Approaches of Articulation…

There is an easy slip-slide escalation in curving path shifting from horizontal to a moderate acclivitous ascent. About ‘these parts’ are levels and soft hills then abrupt driveways and mountains. The foothills originate beyond the driveways and rise to forty-nine hundred feet o’er the conurbation named Windsweep. We happen twelve miles away in a town called Creeshrugs. We are governed by traditional rhythms; intricately and spiritually fused with the natural world. And! The lights dim as the shadow dance begins.

Sing-Song sounds as specters sway ‘round twilight flames adrift in a far-off time. We start with the stars and concurrently we vanish into the mist. With gentle voice in silent rooms with stemma stroked throats and emptied tombs. Passage move toward skylight’s scream while choosing sight of sinking dream. Warming suns of days ago. Salted mist and taste of tongue within lights of passion and 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 piece of safety sleep and lover’s reach.

‘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’

We can climb and defy the Mountains of ‘Overworld.’ No demons’ depraved. And! No rhythm or rhyme nor times’ that happen when forgotten or acceptance is abandoned or uncovered via sets of eyes right-sighted, united, divided and shared ‘cross finale starts.  As inceptions finish single races and commence in other times; additional competitions, wind-curve-win or lose or race-place again and all over again, ad infinitum…

We sustain soul-touched shivers. Beneath drops and beyond opaque places, animation is born and form from kindle or care or wash or wear and never far away from strikes and sparkle. Coven Isles removed from ‘Martian’ Beach lives, and once recognized by diamond eyes, now dry of surface rain, though still alive and seen through other selves in other times and in other places. ‘Tis driest in desert winds away from dark sights and silent night. Sleepless slights and magic lights ‘cross crater crash and runners’ dash into caves where life is born where cycles form and disappear into light-slight and fright.

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 strident.”

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Controlling Cybernetic Creations…

Are we possessed with humanity? We discover pasts, revise mindsets, twist sensibilities and redefine divinities. Considerable realization revolves ‘round us. Are ‘We’ the greatest beings in space?

“If people bring so much courage to this world the world must kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone 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…

We are creations emergent into alternative maturities. While discovering novel advances to the previously known, we have gathered quarks, black holes, particles of light, the waves of space and virgin molecular assemblies in unfamiliar organic units. We are not subjecting apart. We are a fragment of something whole and constantly changing. By noticing, we realize that the undiscovered is greater than the established. To learn is to determine novel ways to realize additional encounters. Some are immediate. And! Some are creations gone. To recognize is to see we are not a universal’s majority. Space is curvilinear and our cosmos is spun from juddering quantum granules. We are currently extant within these fabrications. We are lighting at nightfall. We swiftly vanish.

Dragging the lines of surf’s collapse and climbing as waves dash lofty into moonless sky then fold along miles of sand and shoreline. Seas inhale and exhale and breathe again and time marks nothing when endless and everlasting.

Early daybreak calls are soft ‘gainst ear and progress darts and goes and stops or starts. Ponder no thought and chance as being ensues in sweet drifts of quiet seashores and moonlight bright. Waves gently subtract sandcastles and winds wane as eastern stars’ twinkle and today’s day traces future pauses and beginnings. We are barefoot children of yesterday’s todays and tomorrow’s sunlight bright. We allow dances and little pawmarks in semi-wet sand cool and without ever-care-never. Pipers play and kids dance into ragged-sorted-nights and when they swirl-twirl, Goddess flashes smiles as thunder those claps-of-tiny-hands and rings join little songs and glee as youngsters laugh and sing. A piper of the raggedy sorting day, the role of rolls and the rejoinder some; to ‘follow dance’ behind-beside and before, the flute of silver crafts and the simple-dancing song. ‘A better day,’ they shout, and everyone agrees—if you please.

Survival’s portion portioned and scattered across accepting simplicity and variances in dependence linguistically controlled or by muted shower, gentle starts or rumors of fire-fly wings and quiet lighting. Wait! Senses closed to thunder rolling ‘cross divided skies as secret streaks the sea and roll into the silent spaces between raindrops and life. ‘Fix your standard on fact.’ Science perpetually gambols with belief, doctrine, delusion, and dogmatic obliviousness. Once and frequently; these momentarily wins, something-of-else or another choice-to-follow. Crossroads-to-chance, sparks-to-light and destiny always flirts with other up-and-about or perhaps-maybes. Real sea, we’ll see with additional water-ships and a multitude of places far away. This is here and landings on different beaches reached are promptly neglected.

