Wishing for Butterfly Town…

14aCity sounds like ‘Sity’ and that is a child’s word for big places of big buildings and wide streets and shops and stores and things and stuff and shine and glitter and people-folks and fun and fear. In the October Sity; stuff and things and stores and people-folks are not so many and the anymore of anything is less or more depending on the perspective of child eyes and hopes and the knowing of future’s day-long past.

From the oily rain to the fires of Coven’s lights, morning dances across concrete’s jumbled scattering around LoGrean Park where ‘Sity’ lanterns once caused shadows to dance and the dawns of many days went and came from then- now and back again ‘til records stopped spinning and paper-to-digital-history-news— tired of writers and found page-edges empty save tattered wear and the waning lights of evening.

This is ‘Sity’ in the telling of tales and of laughing tears and fears and sing-songs’ wiggle into spaces between rock and sand and the hiding places of sound between silence and about to be vibrated from inside minds’ reach through lips across teeth and into spaces among oil of rain and spatter and fiction-truth and into ears that hear nothing except silenced sound and giggle.

This is the hiding door that takes us to Column Room. Tessie likes the purple scarves and dotted cloth. Jackson likes the hiding places-on and other rooms just off big column and down the great-distant hall. No one comes here anymore; save Crowman and younger ones they call the Hurts. And! Not so many of them around since the last rains.

Crowman never worries about the timing of this because he is not time-for-time.

‘I have seen this thing before, to no one but the Hurts and they listen to him always, since the beginning of things, of days or nights or evenings or mornings, or when things were and were not. I know this place like the farm, the river when fish were fish and would swim right by the bait.’

‘This is the road. A hoppity-skippity-small little road not needing a reason, rhyme or paving covers over sidewalk – cracks that if “you step on a crack or break, something that rhymes with nothing by a word that names the place where sidewalk ends then starts again.’

He stands on eternal legs and begins down the hoppity-skippity road. He stops and the Hurts join him. He skips toward them and they skip toward him. He turns and a little light flicks just skips in front of him. A little flitting light of sparkle and nothing else.

Little Tessie through a small hole between her front teeth whispers,

 ‘Butterfly…’ No question, not statement, not fact not…

‘Almost a Crowman,’ he almost answered,

‘I know this…We Know! ‘I have known this Sparkle!’ ‘Know Spark.’

Then Butterfly whispers to sounds of the love of whispered love and patient-patience and times of ‘Sity’ pieces and rhyme:

‘This is this line! I have waited and watched and wanted and needed and loved you since Day ends and starts-again. It is- it is- it is a little hoppity-skippity prayer of a little road that begins.’

The Hurts laugh and so often laughter hurts. Not this time of day and not this time of evening’s sprawl and night’s length before we life sparkle live-life-again.

‘Angel? Nope…Gone…Nope…With Us?…Nope…Then Gone OK? Why?—No…Then?’

Almost—Butterfly touches angel and angel touches angel and angel and angel…

Light touches light and Crowman almost knows nothing or something that does not matter the matter or irritate the matter. Light smiles and ‘yes’—Tessie, ‘Angels do smile’. Time  in this fair-land where Mother Nature’s Golden Ones discover another place where Peace may—maybe exist.

And! Beautiful you are…

From…’Sity Songs’ by Philip M. Edwards

Chasing Eternal Spirits…

25City ended when life known though not completely understood stopped and the wars began. Great floods of political or religious doctrine mixed with gun-powder, drones and bombs—ba-boom-ba-boomed despite of; right or wrong, weak or strong and as all beliefs—no regard for precious life. Territory divided along the secular lives of too many bleeding folks and still the ba-boom of gun-powder and drones and bombs along with the religion of death found no one innocent enough to live.

City stopped and the social constructions of neighborhood and village and town died without a whimper. These constructions simply died, when the bullets ran out and all the weapons jammed. Riding those lines of timeless speed and the dark-light dance—carried Sparking Sparkle toward mass of center without color.

Then began the poisons of time. Another body politic found a better way to worship and to control those left to control. Call climates-a-changing or winter’s wrath or drought or flood an Earth-ender. Call death by storm or maelstrom or super storm Cindy or Clyde or Mary or…Mind-storm of those to control the unwilling to be controlled and always war to stop-start-win-lose-contain-spread-prevent-continue…Confusing of words sometimes win?

