The Fiddler’s Secret Songs…

“Love Will Come To You”

“Hey, what’s going on? Whatcha doin’ here?
Is there something wrong tonight?
Do you remember who I chose to be?
My best friend in this life
Life doesn’t run a clear course
It flows through from within
It’s supposed to take you places and leave markings on your skin

And those marks are just a sign of something true
you witnessed in your time
Of something new, like the start of something fine

Like morning dew love will come again to you
Like morning dew
Morning dew

Hey, can you tell me who you are?
The color of your dawn
When the gates are open from last night’s revelry on the lawn
And when the sounds of laughter still echo in your dreams
The smoke screen disappears and nothing is what it seems

And your tears have been worthwhile
They got you through to a different place and time where all is new
To the start of something fine

Like morning dew your love will come again to you
Like morning dew

Love is there when you open the door
and you step off the trail you knew before
Through the streets and the houses of gods you roam
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone

Till all laughter is claws on your skin
and your moments of clarity scream the hell within
When you fade like a rose in the gloom love waits outside your room

Like morning dew your love will come again to you
Morning dew”Poets of the Fall

No secrets on—the walk plain—a plan of mystery—so strange as—thinking maybe not much—as mystery as just plain—plans and sweet whispers—as dawn slips away and night’s—almost lightest—slightest sights—begin.

Now and then as a laughter of strings—from harps’ sings—happens when verses—dance along these—pages of parchment and thin—tin pictures. Dust—spreads across this land—as too much wind and too—late water—cannot not spread trickles—and tickles of streams and lakes into oceans—of fresh liquid ‘cross another salt-less-sea. And! On this dusty wind—we will caress— soft sounds and submit—to our sweetest—songs.

Dancing skates of wheels—and—those of ice rails arriving to use by—our feet and ancient selves—of balance and twists—of turns and freedom—without the gravity—of graves and again —singing strings—of violins fill evenings with—song and rhythm and rhyme. And! Fiddlers play music—late into nights and dancers form—circles toward fires—of light and away from darkness—or the empty space—of silence.

Our bags of sleep are warm—and not—the humble man’s strait jacket. We gather—to face fire for light—we turn away to sleep. Quick is the night—and into the mists—of morning’s gathering—we shift and shape and move—as substance occurs—and flesh begins—warmth of blood and energy. As day—we begin—another time—without restrictions or reasons or thoughts—except to begin—as light spreads—and we muscle our way—into another stay—of day.

Here—hear now—heart cry—sobs—without light—and—waiting without warning—then—just waiting—just begins—to want—again. And! What happiness—happens—is possibly happening—on dust speckled earth-side—through goals higher—than justified—to vindicate happiness—for dust speckled us? Is a dust-speckled ride—a stand-alone stride—alone goal without end—without beginning—without purpose—but-to-be-point—free?

Together—stories of life—sounds of joy—sweet harmony—and true balance—are songs of love. Tales and lies—and glories and lies—and all tall words—historic speak—heroic praise—are not required—when fiddlers play—true strings—of liquid verse and—motions toward peace—seeks hopes’ beginning—in fires of spirit strengths and—life’s power. Everlasting is—spirit and life begins and ends as—the fiddlers play.

We—watch Storm Gods…We! Tucked inside—this swirl of trash and tin—bobbles and cardboard homes—of glass and stone wait—the confusion to rise and winds-to-wind—these narrow streets of—matchbook stories—and—matchstick folk. After—the roar and the wetting—and the flashes—gods of storms—flash-dash—dart-depart—to dash and trash—another world—apart from us—our own. Begin—those flower songs. Without wails—those sweet tales—with soft music—and misty touch— and—peace of moment—songs.

We—venture into drying—air and cross wet—sands and blooms of desert—flowers and fresh air—rejoice we of—ourselves and a certain—knowledge of knowing—certainty for another night and another brighter day. And! We understand the— knowledge of good—of something needed—and good love. Together; our story—of magic life—and world love—just is…

We— do come home. There are places—where monsters do—not dwell. We—do come home, where bombs of war do—not shatter dreams or disturb—the determinations of freedom—folly and lives. This is our place without borders! Walls climbed—do not exist. Only the religions of kings—attempt to divide—and—conquer—spirit wings and fiddlers speak.

Robots—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—silver sails–adventures of course—of discourse launch—comes—songs of sailor’ speak and— the wig-waggle ‘cross—of thousand skies complete—with warrior songs and priestess kiss and—home returns. We sail here—the sailors of these moments—friends and family—the you of me and—the me of us and—all eternal spirits be—we the power—of life inside a fold in space—or outside of—yonder rim-spin—we are…Instincts trust—for anticipation—may—often fail imagined—dragon wings and wind.