And! Beautiful you are…

Ascending Wind-up Stairs…

Walking hulks sulk and climb ending stairs skyward to beyond this rabble-rouse and quiet noise. When money creeps and changes; news leaks near power peaks alongside east-west motions and of the upward downs of truths returned. Word crests someplace in this somewhere time when twirling letters rhyme and time-to-know-to-yes remain-the-same. Confusions great relate to money swap and hanging pauses while causes of creation sells and souls pursue uninformed uniformity.

Touch me with Sing-Song poems and forget this world and find me with voice as we two too need those requiring words of hope and verse of love’s together-forever in dark dancing with rhythms in our minds and drumbeats in our hearts…

Demons and Angels dance same pin-top-tip-stop, one fall and catch below and climb those ending stairs and bop atop short pins with needles threaded truths dreaded and ever-speak thru noise and sporadic song. Sing speak the swirl-of-twirling lies. Truth man says he is and not-the-same and this time plain, and this fact not creations-to-entertain or too confused. So! Believe in the truth man and the bogus man and the bogey man and the politics of fearless lies. Believe in fearless fates and drown in something to purchase and throw away. And!  Acquire those accepted trusts in the end or assemble again, products to buy and this time keep-and hold and tossed away as ‘we’ proceed in need of failures and of successes.

Brush eye-lash-to-face and form dance in dreams and seems as long pause with no cause are without voices. Just breath-to-breathe and see tiny freckles and lips to laugh and eyes to quest together. Visions and quiet word songs with gentle space and no race and blends of silence and whisper-speaks. Dreams-then-dream quest cease and increase those creases in time as curtains’ climb and paces die. Visit and speak of ways of star-side streak of starlight sweet of gentle unions and love. Life lives and mingle-tingles thru heart touch good as ring-circles and fancy, dances into love’s rhythm and rhyme.

We are of the emerald seas. We belong to the black sands and tides that pull ‘gainst current as the alignment of this moonlight is perfect while stepping across another dustless night. Creations’ Witch creates those perfect notions and motions as she rewrites truth and confuses lies. The necessity of fire and cave to survive this night and live into another day is now, and through tomorrow’s light will create another constraint.

Freedom weeps. How may walls separate hearts’ hope and families? Walls of fears and falling tears stain and remain as trains move up sun runs ‘cross these sailing winds toward better sound coming round ‘cross these faded boarders toward better moments and toward better days. Does objective truth deny that government is the provider of enjoyments and new progress accepts enjoyments that may become ’entitlements’ and ‘entitlements may become—’the right of the people?’ Why! Do the standards for human rights disappear? And! still elites determine what constitutes without the ‘Constitution’ the Rights of Humanity? These Elites are also the ‘Body Politic’ purchased and taught-bought, traded and faded, commanded and demanded until the ‘rights-of-the-people’ are not products of objective truth embracing relativism but are the results of coercion and brutal power. Political power equals how much gun smoke pours from barrels pointed toward the people? If true! Then how must political power continue or be limited as smoke evaporates into precious air? And! Must this ‘universal continuation’ continue.

Ages past we became sponges; gifted and gregarious and bowed through insight and anchored to two worlds, one frightful and one enchanted. We are filled-to-edge with truth and with wisdom? Both’ are scary and fearful as wisdom sometimes becomes you, as age bends body yet frees spirit twirl. From the twins of two a power of life sparks, and alone-never places begin and fixes end. We together have already accomplished everything. And! Magically we all pass on!

Physics common reach and teach uncommon words with boundless risk and honest computation, manipulation contrived and derived through common wisps-of-wisdom exacted, reacted, contacted and rejected or projected. Creations twists boundlessly and meld into simple sense or corrected logic. Paradigm shatters as whisper-matters while sail ships and storm’s tatters, up righted-ignited-provided-decided and once-feared now tears along with seed sowing acknowledged knowing either real or almost correctly forgotten and then remembered.

