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

 

Of Balance—Of Checks…

Near Fort McHenry— began ‘The Battle of Baltimore’ and from a poem “Defence of Fort M’Henry”, Francis Scott Key developed what ultimately—would become “The Star-Spangled Banner.” In 1931, this song would become this Nation’s anthem… Francis watched the battle from a British ship called, the HMS Tonnant. ‘By dawn’s early light’ while still aboard the HMS Tonnant, F.S. Key caught a glimpse of the large and tattered Garrison flag still moving in the gentle wind… Resilience and Triumph; while celebrated through songs and stories, these notions are twin-twined—salted ropes—bondage chains—hunger—fear—gun-powdered air—laws unfair and—always War…

“Defence of Fort M’Henry”

“O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming,

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight

O’er the ramparts we watch’d were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket’s red glare, the bomb bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that

our flag was still there,

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,

In full glory reflected now shines in the stream,

‘Tis the star-spangled banner – O long may it wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore,

That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion

A home and a Country should leave us no more?

Their blood has wash’d out their foul footstep’s pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O thus be it ever when freemen shall stand

Between their lov’d home and the war’s desolation!

Blest with vict’ry and peace may the heav’n rescued land

Praise the power that hath made and preserv’d us a nation!

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto – “In God is our trust,”

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”—Francis Scott Key

Francis Scott Key used his office as the District Attorney for the City of Washington from 1833 to 1840 to defend slavery, attacking the abolitionist movement in several high-profile cases.” WTF?

We go to war for many-many reasons…And! Not often, but just once-in-a-while—we ‘the people’ almost become free people—but never-ever free of War. One can still love one’s country and hate War…One-can-still-love-one’s-country and Hate the war of ideologies—divisions of colors (‘red and blue and tattoo you’) …We share—we care and Governments must never separate the ‘We the People’ from the ‘US’ of America…And! If the Executive and Legislative and Judicial branches—treetop high—dance without harmony—hopefully—they will always—dance—check the balance and balance the check—donchaknow? Because of this dance—we may—be free for just a-little-bit—longer…

“Sign—sign everywhere a sign—blocking out—the scenery—breaking my mind—Do this don’t do that—can’t you read the sign”… by Les Emmerson

Venezuela: How do positive steps—Socialist reformation, a people’s transformation, a government of wealth redistribution—founded on the peoples’ needs—dreams of better days and hope for a long-term future become a failure? Venezuela has trillions of dollars in petrochemical wealth…It also proof of greed’s ruin and prosperity climax—ruin and end.

Spin this among a million worlds across thousands of sun/stars. Calimesa had once known riches…Crystal rich planet of star-drive fuel for thousands of Star ships…Colonial power cast about one thousand worlds…A rich center—wealth—work for everyone—educated—protected peoples…All good until greed destroyed Calimesa completely in one thousand years…Among the stars Power lives and dies much quicker—than Black Sun twirls—whirls of long-life and death fast—Explode and move on…Crow-man’s old world name, his Calimesian name—is Theodis—Carmelt-Shiamotory…Theodis was born wealthy—was born a beautifully shaped baby—grew into a beautiful being—moved beyond green water and green diamond foam— shaped-to-shift—to other shapes—another heartbeat—heat—bother body to another—space-place-race and graced to forget everything…Not an Earther—still earth-bound—gravity ground—added—pound—adapted to see—to be—to flee and survive another dive—spaced—race—paced—too fast-to-be-so-slow…

“Walls appear—Fear—No! Climb those Walls and Welcome Home.”

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Flip-Flop And Vacuum…

4583“Hey you out there in the cold
Getting lonely getting old
Can you feel me?
Hey you standing in the aisles
With itchy feet and fading smiles
Can you feel me?
Hey you don’t help them to bury the light
Don’t give in without a fight

Hey you out there on your own
Sitting naked by the phone
Would you touch me?
Hey you with your ear against the wall
Waiting for someone to call out
Would you touch me?
Hey you, would you help me to carry the stone?
Open your heart, I’m coming home

But it was only fantasy
The wall was too high
As you can see
No matter how he tried
He could not break free
And the worms ate into his brain

