The Routes—Of Our People…

“Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.”by Karl Marx and Frederick Engels

“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 eyes want to follow
when I’m far far away,
when life brings me sorrow,
into silence I escape.

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

There I always have some time
to heal every wound,
to help the life’s shine
long forgotten, return.
There is such a place,
my own little space,
after each lost battle
its power remains.
There I always have some time
to heal every wound,
to help the life’s shine
long forgotten, return.
There is such a place,
my own little space,
after each lost battle
its power remains.
Among the stars
there is a place
to where my heart
always returns.

There is always some room
When the world brings me gloom”…by Anna Aya Stefanowicz

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.

The Iron Rider—horse less—‘Strider’—covers grounds—where white drifts climb—frozen bits—of rhythm and rhyme—together—mingle—tingle and shape—another surface—against earth—propped just—beneath the sky…Her booted steps—quick now— disappear—underneath—winter fall—frozen wet—quick cover—to hide—both shadow—walk—and her sword—and shield…And! Within moments—and motion—she disappears…

“We forget that many people feel they must act even if they don’t want to or are afraid to,” said Charles Haynes, the vice president of the Newseum Institute’s Religious Freedom Center. “They feel that the highest authority in their lives is not the state; it’s not the ICE. It’s their conscience, their God.”

Called a Populist Revolution—not formed—not aware—scattered notions—neither right—often damaged and very wrong…Global cause—formations—cause Global pause! To deport—our people present—in the here and now—is cross-laced—in this place—and intimately connected—to a planetary movement—of both—important people and important goods—Our people create. Deportation is no longer an issue of domestic policy…To move—a force of good work—and honest labor—to deport our people—from a United-Scatter-of-States—-inches close—ideals-miles-apart—ruins life’s functions—when perhaps—globalization and—a restructuring of—everywhere—economics have— created the global migration—now-objects-of—‘stupid’—racial—radical—ridicules—righteous—rhetoric—repeating—mid-century’s last—failures and bloody wars…Please too—remember—that fear of displacement—directly affects body—complete with exhaustion—defeat-of-immune systems—and family life…Increased inequality causes our people to become both unhappy and unhealthy….Restrictions of hope—and Greed achieves—momentary success…Momentary success—never-ever—lasts forever…Transition—thinking—creations—of common enemy—always destroys—the common futures—of Common People…And! We are all—everyone—the Common folk—of this—Place—this World—and of— this Moment-in Time…

‘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…

“cross desert sand landings—every eye is weeping…”author unknown…

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘All We Do’…by Oh Wonder

 

‘Home’…by UnSun

 

All Lined—In Time…

14687Creative Spirits do—gather—one-time-or-maybe-two—to watch sky—etch forms—dissolve—appear and disappear—while often dancing ‘cross—so many places—to many races—as often they appear—only to disappear—and reappear—again—once-in-a-while…

March-time and—swinging-arms—together move—together sing—chance the ring—the motion dance—shaking and taking–the gray dawn—of morn’—mourning war—before the score—another revolution—the sums–of sons. Love’s Dance—one chance—of revolution’s–other sons—of other sums. A length down—Charlotte Street—be— Cardington Park—marks the march—beginning-to-end—begin again—to end again…

We are an instant in Time—All 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…’

Freedom Cries….How may walls—separate hearts from hearts—family from families…Walls of fears—falling tears—stain—remains—trains move—up sun runs—‘cross—sailing winds—toward better sound—coming round—‘cross—better boarders—better moments—toward better days. Does objective truth—deny that government is—the provider of enjoyments—and new progress—accepts—enjoyments do become—’entitlements’ and ‘entitlements’—become—’the right of the people?’ Standards for human rights—disappear? And! Still elites determine what constitutes—without a real constitution—the rights of humanity? These Elites are—also the ‘Body Politic’—purchased—bought—traded—faded—commanded—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—is how much gun smoke—pours from barrels—pointed toward the—people? If true! Then how must—political power be—executed—or limits once—as smoke evaporates into precious air? And! The ‘universal continuation’—continues.