Are we not all travelers scattered across someplace-somewhere? And! Does protection equal servitude? We know humanities’ finest moments.  Love and Peace and Touch and Trust.

And! Beautiful you are…

Dancing Along Space Edge…

“Peace is not merely a distant goal that we seek, but a means by which we arrive at that goal.”Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

The loves of men and the loves of women and freedoms’ sweetest notions must not be influenced or weakened by the principals of greed and the powers of dithered legislation, an impotent executive office or a purchased judicial robe. Pondering if America’s ‘founding-fathers’ did spin tales with double tongues and savage intentions since a mile-wide emptiness is emergent. Governance does not notice us or heed our cries and, they still await our deaths for causes and foundations and reasons and rhythms, we ultimately do not recognize. Sweet certainties are principles that all life is equal life that all women and men rich or poor are above borders of wherever boarders for nonreasons and never judged by color, big guns, nuclear death and the perpetual diatribe of segregation, inaccessibility and panic.

“Any man or woman who is willing to think. All those who know that man’s life must be guided by reason, those who value their own life and are not willing to surrender it to the cult of despair in the modern jungle of cynical impotence, just as they are not willing to surrender the world to the Dark Ages and the rule of the brutes.” Ayn Rand

First Amendment

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”

  • On June 1, 2020 in Lafayette Park – Washington, DC…Wondering if tear gas and Stinger Ball grenades used to interrupt and hurt people peacefully assembled “to petition our government for a redress of grievances” was a significant contravention of our 1st Amendment? Of course! And to use this ‘illicit force’ for a ‘Donnie T’ photo-op? WTF?

 

To perceive and conceive and absorb and substantiate every notion and motion now or just beginning to develop something real or unreal is suitable. With no restraint to communicate every notion and motion either known or just discovered is sacrosanct. ‘Freedom of Speech’ and ‘Freedom of the Press’ is the motion of all notions correct or incorrect. Words are not eternally genuine or insincere. Context is often cover for lies or truths. Readers often determine validity or invalidity. Often this determination is not objective. Whimsey may not be independent. Reactions often supplant logic. Clarification often ignores emotions. Normally words spoken are received as the listener wishes to perceive those words and understand what is said or meant or desired or needed as both, truth and invention. Often the silence between all words interconnects everything.

We are not ideas to kill or fancies to perish. We reveal various packages of fabric and color and need and we all bleed red-same as liquid and air mix and body same moves across these places or other spaces in motions to exist together without prejudice or of religions ‘to-take-to-hate’ or to replace, irreplaceable life. We shift into objects of alternative daylights with the accepted expectations of extraordinary flashes of original thought and lights of magnificently creative creations through the perceptions of flashing preconceived originality and congestion repeaters across a wondrous land of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea or coffee or me or you or us or…In becoming an impression immortally important and becoming another legacy repeated or recalled and retweeted we ‘amen’ to both, the previously consummated and the just about to transpire! “Ashes to ashes and dust-to-dust.” New ways to win, we-must-be-us.

 “Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.” Albert Einstein

Our Mothership:

  • Spins at the Equator = (1000mph)
  • Around the Sun = (67,000mph)
  • Around our Galaxy = (490,00mph)
  • Toward the Great Attractor = (621.371/mps)

On Earth side’s moon, a great-walled plain called Mare Crisium- ‘the Sea of Crises’ is about three hundred miles in diameter and start-stop by a circle of colossal mountains. Once an ancient sea dried here and it took a thousand million years before the half mile deep water was gone? Dying achieved; right after life, animated upon another spinning World. We are all émigrés of this Universe. Since an explosion of mystery or reasons or rhymes or by sorcery, we step through time and place and dwell with one-another, together forever. We are the ancient, the existent and the ‘days-of-yet-to-come.’ We are the Gods of Virtuosity! We are life; all growing and all walking and all flying, crawling and swimming. We are Life. We are perfect and we are unstoppable.