Hey you, out there on the road
Always doing what you’re told
Can you help me?
Hey you, out there beyond the wall
Breaking bottles in the hall
Can you help me?”…by Roger Waters

And! Still the flip-flop shriek—wind sound—slips round—colder spaces between—broken brick corner—and crumbled mortar—time aged and weather worn—and–since-time-began—nature is never fond of vacuum. Crowman stumbles—sandal worn strap—from right side notion—of footwear—broken—a thousand years ago—causes flip-flap noise—skyward shrieks—bombers ‘cross—inside clouds—so thick from sky-to-almost-ground—as to hide nose rounds—fired—as jumps—loud then quietly—as pronounced—as gone… Statues—broken—some scattered round—park-of-lost—times—before the mime’s danced—unbroken and bending to—purpose—unfounded-unknown—or lost with—the rhymes of times—recorded-forgotten—and gone.

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 thing-or-less or—the loneliness of crowd—bridges twin screw moments—of those spaces-of-time— without seconds. And! We—search blood and find–taste good—in mingle-tingle moments—touch-amazing—touch not those—imagined sources of—unnecessary wariness—and one—is another brief—the flashes together spread—the separate into—singularity—no more than once… Feel intimacy—of rhythm-or-rhyme—as touches—speak hides deep—inside the formality—of syntax creep and syntax crawl—where ear-here—hears echoes bury—idiom not—conveyed by—dictionary’s space—between word-speak and why…The share of—poet-touch and story-spin—of exile’s faith—of disaster’s private pain—as speech native—fails—creative spirit—often maims creature-speak—and often confuses—the never-place-of-everywhere. Still! Sweet Witches-of-Creation—smile—womb-spun life—comes and goes—without road-speak and without—interstate shriek…

Twilight—Dawn—departure gates—to swirl through—go-to-spaces—-between places—both here or-there-or-back-again—to hear-to fear-to find—to die or to—live again—in places without time—signs-in-parts—or sums-to-hold-again…Ecliptic twirl—galaxy ‘cross—spaces when composite—forms appear-to-disappear—Serpent speak and Eagle reach—Ophiuchus—holder-or- bold—once again—Quetzalcoatl boys—and—fair Gaia girls—wander star-gates—through and touch-find-found—reaches—useless rhythms and trouble—times. Ophiuchus high stands— above sun—rises-feet-crossed—Galactic wide and planetary—substance filled—from brim-to-rim and back-again…

Our nature runs—with or from—the many or the few…See often through—curved ceilings of doorway—when curved light enters—twenty-one windows round—openings through—to escape places or—leave regions. Still! More spirit than—body proper—’til chemicals—those-of-doubt or-satisfaction body rule—self ending sometime—in time—without reasons to be—except—a rhythm to—complete. We are—the daughters—and—the sons-of-earth—and of—the starry skies. Our history–alive—simple and true—except when—suppressed—through layers—distortion or—flashes of fears and—tears…We are the eternity of spirits—never having—to begin—and—never ending. Such is—the sweetness of life.

“The circle safely closed—the web building starts—the markers of builders old and builders new. Star Guide—folded into original shape— until it is—again required and opened to read and follow—‘cross sky-bridge….Bang-Bang-Bang and let the game begin—again…‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine—Re-wind. And! While I breathe—I Hope…”

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Hey You’…written by Roger Waters—Performed by “Smooth Jazz All Stars”

Hordes of Rage Street…

Yusuf Islam“Peace Train’

“Now I’ve been happy lately
Thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be
Something good has begun
Oh, I’ve been smiling lately
Dreaming about the world as one
And I believe it could be
Some day it’s going to come
‘Cause out on the edge of darkness
There rides a peace train
Oh, peace train take this country
Come take me home again
Now I’ve been smiling lately
Thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be
Something good has begun
Oh, peace train sounding louder
Glide on the peace train
Come on the peace train
Yes, peace train holy roller
Everyone jump upon the peace train
Come on the peace train
Get your bags together
Go bring your good friends too
‘Cause it’s getting nearer
It soon will be with you
Now come and join the living
It’s not so far from you
And it’s getting nearer
Soon it will all be true
Oh, peace train sounding louder
Glide on the peace train
Come on the peace train
Peace train
Now I’ve been crying lately
Thinking about the world as it is
Why must we go on hating
Why can’t we live in bliss
‘Cause out on the edge of darkness
There rides a peace train
Oh, peace train take this country
Come take me home again
Oh, peace train sounding louder
Glide on the peace train
Come on the peace train
Yes, peace train holy roller
Everyone jump upon the peace train
Come on, come on, come on
Yes, come on the peace train
Yes, it’s a peace train”…by Yusuf Islam

