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

Star-Dusted Moons and Chorus…

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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