“All men recognize the right of revolution; that is, the right to refuse allegiance to, and to resist, the government, when its tyranny or its inefficiency are great and unendurable. All machines have their friction; and possibly this does enough good to counter-balance the evil.  At any rate, it is a great evil to make a stir about it.  But when the friction comes to have its machine, and oppression and robbery are organized, I say, let us not have such a machine any longer…” from ‘On the Duty of Civil Disobedience’…by Henry David Thoreau

Ages past—and often we become—sponges—gifted—gregarious—bent with insight—anchors—of both worlds—one frightful and one—enchanted—and—filled-to-edge—truthful with wisdom—both scary and fearful—as wisdom—sometimes becomes you—as age—bends body—yet frees—spirit twirl…From twins—of two—a power of life sparks—and alone-never—places begin—and fixes end. When again—‘surfs-up’—and high waves—reclaim shore-reaches—and land—would rather dwell in— the Villages of Fisher-folk—than in—the Hampton’s of—Middle-bots— without spirit machines—without reasons-to-produce—and—stand with us—as wave-crash claims us—all…Because—together—we have done—everything…

And! Magically—birds transform the air they breathe—into surprisingly sweet songs…

Physics common reach—teach—uncommon words—boundless twist—of honest computation—manipulation—contrived—to derive common wisps-of-wisdom—exacted—reacted-contacted—rejected and projected—twists boundlessly—and melded into simple sense—and corrected logic…Paradigm shatters—whisper-matters—while sails—ships of storm’s tatters—up righted-ignited-provided-decided and once-fears now tears—along—with seed sowing—acknowledged knowing—either real or almost correctly—forgotten—and then remembered. 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.’ A Spacer—thought these folk—may have belonged—to some—type of ‘Club’…

‘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—scattered across—someplace-somewhere? 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—dish of corruption—with a splash—dash of hopeless—and—fanatic—fantasy. And! Does protection always equal servitude? When—brain knows—humanities’ finest moments…Love—Peace—Touch—and—Trust…No charges or gains or losses—Flashes between the realities—of reality—and those sweet spaces—just an instant prior—then lips touch—co-mingled breath—warms the cold—evening air. A rational—response—to rational—insanity. A second—when no one stares into empty space—without—noticing starlight’s—star bright—and—starships passing between—light-speed and arrival—silently appear. When everyone—everywhere—and—in-all-places— between skies—ground—realize—what we do not have—does not mean—anything… Feeling color—through both eyes—and—with our fingers. Hearing—a lover’s voice—touch our heart— before—substance becomes words—of meaning-or-reason-or-another—notion. When silence—so—completely fills all senses—with thunder and noise—and—music and notes—chaotic—or symphonic—simplicity—as duality ceases—and singularity—melts into universal polarity—and— truth.

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 shine—‘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—thrown away…Dragging–lines of— surf’s fall—surf’s rise—as waves dash high—into moonless sky—and—crash—along miles—of sandy shoreline. Sea inhale—exhale and breathe again—and time marks—nothing—when endless and everlasting.

We measure—all things known—unknown—quantities—lengths—of short—of tall—tales—of —beings—both big—and small—‘cause—we are—Spirits of Creation—Creative Critters—one-and-all.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

’The Call Of The Mountains’…by Eluveitie

Flights Too Far—Often…

927‘This Is Not America’

“This is not America
Shala la la la
A little piece of you
The little peace in me
Will die
For this is not America
Blossom fails to bloom this season
Promise not to stare
Too long
For this is not a miracle
There was a time
A storm that blew so pure
For this could be the biggest sky
And I could have the faintest idea
For this is not America
This is not America
This is not
Snowman melting from the inside
Falcon spirals
To the ground
So bloody red tomorrows clouds
A little piece of you
The little piece in me
Will die
For this is not America
There was a time
A wind that blew so young
For this could be the biggest sky
And I could have the faintest idea
For this is not America
This is not America
This is not
This is not America
This is not
This is not America”
…written by David Bowie–Pat Metheny—Lyle Mays

The time has come and gone…The getting there is wrong…Simple—eyes close and motion—start and stop and destinations—gain…Talking gone—of Folding Space—and Worm Hole—and speeds-of-light…Simply—eyes close—motion starts—the starting—the stopping and destinations—remain. Motion often starts—with mind reach—time teach—‘cross space—endless melds—of  somewhere else—confusions—solutions—and elsewhere when—other places matters—the matter. Appearance—deceive—in eyes twinkle—shift drifts—when net folk—study—and others find appearing—to be ahead—in places—too far behind—to matter…

Granite rims—stone mountains—five hundred miles—too high to scale—too far to sail. And! For many times—the rhythm—rhymes and over—begins and ends—forever. Domed pockets of air—care—little—when space turns—into—miles too long—and distances—too wrong..Look for those—spaces—between the stars—feel shape dance—touch mind—heart beeps—‘cross misty ways—and beyond—far reach—‘cross skies…We see—same light—you there—and here—almost everywhere—view point—angled or dangled—jangled—still same—‘donchaknow’?