And! Always those living or dying in-out times either today, tomorrow, in present condition or another future real or imagined. Watch the sky for ‘It’ will come and destroy us! This never happens because we destroy ourselves. Are war and the fighting of battles as genetic as the creation of our own children?

If we let them do…then this is what will happen…they are not able to govern…and let’s call those freedom fighters—Terrorist…they are not people…they must be contained…this is our war against Terrorism…yet; is their war a hope for Freedom and Determination? Those winning wars rewrite history and are remembered as Patriots-Noble-Courageous-Founding Fathers and…really Thomas Jefferson, are all men equally created; yet, slaves are owned?

After several weeks of warnings the ultimate destruction of our Solar system, commenced and in a little under one hour the sun and planets were gone…All men are created equally! Living changes everything and another adventure begins. Skipping into start-stop and without this motion all ends…Skippity-Hoppity-Peace-be-Peace.

At this bridge we jumped to safety just before our vehicle splashed into water below us. He leaps to safety, and then plunge-jumped into the swirling-twirl and chased the auto as it went to-bottom. We waited for him to surface…He re-appeared as a boy. However; why a small child? Anyway, we never saw the man again.

And! Beautiful you are…

//

La Serrata…

Under attack here…Economy, Unions, Education-(Koch’ coke’ Brothers) and the further destruction of our precious middle-class and the way of life enjoyed here in this place for a few years…Without wars and its profits we diminish into a hungry-crowded-mass, shivering in the doorways of a thousand snow covered cities or towns or villages or neighborhoods. Without jobs that pay what… for which or what hope or my future or yours or our hopes as a people or a nation or a World. Let us keep this separated and scattered and confused except for us—the greatest people on Earth…Oh no! We did say the Elitists?

It is not the Muslim or the Christian we fear. It is not the people or the immigrants or the outside nationalities. It is the changing of life and a saturation of places and people to blame. Newsy! Everyday explanations in a million words and verses of the virtual excitement of the blame-of-game and oops—we have another one. Call it a lost debate…Call it a loss of future. Call it hunger and thirst. She is beautiful. He is handsome. She is rich. He is famous…And! Who gives a.…?

Venice was once a powerful city of commerce and opportunity and education and craftsmanship and medicine and science…Gone and almost forgotten. Now! In this country, the one percent are building the latest and greatest castles. By adding motes and security they gain separation. Keep others away from our wealth and destroy anyone from a brush-at-arms-length and we remain the most powerful and richest country  on the planet. Which Planet? Does anyone really know? Must the hungry folk care? And! We call it news when one pretender does unto someone other than wife or husband or cat or dog or..? Who cares!

The truth in entertainment is not entertaining. Anything entertaining is notably bereft of truth. If we require truth—we must be living and dying every day? No fun and no hope and nothing except a show called…..at 10:00 PM.

Note: However, someplace hidden well inside the comedy of life is a smattering of truth. Oh! Just here or there or once-in-a-while. Search and you may find and do not let the rhythm of the night cause you to dance by yourself.

We! Are the watchers of the single percent of wealth? We are a twin political country. Our duo political entities have practiced the sport of La Serrata since the two became either vote for me or vote for them or lose” called freedom in America. Freedom of what-who-where-why and how?

The one percent has destroyed opportunities of commerce for new or incoming entities…The common-world already wage-slaves a life away to furnish the finest for the fewest.

Many names are used to describe the elite of this planet. Sadly, they are so involved in self-interest that La Serrata will be their final conclusion. Come out from the doorways and the rain and the snow…Closure always fails! American strength developed because America was an opened place. Through closure, America has already failed us!  Is it not entertaining to be locked outside in the cold?

And! Beautiful you are…

Spirits-Song Dancing…

Albert Einstein developed a Novel dance. It was called the ‘Theory of Relativity.’ This new dance—stated that ’matter is the same as energy…’ So! If a person consciously departs their body and enters a non-physical world or place would this spirit be neither matter nor energy?

Is there a formula or a discussion in the Scientific World for the existence of ‘conscious’ or ‘spirit’? No! Why? Are there only three dimensions? Is ‘time’ added to those dimensions? We as physical beings—also have five senses. So! Why is everything beyond normal—considered or called: nonsense, hallucination, superstition or religious? Our world is a magnificent construction of religious constructions. We believe or do not believe in derivations of inclined-living or higher-self or soul or spirit or great beyond-the-mean- averages of life or death.