When peering through keyholes—of anecdote and description—we may discover—scatters and bits-of-bytes—self—no self—us—not us—and always—a something—somewhere—tunnel version—or panoramic—exhaustively great—grated spreads—facts of fictions—truths and not— exactly correct. Along thin—streaks of asphalt—and concrete side-way—the sidewalks of ‘Rage Street’ fill—with howlers and prowlers—simple symphonies—fiddler bows—and drum-sticks—silver and crowds—of the comers and the goers—of the blenders—and the unwanted—the home folk—and the strangest—strangers—foreign—homecoming—and the giggle-of-mirth.

We are an instant in Time—Lined in rows of minutes…We are The People—Eternal Spirits all—We are The People—We are not Religions—We are The People—We are not Governments—We are The People—-We are not War—We are The People—We are not Aliens upon this Earth—We are The People—Children of the Universe—We are The People—We have the Right-to-be-Everywhere—We are The People—And! Governments All—Hear us Call—We are The People—All-of-Us—Right Now! Tomorrow Time—‘tis still the Crime—We are The People—We are the—Choice of the—Spin-of-the-Twirl—and—Spirits-of-the-Universal Swirl…So! Let us-be-written—So! Let-us-be Done…

And! Beautiful you are…

“Peace Train”…by Yusuf Islam…

 

“Dangerous Type”…by Ric Ocasek—performed by The Cars

Steps Through Light Ripples…

“My love must be a kind of blind love
I can’t see anyone but you
Sha bop sha bop
Sha bop sha bop

Are the stars out tonight
I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright
I only have eyes for you dear
Sha bop sha bop

The moon may be high
Sha bop sha bop
But I can’t see a thing in the sky
I only have eyes for you”by Harry Warren and Al Dubin

Once from the harbors of Calimesa City —sailed great ships of crystal and purple satin sails—‘cross space high—sea wide—space—toward small—places of spinning—three steps from star-bright—to sunlight tight—dancers—heated waves vibrating life—chances of starts—begins-of-ends—exploded—homes of variations and always—conducive to blood-fleshed creations—and our—creature selves. Lights of night—spot brilliance—and lines—along shoreline’s length—dimming as they too—scatter away from seeing—folks passing one another—as they walk water-front streets along—the westerly notions of Calimesa City.

Shine ‘cross water’s edge—looping and faint—far away—from those faithful walkers—street people—moving—when sun drops—and twin moon spins—enter sky—both from the East and again—from the west…Were they substance? If not—then could—those two—be ephemeral? Time measured—as moving ahead—when moments—disappear backward? How can light—become bright—and still often—plunge one—into darkness? And! How does one—wake up in places—with no darkness—and still be in—an endless night?

Step through—lights—from mountain top splendor—to photographs—of halo and nights. Cram—Jam—Berry talk—and moonlight walk—begin—as Orbits of—Multitudes clear cloud cover—and circled—blue worlds…And! The amounts of dark matter—are so substantial an amount—as to far outbound—a Universe of visibility…Heavenly bodies do swirl—along the twirl—laws forwarded by Johannes Kepler—and gravitates’ fundamental natural forces—of glue—to either hold or attract toward—paved circles or—twines-of-lines—by Sir Issac Newton… And! Now—we know—ripples in Space—are Gravitational Waves…

We may—be-proof-of—the something-of-else—far from planet—here-to-there—where once and often— Gods—if allowed—do rule—the what-of-ever-forever-for-more-or-less—create something’s—woman and man— inside worlds—of Sirius Peak-Shriek and Speak. Then—Nomad Gods drag—life’s sweet strength—to Mars and Earth—and other—beyond—in hinged—fringes and the light-bytes—of Crystal ships and magic sails—-and no sound engines-to-race? Improved or less—and by the joint—-endeavors’ of sin survive—and here we-be—alive?