What occurs—when appearance shifts—only to deceive? ‘Shifters’ time lies—and—space-place —people-in-charge appearing—to-be-in-charge—are people—being studied by—people appearing to—be ‘not-in-charge.’ And! Let another Dance-with-no-sound—begin!

Our Freedom of Assembly—Our Freedom to Speak—our Freedom—Our Rights—Our Hopes and our—Coming together—to speak our Communal minds—whether Right—whether wrong—must be a something—wishing for—dreaming for—forever dying for—“in three quarter time” —and…And! Are freedoms expressed—often—as “mindless babble-rabble-razzle-dazzle—words of conflicted—conflicts—‘scorched-the-ground’—beliefs—that governments and authority in-places—spaces—there-to-here—are ‘worse-than-ever’—and—that all actors set-to-dance- ‘cross—stages-of-freedoms’—fading rings—are complete—only if ‘very good or very bad?’

Freedom Speak must continue—with too much—too volatile—too dark—to see—for-if-not— punctuate the—perpetually fearful—failures’—of ‘Dreamscapes’ past—present and future—reminding ‘master-crafters’—of lost-words-towards—obvious terminations—while—loud voices destroy reasons—to be-to see—or closely resemble and assemble—coming together—with the discovery—of communal ‘Mindspeak’…Wondering if creations—the FCC—a Congress-of-mysteries—or the Government of Federal Speak will test—the ways-of-means to ‘abridge’ our already purchased—precious “Freedom of the Press.” This World of Fear—Created by Control—created by Money—and peopled by Ignorance will cause Freedoms to be ‘abridged’…Please Remember! Government is not created for ‘Freedom’—Government only exists to—‘Control.’

We are all Children of this Universe—And! We have the Right to Be—Everywhere…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘This Is Not America’…Performed by David Bowie

‘Rebel Rebel’…Performed by David Bowie

Expectations And Precious Time…

15423“Love is the force that binds together and moves everything in the universe—creatures and objects are part of a total motion without top or bottom, gravity or resistance”…Chagall

Often we—through visits and thoughts—immerse ourselves in others’ visions-of-many-cultures—so twin—blood same—the magic of knowing this—is discovery. On Carta-Spin—a twirl of world-look—a revolution of sunshine—moonshine—tucked between—dusk or dawn and—somewhere outside—Sol-speak and near—Star shine—Police—the—Political Group—only serve—to—self-servitude—hating all—without real power—rich—were they—and elect—by them…Their roll–vast—their rock—solid and while—supporting—a demon—democracy—of token—spoken—lies and spies—nothing “of the people—for the people—or by the people—never-ever exists—no matter how—spin-spun—fought-thought—taught—or sought…

And! While hungry folk—began to understand—their representation—accounted—for no—accountability and hope—was—viewed by arrogance—lies—-bravado and skies—crimes of freedom—existed in words—not deeds-of-needs—that elites-of -few could-would obtain everything—anything—anyway…Realizing this…again Revolution follows—the followers—‘cross Cart-Spin’s heaven’s dark and sunless days…Again—hope—stops—blood flows…

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.

Deep within the still centre of my being
May I find peace.
Silently within the quiet of the Grove
May I share peace.
Gently (or powerfully) within the greater circle of humankind
May I radiate peace
from the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids

‘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…

 

‘Misty Eyed Adventures’…by Máire Brennan

 