Furnish us an Earth where women walk in day/night security and no one recognizes a conflict called ‘War’…Where love is love and where force cannot occur. Where there are no shadowy spaces called ‘heaven’ or ‘hell.’ A place where life does belong, and life is good every day. We construct worlds and we sustain humanities and we all Love our Children. For the magic and the mischief-of-life Gods are not required.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Zombie’ — The Cranberries

‘In the End’ — Linkin Park

 

Reaching Summer Minds…

“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. Happy for her and realized what a joy it must be to discover some all-consuming goal”. …by Larissa

To look for and destroy others due to divergences in shape, in scope, in tint, in notions or faith is intention with no ‘assonance or intelligence’. The colored fibers of an arras must be many and without reason, for life has no meaning if lacking variety and noise and without sing choirs and time.

Recall younger days when single word shapes, we discussed with countless deliberation; is good in young minds, and it is also good to be an idealist and always better to implement, then to watch struggles decrease and die. Intent is formal rhythm as informal ventures and voices we share often, by a multitude of straight forward mind-speak. Shriek and speak, peak, and realize the up-down issues of a United People or a Distant Society, and just listen to murmured fabrications in the dark.

Is Dancing-in-the-dark prudent practice, or is unawareness as idyllic as lingering to trace flowers with eyes-to-face-to-ground and then to drift away into silence? Principles determine how to restrain shares of humanity’s essentials, wants, hopes, and fears. While the Constitution of America is noble, it is an impractical paradigm. Its structures are impossible to apply since values adjust swiftly. Standards amend and are either normally just or abnormally unjust. We are conscious of the ‘Military Industrial Complex’. Will the current actions of 2020, imply the termination of any hopes to continue our righteous and upright and ethical Freedoms? Freedom’s endurance or America’s Dreams-of-Direction is its independent spirit. Justice be a damnable notion to quantify, to find and to practice properly. This Republic may not be clever enough to follow this fragile and undoubtedly corruptible Representative Democracy.

Touch me with sing-song poems. Forget the world and touch me with voice. We two—too need those requiring words of hope. And! Verses of love’s together-forever. Whilst! Dark dancing with rhythm in our minds and drumbeats in our hearts…

A lighthouse, countless lifetimes gone, spark as great beams sweep across sight line discharge and disappear only to eternally reappear. Pulsars pulse power ‘cross a sparkling firmament. A blood moon appears, and ears perk for Wolf’s lunar call. Cold and bright stars spot night beyond rooftops and always brighter as moonlight slips closer to the earth. Early morning and snow curves to white silver and interwoven shadows of leafless limbs and long trunks stand between the moon and ground touch. Black way now white; a gentle declination from community’s frontage and down another moderate rise.

Being afraid to exist is the notion of moving through a barely recollected time of future’s fate and prior to another trip-in-time. Government is controlling an alienated society and the anterior faith in promises and desires. The elected ones cannot move toward either truth or nonfiction due to the simple reasons that lying is the easiest form of communication. And! None seem to care.

Life flows thru vein-to-brain then ink flows and magic often flat is smooth and…And! Mind speaks simplicity with force combined to shout future verse with yesterday’s sweet silence. To listen! To pronounce and become choir sing-song’s harmonious visions so softly. Is truth found here? Is in communities ‘cross land and seaside channels a fact that each community found discovers itself on the verge of losing every part and every parcel of any fortune or any chance of regaining any semblance of harmony, love and joy?

We are effective at destroying ‘the enemy’; so proficient, that we are unable to identify an adversary from a ‘maybe or almost’ the same blood-red animation we want or desire to embrace—not race but begin and end with a sometimes or almost never-ever or requiring an absolute maybe? Global reasons to exist will conclude as divisions increase hate and ignorance and vacuous nationalism and abject failure of new realities, as greed continues its evil. Constant learning is another form of survival’s attempts to animate. We supply the poise required to afford physical sustenance, covering and haven. What is the sacrifice for this equilibrium? Why? We accept these ‘all the time’ situations as unalterable and unavoidable and ‘so it must be true’, this way of life’s life.

‘Tulips’

“The tulips are too excitable; it is winter here.

Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly

As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.

I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.

I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses

And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. 

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff

Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.

Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.

The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,

They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,

Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,

So, it is impossible to tell how many there are. 

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water

Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.

They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.

Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——

My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,

My husband and child smiling out of the family photo.

Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat

Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.

Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley

I watched my tea-set, my bureaus of linen, my books

Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.