We—cannot know—standing here—if earth twirls at universal core—or still stranded and branded—dust ships swirl across a patch of dark grey—dawn and waiting for rainfall—to clean-wash us and our perch—we hear—here balance upon. We—turned peace to war and gash—slash across another spin of earth. Battles disturb the strength of peace and the balance of life. We war against nothing except the ideas and ideals of Anti-life. Remove religions and governments and kings and queens!  Better-to-fall-in-love—not-to fall-in-battle—donchathink?

We—are not means to an end—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—nor are we sacrifices—to gods come whimsy—or rushing wings—or gift bearing things—beads—baubles—glitter or flash…We—are not born—to be wasted. We—are not wasted—to be born…

We androids—do dance—into Electric nights and—love does lead—shifting-shapes—through darkest frights and—into sweetest lights. Shadow-touches ‘cross—secret ceilings of moon—dust and hidden space—of time-sans-race and—inside— moments like these—Life is an Almost-Maybe.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Love Will Come To You’…Poets of the Fall

‘While Your Lips Are Still Red’…Nightwish

 

 

 

To Many—Too Often…

The word ‘Honor’…Many descriptions and quantifiers regarding this word…Honor is not a word. It is a singular way of life. It is without description and not reserved for Military motions. It is not an Executive twirl or a Legislative swirl…Though legal twist and turns, it is not a Judicial term. Honor is a simple way of Life.

“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

Sky crust—blocks pearl light—as an evening of workers—failed strengths—home bound—as ‘Nighters’ replace the ‘Eveners’ and continue—work begins—ends and starts along the edges of digital clicks and analog clacks. Time cataloged into spreads of pages—indexed—assorted stuff—straightened—arranged—packed for space-spin—or unpacked to—go consumers—consumed with curiosity—hunger—required—needs or fulfilled desires. Oppression—succeeds when its legitimacy is internalized. The freedom to write it right—write—writing—toward left of sails unfurled and imagined as sea endless might and distance ‘tween stars— ‘tween galaxy— ‘tween the universal folds of space. There be books here and listen to these stories from spirit-speaks—of volumes long and voltage sweet. We—change everything with Blue Planet Waste?

‘The most heroic word in all languages is Revolution’-–Eugene Debbs

Landing places are measured by the spaces between Zero and One. Computer’s shrug in Yes and No. Where one arrives is never known until travel ends and arrival begins. To Heaven—to hell? Perspectives are various and determined again by ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. Empathy determines the variety of groups’ survival and through the artistic impressions of all things determined and created.

Light Fall and Darkness touch street and cover brick crack and moonless crackles. Colloid collisions—to scented secrets—and motions without sounds. We are kings and queens of these streets. This city—is our city. Listen! Our streets vibrate with good life—sweet blood and the strength of poverty covering America…’Feed my People’—strong words—weak wills to solve and still solutions are apparent and ready to use for many willing to share and to simply end greed. And! Please remember that a Police State is allowed when governments—desire only—to protect and maintain—Societies’ Hierarchy—and be damn the People…The Wealthy have forgotten with whom they once danced—and from where their worth began—developed and multiplied…Why are the many sounds of Poverty silent—when greed deafens—growls of hunger and the pleas of need—in the Mystic— ‘Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave?’ Protest and Speech Politic—twirls now toward the swirls of grenades that flash and crying sprays and Robocop of ‘all-dressed up’—and still—the You and I of—Us against each-other…

We are a place where laws were enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and the notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street—places with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’  conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘We the People’) as their Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We still are…

Our lives are fluid—liquid pour—consume—replace—replenish— and then—recall. Surprise! How we shift—habits and ways—allowing for empty space—of balance—restore. Darkness seeps—slowly into day—end bright…Night fills lighted places and turn-on bulbs—share grays—shades many—always simulate and always fail—to cheer the sun…And! Rain does pour from sky—onto roof—through spirals both—short or long—gutters or just eaves—from leaves’ soak—or arcs—golden tricks of night light—inside—as outside water—splashes ground—collects—sidewalk—flooded cracks—into pools of wet—and of—mud carvings—and pavement soaks.

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

Pay attention to Life—call it a modern Life—and all this modernity—simply wears a body— completely out…Call a Life—themes and structures and verbs and existentialism and authenticity—unreal and where you ‘are’ and who you ‘are’—stories be—unfinished collections—rejections—objections—subsections—detected—inspected and revealed. And! Many writers have fashioned varieties of these— “That art is the attempt to render the highest justice to a visible universe”: Wondering if this justice is rendered with and without sunlight? Still a visible universe is visible without sight-to-see? Why not?