‘Show The World’…by Black Valentine

When Flowers—Turn-Into-Glass…

33“All we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded only by his stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution of those who called themselves Methodists at the hands of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon called himself a Methodist, he worked his way across the Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence to Jamaica, thence to Mobile, and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley’s strictures on the use of many words in buying and selling, Simon made a pile practicing medicine, but in this pursuit he was unhappy lest he be tempted into doing what he knew was not for the glory of God, as the putting on of gold and costly apparel. So Simon, having forgotten his teacher’s dictum on the possession of human chattels, bought three slaves and with their aid established a homestead on the banks of the Alabama River some forty miles above Saint Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephens only once, to find a wife, and with her established a line that ran high to daughters. Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich”…From “To Kill A Mockingbird” by Harper Lee

  • Wondering how disease (plague-times) affect civilizations—their rising and their falling…Rome (circa–AD 165)—passed through a plague-time called ‘Antonine’. This illness, was responsible for a decrease of approximately 30% of the Roman population by (AD 180)…This ‘Civilization Killer’ recorded as being carried by the Roman Army from the Far East—also destroyed most of the military…
  • Wondering if—Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t…Wondering if control is illusion? Will—Democracy become a dictatorship—‘as we in-fear’—watch these motions and movements—toward ‘Martial Law’…
  • Wondering why Believing in—Open Boarders-Amnesty-Immigration-Multi-culture’ism-Freedom-for-Everyone and Life is called being an ‘Elitist Socialist?’ Wondering why— America’s Constitution claims “That All Men Are Created Equal” and America’s Slaves built the White House?
  • Knowing that—‘We’—the People—must never again be slaves of thought or owned by the richest of Slavers. Redistribute the Wealth-of-our-World—and Wage Slavery ends…And! Blue- Collar-Billionaires’-do-not-exist!

Ending a this-or-such-stuff-or-thing—things gone and still remembered in hazes and clouds—sometimes thick or sometimes thin—or remembered when those reasons for ‘tick-tock’ recall is not ‘at all’ necessary. And! Still memories along with the knowledge of futures’ days or yesterdays’ stop-starts—sometimes wisdom stumbles—flash words appear—and sometimes are transposed from wiggle-squiggles—to-words-to-letters-to-numbers-or-other such scratches—black-blue ink—into shapes—on white paper. Small square boxes—rows across and stacked—checkerboard-graphic-white tiles—framed-square—first sides perfect—then added rules of thickness rectangles—jumbles-or-mumbles of thought—frowns and smiles. The confusions of simple symmetry—good boggles—good toggles—mind flashes-in—rhythm or rhyme. If one stares toward glares of graph motions—of rectangles and squares—of ink and white spaces—will one—feel-free-fall—and sometimes—just disappear?

A spot of ship—quick-to-appear—touch-down and secure—no sounds—no noise—just-here-gone and back again. So often completed and always—the same motion—the same silence—the exact drop-speed-entry-and stop. However! While content same remains—the extra mix-of-touch-kiss-score and life—end-in-the-time—taken to breath-in—Earth’s night wind and Life-to-begin…Wondering why—survival’s song—may also stop—with a single note—not pitch—not harmony—nor—sounds beyond—a single note? Chorus or Choirs not required—donchaknow?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘For What It’s Worth’—Buffalo Springfield

‘Sunset Purples’…Tony Godsey Band

The Gentle Ships of Beren-Pass…

Illinois Central_743

The City Of New Orleans Lyrics

“Riding on the City Of New Orleans
Illinois Central, Monday morning rail
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
Three Conductors; twenty-five sacks of mail
All along the southbound odyssey – the train pulls out of Kankakee
And rolls along past houses, farms, and fields
Passing trains that have no name, and freight yards full of old black men
And the graveyards of the rusted automobile

Good morning, America, how are you?
Say, don’t you know me? I’m your native son
I’m the train they call the City Of New Orleans
I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done

Dealing card games with the old man in the Club Car
Penny a point – ain’t no one keeping score
As the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheels rumbling ‘neath the floor
And the sons of Pullman Porters, and the sons of Engineers
Ride their father’s magic carpets made of steam
And, mothers with their babes asleep rocking to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel

Good morning, America, how are you?
Say, don’t you know me? I’m your native son
I’m the train they call the City Of New Orleans
I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done

Night time on the City Of New Orleans
Changing cars in Memphis Tennessee
Halfway home – we’ll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness, rolling down to the sea
But, all the towns and people seem to fade into a bad dream
And the steel rail still ain’t heard the news
The conductor sings his songs again – the passengers will please refrain
This train got the disappearing railroad blues