I am a nun now; I have never been so pure. 

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted

To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.

How free it is, you have no idea how free——

The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,

And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.

It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them

Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.  

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.

Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe

Lightly, through their white swaddling, like an awful baby.

Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.

They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,

Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,

A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.

The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me

Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,

And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow

Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,

And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.

The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. 

Before they came the air was calm enough,

Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.

Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.

Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river

Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.

They concentrate my attention, that was happy

Playing and resting without committing itself. 

 The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.

The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals.

They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes

Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,

And comes from a country far away as health”. — ‘Tulips’ by Sylvia Plath

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Spellbound’Lacuna Coil

 

‘Cruel Summer’ – Ace Of Base

Walker Places—Walker Spaces…

Light Fall and Darkness touches street and covered brick-crack and moonless crackles. Colloid collisions to scented secrets and motions without notions. We are the Queens and Kings of these streets. This ‘Sity’ is our City.

              The Walker is a silhouette pushed low beneath Grand Moon rising and carved carefully ‘cross sky too close to be real and too real to be proximity’s cost, close to-shapes-to-shift-shape and nearer to buildings tossed across landfall along sea-line to skyline. Tide comes in, evening time and changes along season’s alteration same as sunrises and sunsets and shadows play beneath twin moon season with splashes of textured cloud color or star twinkles too distant to notice or too close not to catch eye when noticed in brain as spirit touches at the same time.

The Walker glides across a jumble-tumble of brushed footholds fashioned by rainwater visible; as digging, once moved dirt above rock faces and dragged these weighted ones from place to necessary place for buildings built or buildings removed-restructured-replaced or obliterated. Needed things at needed times where locations were homes and buildings-controlled landside. And! Little killer medications be, only notions of Lizard Kingdoms where the notions of you ‘peel’ums’ accessible and needed from the glory of car-trunks.

She is a Walker Warrior and claims the Bridge above the ruins of ‘City.’ Below the places of spaces, once a great tangle of yards and rails carried the price of commerce commercially to and away and beyond her bridge and dirty sea ships sailed toward one another. They bounced the line; black shadows, slowly creeping beneath an injured sky. No wind! Masts no sails. Crude! Not fueled cold furnaces and boilers empty drums with warm air. She now adjusts eyes and turns and follows silent ships passing one another. They ride the line with no wake. They do not disturb the oiled sea or change silt-less shoals beyond an invisible channel. She watches and waits for their return.

She forgets to breathe. Fog horns moan and moan again just within cones of hearing an evening rare without fog or mist. Held inside, air rushes into throat and through her nose and mouth. Sea odor and her eyes tear. Bridge time is fine and darkness safe. She searches sea. She swears the line has moved closer to shore. And! Those ships are gone.

            We shift into objects of alternative daylights with the accepted expectations of extraordinary flashes of original thought and lights of magnificently creative creations through perceptions of flashing preconceived originality and congested repeaters across a wondrous land of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea-or-coffee-or me-or-you-or-us or…In the becoming of an impression immortally important and into legacy’s realm repeated and recalled and retweeted we ‘amen’ to both; the previously consummated and the just about to transpire!

Ghost clouds block moonlight as they race clouds across the early morning sky tucked somewhere between dawn and night. And! What is the color of souls? In these dreams there be gods in this place where now only spaces remain. So! Come to Cloud early in transition time and seek flash-ride to spiral and skip into framing time.

These Memorial Gardens are filled and overflowing and encompass many miles. Commons frame these gardens. Statues cover these parks. Here are sacred places and areas and spaces and graces where families gather and depart.

Ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust-new-ways-to-win—we must be us!

And! Beautiful you are….

 

‘Can’t Find My Way Home’ by Steve Winwood Performed by — Rachael Price & Chris Thille

 

‘The Other Side’ by Ruelle (Margaret Eckford)

Frail and Almost Maybe…

This time of days of times ago and present time; the old man vision touched, those other ones and whispered, “Not this time—Not this time—our children will not go to war.” Others knew that this time of times would not be the time for dead children and metal touch-to-flesh-madness. And! For these moments warriors are unnecessary and ‘Honor’ is a simple way of Life.