We do not summon gentle love…It whispers to our spirits—and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance and routes of layers and lives inside walls too high to be climbed or under or around or about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love heart touches and reaches—into body frail and those impossible attempts to hide among thrones of thorns and weary costs already paid and already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality of equals—woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient sentences of life inside body—minding body.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘What We Do’…Oh Wonder

 

‘Crimson and Clover’…Joan Jett and The Blackhearts

Creases In Time—Rhyme…

Wondering if the current wig-waggle of government—is attempting to swift change our distribution paradigm? Amazon’s purchases of Whole Foods—challenging FedEx and UPS as goods-to-consumer in reason—is a diversion of forces gathered to scatter—the rhythm as competitive realizations and dreams of small—all businesses—grind into troll’s dust and just as sealed diamond mine entrances—ends mineral searches and songs’ rhyme. The attempts to alter a distribution paradigm may—twirl and twist the structural and strategic foundations of Markets to win or to lose.

Last night was a ‘moving on kind of’ evening…Spirits do leave and head homeward—another place—another sun—places again where planet twirl does not matter and race-races—racing—starts ‘n’ stops do not exist—no time flavors or must do favors…Not an end—begin again—was always right along—side—’tis maybe that great mystery—we want to know and know anyway…Nothing judges—Eternal Spirits—no reason—no rhymes—not time to forgive—material needs—greed develop and disappear…Great church side—lurch forward—backward—more words of material gain—lost or found—still around—never necessary and always there…

“We must again become political equals lest we become an authoritarian society!  Openness and equality constitute a virtuous circle. Openness generate much better levels of prosperity. Prosperity allows prosperous peoples to invest in Superior Education—Universities and Schools. Basic Research leads to better health and healthy pursuits. Improved Infrastructures and Social Insurances…Adaption to change is easier when created within the righteous circle of Openness and Equality” …Author Unknown

Tired—Tried and Tested—rested and begins a moving away—a time to go—and a quick giggle before—looking back—is last time—a final rhyme—this time—and moving on—it is time to go…She saw that this time was good… Fire—Blue light— ‘sorta’—start-stop—dancing—yellow streaks—red coats and journey starts. Screaming—moons toward—light and still—and horses do run Martian Ridge. We are children of those—salted seas and spirit trees. And! Clouds often look for—skies. …Hollow man—robot without—spirit-animation-without ‘ghosts in the machine’…We be not—holy hollows—we be—imagine—imagination—beyond pushes of strengths—we dance—baby birthing—powerful protection and iron love—nothing stronger than love or better than together songs and ‘Us.’ We can move around—Universes—so deep and notions to keep—and safety shorelines forever wide—is good with or without the Sailing tide.

“Inequality, even among the educated—often leads to demagogues…Demagogues rejects Openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities. “Demagogues rejects openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities” …Robert Reich

We are not means to an end—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—nor sacrifices to gods—come whimsy or rushing wings—gift bearing things—beads—baubles—glitter or flash…We are not born to be wasted or wasted-to-be-born…

Is it true ‘that’—“Ignorance is no bar to reason—for it is often a reasonable reverse?” A Society of Modern Thought and Venture is not totally immune from the social force of religions? What of the conditions of ‘human freedom’ and the challenges required by Capitalism and an obsolete system of political economy? And! How has mechanized labor affected individual laborers—restraining the union of voices—apart and in part because of coded words and the efficient destruction of blood-flesh-sweat and blood—again?

What—Why and How must—an economic structure—consider the—modernity of serviced—servitude—a renovated—rendition and a re-naturalization—of Societies’ Laborers—-while all-the-while—casting about impersonal laws—seeking—the removal—of logic from—Humanities’ control?

Václav Havel once wrote that; “the current crisis that the world finds itself in.” He identifies the crisis as a conflict between “an impersonal, anonymous, irresponsible and uncontrollable juggernaut of power” and the “elemental and original interests of concrete human individuals.”

“Ruled by the will of little people and the middling people, and by the demagogues they elected…And! Hobbled by moral laziness and fear…” Jonathan Fenby

Brush—eye-lash-to-face—form dance in dreams and seems—as long pause—no cause— without voice—just breath-to-breathe—tiny freckles—lips to laugh—and—eyes to quest— together. Visions and quiet word—songs with gentle—space and no race—blends of—silence or whisper-speaks. Dreams-then dream quest—cease—increase those—creases in time—curtains’ climb—spaces die—and visit speak—of ways—of star-side streak—of starlight sweet—of gentle union—and love. Life—lives and mingle—heart touch good —as ring-circles—fancy-dance—into love’s rhythm—of love.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Never Enough’…Epica

‘Still You Turn Me On’…Greg Lake

Pino-Donaggio