Good night, America, how are you?
Say, don’t you know me? I’m your native son
I’m the train they call the City Of New Orleans
I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done”…written by Steve Goodman

Worlds spin—axis tilt—and—how we—matter-to-the-matter—as side-way twirls—the planets’ whirls—and—nothing makes them—straight—again…And! ‘Cross channels dotted—to lots of liquid black—lake fills and streams covered once—grassland—now trenches of oil—stretches from eyesight—until the watching ones are—unable to see—further. “Good night America”—we are all still right here—right now—these minutes in time—for no reasons—with all our rhythms and all our rhymes…And! We are all Immigrants—everyone—passing through age-long mysteries—masterly recorded or unrecorded with—dots and dashes—in time…

Just caught ship outbound—sun-ward toward third spin—shaped seas and peaks almost hill-high and wide as desert cross—pause—to wait and back again…Long way home—but getting there. How must this ‘long wind’—keep winding through sharp curves and peaks— too high to climb—when going home sometimes runs—ruins of circles…Following smoke—wisps or—sounds of sing-song-choir—along the line—where sea-meets-sea and sky appears—above forgotten shimmers of—flash—stretched beyond—eye watch and body wait. Walk upon these—salty waves—of that dead-sea—sing melody’s song—and disappear—into mists and sea—sounds and other dawns. Those little matters? Matter-less—Cease then gone—again.

Money short—and—without weapons—gather folks wise—to change histories’ futures—with few resources of tradition—warfare—to confront and destroy—the inequality of equality freedom—slave wages—with-out—to plentiful again…And! Maybe a little ‘more’ short-of-time do succeed in alternating—alternatives—and reversing certain terms—of public debate—to shift and to change a—certain—course of politics—without violence—and—without passivity…Obsolete not—nonviolence—is never irrelevant—whether—formed—from village speak—or global motions—’tis—strategy for confrontation and victory—without swords drawn— or thunder-guns’—final recoils…And! Creating a resistance movement—without blood’s shed—is solution strong—to solving—the current global crisis of—climate’s changes and miles-wide inequality—donchathink?

Never despair—nor accept inequalities—for wealth is not created—to be collect by the few—for wealth must be shared—by everyone—everywhere ‘cross this planet—on this sweet sustaining mother-ship—we gentle ones—- call our own—sweet—Earth. While recorded history show us—inequalities in wealth and the capacity—to create wealth—‘cross centuries—patterns of imbalances have changed and altered and damned our human majority—to accept nothing-from-the-blood-and-the-sweet-sweat—of genuine labor—without apparent nor equal reward. From—nations—to between nations—‘balanced income’—is a ‘never-ever’ reality—for us—the outside worlds call ‘those species—of humanity’…Then—‘Never-Ever’—react to these—inequality-of- qualities with—absolute—resignation…People Strong—Revolution changes everything—and through—nonviolent means—while never politically convenient—often alters—imbalance.

And! Beautiful you are…

“City of New Orleans”…performed by Arlo Gutherie

 

“Home”…by Unsun

 

 

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

Did We Once—Only Paper Be?

R_169“Someone ought to do it, but why should I?” — “Someone ought to do it, so why not I?” “Between these two sentences lie whole centuries of moral evolution”…Annie Besant

“The fake gods sat down in a circle
As if around a three-legged table
it was necessary to reach the last extremes
it was necessary that the air burn in whispers
for the pencil to start moving
There is no death it said
on one side and the other side of the paper
There is no death it said
on one side and the other side of the paper
the voices are the same the thunder
is the same roaring in our ears for
on one side and the other of the paper it said
there is no death
There is death though in the paper where
the muffled pencil moved
Only in the paper only in the shrouding paper”… Annie Besant

Did we once—character dance across these lines? Booked volumes away—to go—stay—in place of other ones—or other twos—or threes—more or less than begin—to end and back again—to place—race along pages—seeks-to-keep—story from too-soon-to-end—and—then again—back—again. We are—chronic spirits—place roamers—‘cross round-about—earth space—spaced—just-so—as to touch—and never run—‘smack into others—over faces—of earth twirl and planet whirl…Instinctively we—never slam—we touch face—sometimes lips—hand swish—just to express being—and never—to announce passing-to—other sides and other rides. We never mean—to rise—arrivals here—when there may seem better—than rather—though we simply happen—to be us—as weather often happens to—us all—everyone. And! Sometimes we are recognized in rhythm—and in rhyme—sometime—but not until we understand—the words—we sing—and these pieces—that peace—chunks varied—in bringing—ringing-to-ears—inclined to decline—war-riches as violence—reminds us—to leave these races—and migrate—to bloodless shoreline—and new chance—dances—just slips—rides before us—as we leave dying—behind…Strange—Western shores—are sometimes doors—away from wars—that colonization—delivered to us—mere—scant—rants—only a few years ago…