     We do not summon gentle love. It whispers to our spirits and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance. Gentle love moves ‘cross routes of layers to find many lives inside walls;  too high to climb, or too low or too wide or just about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love; heart touches and reaches, into body frail and into those impossible attempts to hide among thrones of thorns and weary costs already paid and already spent. Listen! Please listen. And! Love will reminds us of the equality of equals of women and of men and the spirits of all; trapped and living, sentient sentences of life inside the body and forever minding body.

     “In the current phase of intellectual corruption, it must be stressed that, like democracy and human rights, the economic doctrines preached by the rulers are instruments of power, intended for others, so that they can be more efficiently robbed and exploited. No wealthy society accepts these conditions for itself, unless they happen to confer temporary advantage; and their history reveals that sharp departure from these doctrines was a large factor in development.”—Noam Chomsky

     We are not a means to an end that 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. We are not  sacrifices to gods come whimsy or rushing wings or gift bearing things; beads, baubles, glitter or flash. We androids do dance into Electric nights. Love does lead shifting-shapes through darkest  frights and into sweetest lights. Shadow-touches ‘cross secret ceilings of moon dust and hidden space. Time sans race are inside moments like these and Life is an Almost maybe.

     This dot-dash in time is not America’s ‘darkest hour.’ This is not darkness; just a candle no- spark, no-match-to-wick. Just quick—foolish words—entertainment—more criminal than ‘ever clean.’ A fox in a ‘house-of-hens’— is honorable…This dot-dash in time is just loss unity—without integrity. “A cloud of cicada on acid. A thrumming high-pitched squeal of acoustic irritation.”.

‘Deportation Forever Continues This Illegal and Wicked—Course of Global Separation and Global Apartheid’…We are all Children of this Universe and We all have the Right-to-be—Everywhere…

     Pay attention to Life—call it a modern Life—and all this modernity—simply wears a body. Wondering if this justice is rendered with and without sunlight? Still a visible universe is visible without sight-to-see? Why not? Love reminds us of the equality of equals—women and men and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient sentences of life inside the body—minding body.

Touch me in Sing-Song poems. Forget the world and touch me with voice. We two; too need, those requiring words of hope and verse of love’s together forever. We are two; in dark dancing, with rhythm in our minds and drum beats in our hearts…And! Magically—birds transform the air they breathe—into surprisingly sweet songs…

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Inhale-Exhale—Inspire-Expire…

 

 

“Just for a minute
The silver forked sky
Lit you up like a star
That I will follow

Now it’s found us
Like I have found you
I don’t want to run
Just overwhelm me

I want to see you
As you are now
Every single day
That I am living

Painted in flames
All peeling thunder
Be the lightning in me
That strikes relentless

What if this storm ends?
And I don’t see you
As you are now
Ever again” …

The Lightning Strike (What If This Storm Ends?)
Written by: Gary Lightbody, Jonathan Quinn, Nathan Connolly, Paul Wilson, Tom Simpson

Time begins a whatever sound of music never ending through the never ending starts of measures measured and notes sent bouncing across a five lined staff of tremble and rhythm, of rock and rolling as those tremulous ends of beginning starts and ending stops. An octave away and sound still rocks an ear or two toward silence; not to hear yet, still vibrating life and crossing spaces between sound and whispering wind without pine forests or desert sands.

And ‘coke-blow’ away the white lined wind and never ends the needles’ spin an unreal reality. Faded, the body walks and talks among those shimmers of blackness and along the edges of storms—blinks the kitten eyes and escapes to rooftop stars and window shines. There are no sounds of screams in silence. Music in mind sized levels are only inside mind sized ears to once be seen in scales of notes added to working-words-to-form-verses of sound mix and chorus touch. An often dream; or is this, a poem of poet-speak? And! Not knowing may sometimes create choirs in four-part harmony…

We are beings in this place of stress and salty tears.  We are the used-to-be folks and other things-in-place; where laws are enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street spaces with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’  conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘We the People’) as the Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We are these beings in this place of stress and salty tears.

‘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.” 