Or! Do we simply wish better—God Self or Angel beyond the physical? Do we remember other self before birth and after death? If we do—then we are Universal Spirit?

Do we see outside our rejections and failures—as learning to be better or do we forget what we are? Remember when warmth was without fire? Remember when our mother’s blood fed us and whispered love into our blood-hungry souls before we became Scientific?

But! What of spark that travels into the light of joining life inside and outside the days of pasts-present’s-future.

Behold Spirit Dancer! Do remember when warmth was without fire and strength absolute without the Science of dimensions and senses and all was: nonsense-hallucination-superstitious-religious and without name. Before time wig-waggled across the universe spirits began.

Witches are the power of lives and life and choices and dictates and control. They are the fire builders and the rain of oils that fall from somewhere-to-there without distraction…The Coven hurls great sounds and flashes across sky and through the clouds.

In a world, the Cosmic Traveler visited and saw deserts and fertile valleys and green and salt and clear pools and the warmth of Blood-taste.

And! Beautiful you are…

Hearing Mozart Play…

What if we heard Mozart play? A phantom whistles and we know the sound and the song just before the melody begins and long after it ends. A piano strikes cord and rhythm flows from twin-brain to hands to fingers both grand and awkward. Remember practice. Recall recital. Remember applause. Recall joy as the music stops instantly after fingers rest. We are the classical singers of a distant voice, his melodies yesterday and today and tomorrow. Mozart still plays beside us well into the days of past’s future.

Pussy Riot and Putin’s Folly: Only power remains if all else fails either—through revolution or by insolvency. Power is government complete with economic and social inequality, corruption-malfeasance and the restrictions-destruction of the rights of the people. Three girls/women; freedom’s singers, creators of noise and bangs and chants and songs—silenced now by Putin’s Folly. Twin years of prison for ‘singing songs and carrying signs.’

The world of free people: We will spit on Putin’s Folly and the Liars of America’s failing government. It must be the days of ‘Gag and Puke.’ We’ve already heard that the Tea Party equals America’s Taliban. Tomorrow must wonder about today and shrug away yesterday…

‘Tell me – Tell me True…
Baby – Baby
Night child of blue.
But I do long to see
You, in sunshine and lollipops
And those rainbow colors
Not by my eyes.
And never teary unless
Streaked – smiley streaked and
Song-whispered in the night.
Baby – Baby
Night child of blue.’…from ‘New York Diamonds Ride’

By Philip M. Edwards

And! Beautiful you are…

Tears to Cry…

1…We find clouds within the river of souls. Rivers of the sea. These rivers born become sky. When the rivers become too heavy they fall back into the sea. Rivers-to-rain-to-earth-to-mountains-and-reason flows into sea…

We are born with all knowledge and wisdom and reason…We pass this way or that-many times born and many times moved. Born knowing all yet remembering in the physical is the challenge.

Is mind trick a past living and not in present mind-side?  Is this a cursed perception of no-know and bliss. Today! The feline lives and reacts and lives and we die every day as present gives way to knowing of days future’s past.

We constant filter and with the filtering come the rise of inability to learn the newest faction of the newest day…Why? Survival required or as young we faithfully believe that we are the protected ones…So! Does the manufacturing of physical pursuit and the push to procreate change us into constant filter and learning’s inability to survive in its most improved state of origin? Is development the cessation of originality? Can-can’t-won’t-don’t-will-will not, ad infinitum…We are a stop-start filtering failure-one splash at a time? We are the social creation, born individuals and seeking ways to listen yet forgetting to hear the use of universal song and the rhythm of planet twirl and the wig-waggle space of home.

2…George Orwell wrote of the difference between the proles and the folks in Winston Smith’s realm…Proles were nasty folk…however, these loved—joyous sex, raised children as parents, thought the way people usually think and were touched/untouched by government (controls)…in the name of being proper…Today, I fear that we are deeply involved with gov-speak, thought control and the manipulation of the few over the mass…I am non-prole wishing to be free.

Is faith nothing more than another word for instinct? And what is the actual difference between evolution and creation…We can still be the product of a creator(s) and continue to change (evolve) ad infinitum! Do we need a religion or a religious bent-curse-construction to be good people? What is a ‘good’ person? If creature—creators returned, if they are able to return, would these creators be so dense that they would not understand the physical nature of us grabbing an edge and hanging on to survive? Be fruitful and multiply–why not?  We are designed to procreate. Faith or instinct or just another word for one robot’s run with another robot…So! I prefer to dance along the lunatic ridge and robot-run out-of-the-way of necessity. The only difference I have discovered between us Robots is inside/outside! We share time-we are family we are unplugged–damn! Hoping that Me (Robot) unplug before you (Robot)! Survival dictates this hope. Instinct? The edge-framed in faith? I created to protect your sweet machinery…would not have it any other way…Programmed—oh-hell yeah!