Ships of crystal—and filled to brim—with living mischief—and the odd whimsy—of god-speak and legend—lurch forward—-toward features reversed—or continued—or extinguished…Titans created—the-creations-of-presences—histories and common fallacy…And! Since wars—among Titans rage—heaven’s high and length— ‘tis simple why creatures—created in images—or by—production of accidents’—industrial strength—and robotics’ revolutions—determine little more—than continued strife—strike—stupidity and suffering—through little success—successfully executed and lost…

The created-creations—lost an ‘Eden’ place—when the ‘She’ and ‘He’ of the ‘It’—either happens—by an accidental-accident—or fall from—or is pushed out of—the wonder of— ‘Immaculate Contraptions’—and through construction—‘divinely discovers’ the—‘other than’ robotic being—and join the ‘Spirits of Twirl’—while discovering choice is better—than and more difficult than—the straight-in-line-crawl—toward golden lights—cave dwellings and scrawling—dots or dashes ‘gainst walls—without reasons or rhymes or the ‘Rhythm of Love.’

The concepts of Alpha’s—fade into sunlight’s setting—in a western sky—or—an eastern place— where Suns counter-twirl—the clock’s faced sweep —of hands—out-of-motion in—the used-to-be circle—and night still happens—and daylight’s measure—is counts of —products- produced—and profits’-loss-or-gain. Must be—Gods-of-creation…We create them—they must earn—a return—for creations sweet—‘so let it be—in written-speak?

The commune of Paimpont—is near the city of Rennes…Is Paimpont Forest—Brocéliande? Magical—mysteries of planet space—a place—where the Lady of the Lake—Merlin’s capture—a tree where imprisoned—he may still remain? Or! Mystery rich—Merlin’s tomb—the Val sans Retour—enchanted land—where ‘Morgan le Fay’ casts spells—to—imprison—her loves? And! Remember—that once Rennes—was Condate—tiny village—of wonder spells—twisted whirls of twirling—tells—story rich—and tame.

The People should never be afraid of their government…Their government should always be afraid of The People …Bombs to feed our Children—WTF? ‘Swords to Plowshares’—How Simple and How Sweet…Worlds without Rape and Murder—Absolutely! And! ’ Sleeping in Safe Arms’ Wonderfully—Wonderful…donchathink?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘I Only Have Eyes For You’…performed by The Flamingos

The Orbit of Multitudes…

136_JLThe Orbital Multitudes—arrived above Calimesa City—lighting a sky—once dark—for one hundred years—often gray—often starless—often filled with falling dust—black soot—oil rain—and prime—with grime. The Galileo folk—talked of these things—long before ‘these things’—arrived. Priest-speak—praise reek—the beginning of ends—beginning again—along with those street whisperers—truth—less dares and single cares. Before a million days’ past—present days and moment ways—had once multitudes—filled sky—before changing way—circles found—round—older time—than now and here—to hear and see—another dot of light—fill—with winter sun—and less—night long…

And! There is night long rights—when moving creatures—tree merge—in pale moon—light scatter—along mist ridges—or bridges—‘cross valley tucked down—so far—not to be—to see—in silhouette’s’ shadows’ rhyme—without day count—or time. The water’s edge and skies of blue and pink and red and orange and yellow—as earth spin sets sunlight to softness and twinkles of sky-lighted-canvas—sheets the blue-gray into darkness—and stars light —the sailor’s way along the caverns—of space and place and—the race of time. Still! We all cross spaces—along these places of—the races in time gathered—and night ships—crossing heaven’s ragged ridges…

Collusion collides—confusions of aesthetics—incarnations of color blocks—geometry—cage glisten—staggers-of-rusted-steel—lemon peels—orange scents—tombstones—and waste—placed—in straight lines—stratified air—and musk…Village Insis is—one hundred and thirty seven miles—from—Calimesa City—reached by dry road—three forded rivers—or—one craft stretched—across the Wall—Hallenid and a—flash-splash-paced-space—of climb-drop—into Village-Center. Not far to run—unless walking—inside sun’s—noon-day heat—and—wanting to race—toward—streamed liquid—silver drops—and cooler rain. Aeolian Harps—line the wires—of sketch 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.