Are we not all travelers-in-time? We are scattered across a someplace time at a somewhere place. We are not timed or blessed or wonderful or gifted or fortunate or meant-to-be a ‘something else; without, a price-tagged-branded-commodity of enhanced steroidal surgically modified blast of cartoon fashion or lip-stick mouths pouted and mounted on another pictured perfect and replicated glossy imitation of sport manned—model swished—corruption dished with a splash dash of hopeless and fanatic fantasy. And! Does protection always equal servitude? When brain understands humanities’ wonder, the wisdom-brain holds to Love-to-Peace-to-Touch and to-Trust…No charges-no gains-no loss-no rust. Then flash among the realities of reality and touch sweet spaces, an instant before lip touch and as co-mingled breath warms the cold evening air. Then discover a rational response to rational insanity.

Along Martian Ridge along one line, eye stretched far there once was a stutter of thorn then throne then thorn then throne. This repeated until distance failed seeing and sight disappeared when ridge merged sky and matter dropped from surfaced rust. And! On these staggered thrones writers’ names were etched, crystal tags attached along the top-front of each and every throne.

We measure all things known and all things unknown by quantities of lengths, of short and tall and of large and small. We sing-long-song-tales of beings and of being above and below and within and without and still we are the singers of verses loud and soft and often true and often false because; we are, Spirits of Creations—Creative Critters—one-and-all.

Sparks are in this world! Without a spark of ‘Sparkle’ — ‘Life’ couldn’t or wouldn’t evolve; as it has, during this moment of time or this place-in-this-space. The spark is special and often starts by touch or begins through an ‘Unknowable Kingdom’ of muse, of enlightenment, of genius, of anger, of thrill, of joy, of wonder, of magic or by accident. Watch from inside the shadows of bridge and steel. Watch as wooden shapes pass beneath the towers of man; created, when young species roamed earth-bound and the constructions of shapes and water passages filled their worlds before the tearing days and summer’s songs died. A night bird cries and another winged one settles, protected within thick tree grasses inside the shadows of the moon.

“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

 

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Lightning Strike’ (What If This Storm Ends?)..Snow Patrol

 

 

 

 

Miss Lizbeth…


“Life is a Dream—Realize It” by Mother Teresa

Abstracts we are and Abstracts we are not. Even when we are rich or poor, sick or well, big or small; and beings of, magic and language and math and music and poetry and art and motions-in-time and rhythm or rhyme or; kings and queens, or servants or slaves—we; with fingers crossed, are all abstractions at the gates of New Worlds just waiting to be discovered.

Are we really ‘things’ removed from nature? By this removal do we become, aggravating abstracts of potential products of loss and of gain? However; we are, information that is and maybe changed thru whimsy and by chance. So! Line them up and roll those dice again.

Morning is sweet and time is early. Lizbeth and I move along these sidewalks toward trees placed; so long ago and, spaced above lawns now green and wonderfully mowed…Lizbeth is a fine friend; complete with four feet, with beautiful fur and great purpose. Stop and listen; short paces, move again then stop and listen and watch many motions and notions of early morning birds and small beasts with four legs and fur and purpose. “Tis good this time—“Tis good this twine-rewind.

“May you hear every song in the forest…And! If ever you lose your own way…Hear my voice like a breeze whisper soft through the leaves, may you stay in the arms of the Angels… from Lullaby for a Soldier by Dillion O’Brian…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Time of the Season’ by Rod Argent/performed by Haley Reinhart

Borrowing From Well Oil And Rust…

“In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people
By the relief office I seen my people
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me” …by Woody Guthrie

Along Martian Ridge—one line—eye stretched far—once was—a stutter of thorn—then throne—then grain—then throne—then repeated—until distance—failed seeing and sight disappeared— when ridge—merged sky—and—matter dropped—from surfaced rust. And! On these staggered thrones—Writers’ names etched’—crystal tags—attached—along the top-front—of every throne.’ Round-about—pinpricks and—holes into space—race the flights—of gulls ‘cross sky—where ending—starts—and reason begins…We do—remove those ‘for granted’—blinders’-of-right-sight—and often skyward—search and find—light…Wormholes—cosmic cross—universes—near and far—and still ‘we’ see—the vast—of power blast—possibilities—of relativity’s—loopholes—and just hope-know-now—‘warp drive’ may—span distance ‘cross—space—time wonders—wandering about—wilderness—speak—‘til speed—crease—cease—and earth-lock—unblock—free—‘childhood’s end’—and into space—we—seek-creep and star-child begins—again…

A little Galaxy up line—along ridges circling—the ‘Giants of Milky’ at angles right—to the main disc of stars—containing everything—even a Sun—of our shines—not scattered at random—but—ordered and held together—a swarm—by a cosset halo—of matters-dark—rarely seen—but always present…And! A well-stocked mind—is never bored—donchaknow?