We would happily check the past and the future to better understand today…understanding is another survival dance in three-time tracks?

3…She and her child almost became warriors turned inside-out and the enemy of each thought and word and movement in a dark lot after sundown inside or outside the vehicle of hope’s loss and under the street lamps. Raging usually saved for woman against woman’s territory and boundaries and love lost somewhere between proper and violence…Lost mother and lost daughter and feud-fire for every reason and no reason to lose or love one another except through blood-bond and reason-love. Drink my tears… I cry.

And! Beautiful you are…

Watching Phoenix Fly…

We await Phoenix. We are the gathering folk washed in starlight and dusted well with truth-dance-sing-song-spirits and waiting for Phoenix rise. We gather beneath these snow-stretched spaces among the twirly-whirl of soft-speak and touch and silence.

Once machine master and the rage of quick-timed-start-stop imbalance and dances across twin tight-ropes at once, too high and too brief to walk or survive sanity’s hoppity-skippy angel of light. Presently! Both snow and darkness fill our sight and blood warms our communal veins and we wait for Dragon-fire and Phoenix-flight and Family.

We are children of life and the survivors of that well scattered stretch of distance between tower-watch and destiny. So! Let us dance this life and play.

And! Beautiful you are…

Maybe and What…

Wondering of spaces between life and physical death; between the yes and no and the knowing and the forgetting and beyond what is not felt and momentarily realized…

We invite experience and receive experience in washes and tumbling that are wished for and torn away and into similar, as watching ocean waves or being swept out to sea by a storm or an accident. We reach for broom or mop or both, still we are never completely cleaned or dry.

Wondering how we fit between the softness of time and the steel reality of flying away from what is almost known into what is quickly learned or remembered. We are born knowing everything and instantly taught to not know. We spend another life learning to physically survive and toward the end, we realize the passage of time and our knowing returns in spared memories and past recognitions.

While learning necessary survival we forget what we were and are and desire in the worlds above and below as we cling to this one. The hardest moments of this life are waiting for stupidity to understand anything.

First we remember; the horror of birth and then the softness of mothers’ caresses and the survival of love within her eyes. For Love-is-Life and Life-is-Love So! Transition world and onto road—here we come.

And! Beautiful you are…

Witch Sparkle and Light…

TP_319874_WALL_cavalia_1We are the lathe of civilization’s mischief and magic and misery. Let it be known, to those spirits in the wind and in the dust, that we are the children of a meek disaster. Give us voice to tell our stories and with those spirits in the wind and in the dust, that we are accidents of this disaster. Give us a voice to tell our story. And! Forgive us if the stage we build and our actions are both frail and strong and our harmony scattered and our thoughts poorly articulated.

We cannot speak those perfect words. We cannot commit to ledger those wondrous numbers. Sometimes we do not understand how we feel. But everything has a name: every verse, every chapter, every song, and every reason, pain, notion, activity and hope. Hope! We create words when required and our lists of names are long. We match object to word and definition expands as does our understanding of that object. We speak, we understand and we communicate our stories to the wind and to all those equipped with ears and hearts and inclined to listen.

It is night and with the night, we touch the light of the moon. It is bright. It is the brightest sign that we are not alone. From high above parted clouds, drawn back by the magic wind, we see it both clearly and completely, for it is the rejoicing moon. We sing, we laugh and we dine from the harvest feasts. We bathe in silver dust and clean ourselves with new rain as it falls from a star-filled sky. We sing and we know these songs.

We understand the prose and we hum the verses with our hearts. Once again, we are children of summer and parents of another day.

And! Beautiful you are…

Child Song and…

Once song was passed from Mother to Child. The song was called, ‘There is Warmth without Fire.’ And Mother’s voice was strong and Baby smiled and the knowing soon became memory. In the shock of birthing and until death, the song occasionally returned to Baby-born and from time-to-time, without fire, the Being was warm. Born in blood, as warm blood fills the veins until death and…The Eternal Spirit requires no fire, no light, no blood and still the Being is Warm.

And! Beautiful you are…

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