The Walker—a silhouette tuck—tucked low—beneath Grand Moon rising—careful-to-carve—a cross-dark-sky—too close to be real—and—too real to be—proximity’s cost—close—to-shapes-to-shift-shapes—and closer—to buildings tossed—‘cross landfall—to sea-line-to-skyline. Tide shifts—in evening time—and—changes along season’s—mix-or-match—same as sunrises—as sunsets—and—shadows do play—twin moon seasons—with splashes—textured cloud colors—and—star twinkles—too-far-to-see—or—too close to be—and—not to catch eye—noticed-in- brain—with spirit touch—time same.

The Walker—glides ‘cross jumble-tumbles—stone dust purple—made by rain—visible—as digs—once moved dirt—above rock face—and dragged—these weighted ones—from place-to- special-place—buildings built—or—structures moved—restructured—replaced or destroyed. Needed things—as times required—when places—were homes—and buildings ruled—seaside—land-side…And! Little death—be only—notions of—Lizard Kingdoms—where the motions—of ‘we-be-pills’—available—or needed—from car trunk glory to—never matters—what gates—we fall through—matters not—what star burns us…Matters—that gates open—matters—that stars are hot…

Now—run well—with the wolves—of Reach River Park—and—face taste days—of oiled rain—with cougar’s heart. Watch pageant—brute human—crowds—of those both—burning rights and torching wrongs—fights—both frenzied—always short—with bursts-of-peace—too—long notice—sun-scarred and dusted—with forests’ green—summers’ too—then—fallen leaves. Bargain old—with new—the contentions of—earth-speak and necessary sadness—necessity weighted—heavy burdens—too fierce—too varied and multiplied—by conditions-of—humanities’—weights and survival’s—moments—and—the need-of-greed.

We do not summon—gentle love…Love whispers—to our spirits—and—touches us—beyond the flesh-of-resistance—and—through those—routes of layers—of life—inside walls—too-high- to-climb—or under—or around—or about the shout—of daily doubt—and flight. Love—heart touch—and reach—into body frail—and those—attempts-to-hide—among thrones-of-thorns and cost—already paid—and—already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love—reminds us of—the equality-of-equals—woman and man and—spirits—all trapped and—living sentient—sentences- of—life—inside body—minding body.

‘Brush to lids—of my own eyes—with sweet—your lips—touch deep—my heart—with spirit dance—your strength as—my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin wheels—together—and—taste 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…Shining candles—harbor flash—from sea-today-and-follow-tide…Come to harbor—sirens call…Shining candles—harbor flash…From sea-to-safety-side—tonight.’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘God Bless The Child’—performed by Julie London

Even Here—We Belong…

WL_591‘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.”

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…

Our People—our many—our injured—our women—our children—our homeless? We are Refugees—the running ones— from—strategic Genocide…White towers—and—meetings—and planning—and—meetings—and planning—and—still we die. And—Still! We are—refugees—of Strategic Genocide—praying—dying—crying—and—again planning—denying—and more Ivory Tower—White-world—meetings…Does anyone require God or Allah or Buddha? No! Only—‘We’ are required to ‘Live’…Be damned—the ‘Rulers-of-Anywhere-of-Anyplace and-of-Anytime’…Not needed—for our blood—to inside flow—where blood belongs—and—to ‘synchronize-in-equivalence’—with—sweet—Earth-spin—and—with-each-other. We are—so many—bodies—Lost-Broken-and-Forgotten. War is now! War is yesterday! War is tomorrow! Today—‘we free-fall’—toward—acceleration—and—annihilation—of—Everyday. And! The Witches of Creations Cry!

Fools and folly—of off-world—stops—our only way—to continue—to—be. Foolish—they—fail to see—their vision—be—a fade—into star-stream—and—moon-dust. They remove—our Love…He looked—up and said—”Scan the sky-sweet baby. Must leave… They will kill you—So somehow—go to them—and you will not die.” She too looked—and—only—saw his face— “Without you, I am dead…Without us—we end. Without you—without me—no Baby—and without—we are…” Ivory Towers—bring—Strategic Death—and Plans—to meet—and—Meetings-to-Plan? Still! Bank wide and Somme River wet—falls—physicals—thousands more—spirits all—stories’ lost—to-be-or-too-lost-to-see—tucked inside—smoke—wiz-bangs—teach—life chokes—barbed wire fears—and—evening tears—‘cross—‘Crimson Fields’—a million—one day long—lives—too precious—too quickly—gone. And! The Witches of Creations Cry!