Socialism is not a creation of death—Socialism is simply another way to handle money—to not horde—to not lord—too simple—to understand—when Capitalism—damn-dam—most-of-us—to slaves of wage—with nothing to give—as we end—and they continue. And! If the Mediterranean Sea—is drained into—farmland—would the land be everyone’s profit or just the Drainers-of-their-Containers? Is it also—possible—that a-way-of-life—call it an—Industrial War Machine—maintains—Laws-of-Capitalism—Evils—be—either—Democrats or Republicans—in a faraway country called—the United States of America…And! South America—is just as important—as—North America…Though—the Industrial—War Machine—is the—-‘destabilize r’—of everything good—honest—democratically elected—rejected—inspected and dejected…Capitalism—has destabilized—the non-western world—and—destroyed the lives of—millions of good—honest—families—and why—and where—and why again—to—begin-an-end-only-to-start-it-all-again…

Per Pope John II— Centesimus Annus: “Ownership of the means of production, whether in industry or agriculture, is just and legitimate if it serves useful work. It becomes illegitimate, however, when it is not utilized or when it serves to impede the work of others in an effort to gain a profit which is not the result of the overall expansion of work and the wealth of society, but rather is the result of curbing them or of illicit exploitation, speculation or the breaking of solidarity among working people. Ownership of this kind has no justification and represents an abuse in the sight of God and humanity.”

Abusing—the Rights—of the Workers-of-the-World—is a Crime—against Humanity…Like—Genocide and Sociocide—Speculators—destroy—Life and Freedom of People—everywhere—On this sweet planet. We are—free if we—are wage-slaves—anyway?

On Carta-Spin—a twirl of world-look—a revolution of sunshine—moonshine—tucked between—dusk or dawn and—somewhere outside—Sol-speak and near—Star shine—Police—the—Political Group—only serve—to—self-servitude—hating all—without real power—rich—were they—and elect—by them…Their roll—vast—their rock—solid and while—supporting—a demon—democracy—of token—spoken—lies and spies—nothing “of the people—for the people—or by the people—never-ever existed—no matter how—spin-spun—fought-thought—taught—or sought—And! While hungry folk—began to understand—their representation—accounted—for no—accountability and hope—was—viewed by arrogance—lies—bravado and skies—slime’d’ freedom—existed in words—not deeds-of-needs—that elites-of -few could-would obtain everything—anything—anyway…Realizing this…again Revolution follows—the followers—‘cross Cart-Spin’s heaven’s dark and sunless days…Again—hope—stops—blood flows…

‘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.”

“Never forget that life can only be nobly inspired and rightly lived if you take it bravely and gallantly, as a splendid adventure in which you are setting out into an unknown country, to meet many a joy, to find many a comrade, to win and lose many a battle.” by…Annie Besant

We are all—Universal Children…We have the Right to be—Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Born to Run’…by Bruce Springsteen

Love—Life—And Back Again…

London_1073‘Fire and shadows cross a sky—Color moon of blood and gold—Simple songs and thudding drum—Stars light up another home—We move by wind across this place—In sunlight waves and dancing twists—Of silver rain and stretching space—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 falling dream—Warming suns of days ago—With salted mist and taste of tongue—Lights of passion—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 peace—Of safety sleep and lover’s reach.’

The death of ‘middle warders’ on surfaces—are many and rarely varied. Renewal—of hidden—memories and power—in times of—sorrow—danger—and fear must—prevail. Wealth—again moves—poverty descends—from above—as sunlight firms—and from—this ground—levels of those—dwellers and their children. Life—ends—as—life—begins. Life—also creates-stop-start—inside—thousand world reach—where liquid—spins and evaporates.

