze of cool choice—choosing—and just a slip-slide from that Ideal Death… Carbon Based beings are born capable of immediate—friendly attitudes—a survival mechanism or just a simple ‘reach-touch-out’— to other eternal spirits?

Grass—carpet floors of high to sky mountain flats—red sand shifts—when raining seasons begin—the fall of liquids both silver-clear and diamond-splash—across the drinking desert of sand and sea—as jungle sleeps. Once hearted fears—did not exist—within the laughing times of fearless pursuit and the unrequited necessities of being—the beginning of—being the life of long summer moments and winter shorts—when snow covers the dreaming spaces of—sands and purple seas.

Do believe—from windows—and across the bay— dancers’ stage and cage—beyond believers of dawn—cross—these water-gates in boat crafts and—do anchor—along the sandy shoreline. In these model times—love push—swings without color desires—save to be and swing those roped contraptions—higher and higher and higher and to fly—among white billowed clouds and raindrops—dew-dropped in those spaces along these places.

Shift into the object of another day with—accepted expectations—extraordinary moments—original thought and lights of splendidly created—creations through perceptions of flashing— preconceived originality and overloaded repeaters across a wondrous land of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea or coffee or me or you or us or…in the becoming of a notion—immortally important and into legacy’s realm—repeated and recalled and repeated…Amen! Ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust-new-ways-to-win—we must be us?

The where-in-the-world—to—appear is no irritation to the matter-of-the-matter. The ‘I’ of us has never survived without the everywhere of everyone in everyplace—across the sky and below and above the lights of moon—stars and suns’ dances—beyond the imagined realms of universal distance and the figures of figures wrapped around a third planet from here-to-there and again to another planet of wondering folks alive in both spaces and places and time.

There is city—Calimesa. A place of Crowman day and Crowman night and a place of haunted hunts and battles of no-foe. A timed place and—still—jack-booted terror stands on—the sacred throats of freedom fighters and paints the ruined roadways—with blood and mud and mire and hire—ditches with filthy ragged cloth and stains—once clean spaces—being days before political crazy collapses—dies and disappears. Wouldn’t that be nice—donchathink? And! Remember these names: Yeonmi Park—Thor Halvorsen—Maria Alyokhina—Mikhail Khordorkovsky—Bassem Youssef—Nadezhda Tolokonnikoa—Erdem Gunduz—Janet Hinostroza—Yulia Marushevska…

We—live only—along this stretch of sand and—along with the catching up of tide flow—believe the ice and water before and behind us are—our ground—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.

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…

‘A Sky Full of Stars’…Written and performed by ‘Coldplay’

Analog Voices—Digital Sighs…

SW_95‘Sing-Song the voices now—the lines of chorus-sweet—likely lined in zero-ones—whispering ports—once harmony— single notes—noted often—repeat.’

Village Insis is one hundred and thirty seven miles from Calimesa City—reached by dry road and three forded rivers or one craft stretched across the Wall Hallenid and a flash-splash-paced-space of climb-drop onto Village-Center. Not far to run unless walking inside the sun’s noon-day heat and wanting to race— toward streamed liquid of silver drops and cooler rain. Aeolian Harps— line the wires of  stretches along creased ways eastward and away from town-side to City lights along many sparkles from river’s edges to sea shadows and piers.

Inside winds of charm—crescendos-decrescendos dance frequent harmonics—when night wind tosses  rhythms ‘cross lines—the bridges of viaduct and between the beginning of covered bridges and the ending of light beacons. The strings are both long or short and of many gauges and wind songs dance character—along a flat of land stretch—beyond eye reach—as Aeolus strums his harp. A mechanics of magnificence when the Wind God whispers songs across a thousand wiggles of wire and with a balance of motion and  contraption—night sings along an endless road of nowhere-to-here-and-there and back-again.

The distance between exact science and a hermetically sealed faith of notions and potions and the inclination of motivation—is the improbability of dreaming improbable things and the rare-dare of fare abundance with feast-found and devoured together—at-once and again…Aeolus and harps without finger touch—wind touches wires of copper and gold and silver—shimmers of cold sunlight—and starts the song—as wind carried notes cross—across fields turned—plow-broken and touched in powder snow frozen—driest air mix and sing-speak.

Curved rooms and softer edges conspire to selected whispers and little sighs sometimes dance across shortened distances from window wrap to door sill.

‘Hope-Pain-Patience.’ Please—Please protect our women in the Sudan—better—Everywhere… Our women—our Life! Without you Baby—there is no Baby…Always better to fall in love than to fall in battle—donchathink?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Fire and Rain’—James Taylor

Performed by Kappa Danielson

A Coven Telling…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And! Beautiful you are…

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

Laced Magic and Sails…

Escape into this city filled to brim with witches and ghosts and spokes in timed harmony and choirs-of-one-chorus and harmonious enchanters along with magic made-of- lace.

This is the time of winged fire breathers and statues of motion and beaches of rocks without sand. Horses without wheels spin and donkey flocks carry unarmed soldiers into war covered places of blood without sound or shriek.

This is the mystery place. This is the dreamed stop-clock without time. A minute starts without beginning or time or reason to begin-end just a minute later ceases notion and substance.

The realm of call and words spoken are never sound. These same words flow across bands of bounded paper in font digital—and fashion stitched upon silk cloth and imagination.

We form the notion of eternity and dance upon timeless patches of cover underneath the most blue of skies just before rain-dusted night drives us underground to those places of swings and scenes of grass covered deserts in light and sparkle.

So! Escape to this city of oil rain, crumbled towers and rusted color skylines tucked just below sky ceiling. Walk upon the crusted sea and into the days-of-nothing-less.

And! Beautiful you are…

// //