We began—before the stars—And together we melt—into the mist…”We-Be’—Fire and shadows—‘cross a sky—Colored moons—of blood—of gold—and—simple-songs and thudding drums. Stars ‘light up’—home—and—we move by wind—across this place…In sunlight waves and dancing twists—of silver rain and stretching space—and—ship’s gentle streaks—in skies of grace—with muted voice—and—silent rooms—of—blood touched throat—and—emptied tombs. Bridge walked toward—and—skylight’s scream—by taking flight—and—failing dream. Warming suns—just—days ago—with salted mist—and—taste of tongue—and—passion light—and—times of rain—and—wolf cries shout—of sands and home. Across this universal stretch—window shine—and—candle’s light—and let us touch—another peace—of safety sleep—and— lover’s reach.

‘The Trail of Tears’

“The sunrise above them
As they make their way
In the early morning light
No backward glance
Frightened of tomorrow
On a lonely road
Shrouded in misted rain
The vanquished race
They felt the touch of loneliness
They felt the dread of fear
And found the path of wisdom
Along the trail of tears
So many ways of falling
A thousand barefoot tribes
Who trusted promises
No resting place
March into the wilderness
Time their fate decides
Leaving behind them
Treasures and gold
The sun sets before them
In another land
Withered in spirit
The struggle ends”…By Noel Ó Dúgáin

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Trail of Tears’…by Clannad

Natures of Spins Begins…

‘Siúil A Rún’

“Siuil, siuil, siul a run,
Siuil go sochair agus siuil go ciuin
Siuil go doras agus ealaigh lion
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan”

“I wish I was on yonder hill
‘Tis there I’d sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill,
I’ll sell my rock, I’ll sell my reel,
I’ll sell my only spinning wheel,
To buy my love a sword of steel
I’ll dye my petticoats, I’ll dye them red,
And ’round the world I’ll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead,
But now my love has gone to France,
To try his fortune to advance;
If he e’er comes back, ’tis but a chance,
I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I’d not complain”…written by Clannad

What causes us—to be happy…Who would dare control happiness—a government—a person—a religion? Our own little inner fascist—tells us what and what— not to do? Brain washed since birth—tis the survival of ‘a’ pack…However—all packs—from everywhere—run same—eat same—same be—we—fast-slow-weak-strong-hungry-not-smarter than—a what—still—love little ones—And! Maybe only reason ‘We’ be—donchaknow…Imagine—just imagine—that—when we wake-up—Love-Peace-Understanding—always was the world—of reality—and we had accidentally been—watching a horror film—in a theater of hell…For entertainment?

Draw now—pictures that love—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—of winds and bumping things—and—silent shrieks—once loud—and—now absent—from ear and fear and tear. Sounds—of life drawn—‘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.

Is Spin World—good—is good—is balance of wheel—syncopation true—symmetry—cut grass—to lawn—green grow—too-to-‘fro’—then cuts again—to match—eye’s sight—wronged—or right? Rip parts—animals do—due—to survival need—bleed—seed—then wronged—or corrected—detected—consumed—only to be replacements? Needs to cheat—each-to-other—one or two—then more—too many—score—before—others-do-to-you—survival required—to win—to lose—too many—to count or rout—before—the over-of-out—begins again? Then spin—us twirls—of balance-speak—world perfection—balance squeak—when one thing dies—to others—survives—the lies—of imperfect—Gods’ whirls—imperfect twirls—nothing loss and nothing gains…Then ‘we all’—again— remain…

“The family is the natural and fundamental unit of society and needs to be protected by society and the State.”(Article 16 (3) of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights)… Slums are the creations of  Capitalist Elites…And! Maybe Truth is a Fiction of the Mind?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Siúil A Rún’…performed by Celtic Woman