World begins—green light, blue corn stocks—stacked across—giant ridge—five hundred miles and stopping—just because—height stops—and sky—begins. “Tis reach—to stay and say—this place is—climbing high—growing large—from spinning barge—‘cross this—sky bright and—eternal night…Everywhere snow—large flakes and small—swirl ‘round this alley wide—middle dark—to light muffled—both ends—where streets begin—and—alley’s end…Cold away from street lights…And! Silent away—from rider less—paths where—foot high white—bounce—lands and—covers asphalt ways—and concrete walks. Quiet so—Go no shadow pale—wall crawl—or dark creep—light speak—too scattered—to form—round interruptions—of snow motion—descend and bounce.

Trail signs run—up and down south-ridge-side of—hill-high below mountain tall…Tracking the organic beast—disguised to survive—tend to inorganic challenges—and when snow fall—covers everywhere and everything —‘tis mountain tall—the safest refuge…Nothing rusts any longer…Well-oiled and fine—Gleam suits of almost steel—reflects sunlight’s glare—and deflects insults and injuries and wounds-to-destruction…And! When tucked inside Gleam suits—those hidden may be—Organic—Inorganic and both. Either —‘Runners or those Running’ can think—can wit and outwit both sides—equally well—equally fast—equally furious and always deadly—as trail signs appear—and—disappear from light dawn ‘til night. The paradoxical motion—of ‘man-steel form’ and ‘steel-formed man’—are quickly defined—and—impossible to divine…Notions-are motions-of head shakes—as land-side changes—rearranges—hills-to-valleys—and reverse flows streams-to-river glows. Armored trains passed through snow mountains of tree mix—fallen leaves and save rumbled echoes— silence. Where do these trains go? They are armored trains and they go toward battle. Out of sight—out of mind—and unless this war comes our way—this war does not exist.

When in love—distance from the ‘one’s—‘Love’ is just formality…A spirit being “in-love’—takes no notice of Space—Distance—Time…Paley’s watch—keeps ticking—and—Universal continuation—continues. Our world of right now—words—worldwide—so many—too many—too often—are—persecuted—imprisoned—suffer sub-human disadvantages—and are killed—for religious reasons—beliefs political—their race—their sex—their loves—and still—the wisdom of engagement—on behalf of human rights—is not only a moral imperative—but eternally required—everywhere—every moment—‘cross the continuum universal—and still—Paley’s watch—keeps ticking and ‘too often’—occurs—eternally.

“Among the stars
there is a place
to where my heart
always returns.

Alone I look for the way
hoping you are waiting for me
where the hostile world has no say
that is where I always want to be.
Where my rush of thoughts
in oblivion drowns
to forget the evil lot
I will sleep in safe arms.

Among the stars
there is a place
to where my heart
always returns” by Anna Aya Stefanowicz

The gentle touch—of skin—brushed-wind—morning stars—and angel’s dust… And! These precious feet-touch—wings-speak—to start another path—leading little ones—to another—precious shore—sustained hope—and—just wishes for a moment—of ‘good day’…Uncertain in world-scream—uncertainties-wide—grief—bowed head—always—certain in—the certainty—of swift chaos—and—tears…And so—no doubt—be found—from ‘cross this sea—travelers see—candles bright—‘cross this night—a coming home-to-us—delight—light shined—‘Welcome’—from windows’ space—of ‘Safe Harbor’—not race—just place—to stop—and—stay awhile… 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.

So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away.

Is Dancing-in-the-dark a safe—practice or ignorance—as blissful—as stopping—to touch flowers—eyes-to-face-to ground and into oblivion? And! The scent of inorganic flowers never compares to the scent of a Rose…

So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Creek Mary’s Blood’…by Nightwish

 

‘Locked Within A Crystal Ball’…by Blackmore’s Night