Across time—lighted atmosphere—with spaces—absent of everything—save—views above and across the—angled galaxy—war of rearranged-arrangements begin—and—still end—in victorious—losses. Some obtain—more-of-less while some—lose everything to—other dwellers above—these spaces—or below this ground—stretched places—caves and cave-ins—where life hides from death—and—waits the end—of silent-lightning and the reaches-of-teaches—flash.

Once again—against—these skies—spinning whirls—of land and seas—of salt and lakes of salt—less spree—warriors stage—wars of rearranged-arrangements—act and actions—where—wealth distributes—to winner’s joy—and to—losers—sorrow. The dead—discarded beneath soiled blood—inside rocky notions—victories of death and legend. Forgotten—are response to—battle—and the rhymes that end—in hunger and rearranged—arrangements.

For these are—short days of peace—remember pleasant moments—above ground splendor—and days-of-nights and nights-of-days—as knights begin—an—uncertain dance of—daze. Swords-shields—never rust and the lightning—of solar dust—gather in place—of suns—along a galactic twirl of swirling—world—filled brim high—with the salted seas—as—breaking winter waves—on shorelines’ length—a billion lakes—without salt—yet—filled with many lights—of star sparkle and life.

Do the religious—measure by rank and legend—higher than reason and world happiness—also become—the first practitioners of—Totalitarianism?—When—reason is rejected—as faith demands and self-interest becomes self-sacrifice—then—give up reason for—thought control—genocide and starvation—why? An infallible ruler—a declination of life expectancy-life-spans-hopes-dreams—and the elimination of unapproved thought by a church and the inquisition—fancy living—or maybe—be—‘never-‘evers’? ‘Nearer my Gods-to-Z’s.’

These are—days of women—of men—and—of children. Days of—reaffirmation and survival’s rearranged—arrangements and—of offerings. They are—creations of ways—of means—of love-hate—and care—in heart shape—reasons and certainly—uncertainty. The times—of these creations—are tiny—moments before—another war and death songs—are always—gentle moments—just after those last days—battled—when reasons are few—and responses—always necessary. Always! Rearranged—arrangements? Blood feeds form—and those forms cease—flesh without it?

Peace—happening-happens—future-present and learned from past touches—brushes—painted blood—flood of regrets—endless wars—sorrow worship—dead—dying all the time—without rhythm—without rhyme…Still reach-teach—beached and—still. Woman—Man! We stand—equally on this—hilltop rise—same battles to fight—same hungers—same pleading—needs—together…And Warrior—She! —We need—most—because without—we do not exist…Remember?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘London Calling’…by The Clash

Intervals Begin Anyway…

WS_621‘Wooden Ships’

“If you smile at me, I will understand
‘Cause that is something everybody everywhere does
In the same language
I can see by your coat, my friend
You’re from the other side
There’s just one thing I got to know
Can you tell me please, who won the war ?
Say, can I have some of your purple berries?
Yes, I’ve been eating them for six or seven weeks now
Haven’t got sick once
Probably keep us both alive
Wooden ships on the water, very free and easy
Easy, you know the way it’s supposed to be
Silver people on the shoreline, let us be
Talkin’ ’bout very free and easy
Horror grips us as we watch you die
All we can do is echo your anguished cries
Stare as all human feelings die
We are leaving, you don’t need us
Go, take your sister then, by the hand
Lead her away from this foreign land
Far away, where we might laugh again
We are leaving, you don’t need us
And it’s a fair wind blowin’ warm
Out of the south over my shoulder
Guess I’ll set a course and go…”

by David Crosby—Paul Kantner and Stephen Stills…

Intervals begin and—Gods of Greed—square pairs of—Hopes-Choice or Loss. Once again—little while—becomes longer time—Children of Earth-side spin—again—sleep—without hunger—and war birds—disappear—somewhere—inside morning mists…Is it true that—after body dies—devoured by vultures—land based physical creatures—finally free-fly? Language is our means of expressions—inverted—and succumbing to stranger contrivances? Are we speak-masters—sharpers—of too many twists of travel—to be true seekers—of peace? Expressions—happening—often degenerate—often decline—inclinations—to impression—without expressing—impressive—rhymes or reasons—anyway?

Across—dark dividing distance—between world twirl and star lights’ twinkle—wrinkles space-form—benders of light join—twisting dances start—once and ending twice—only to start the stop—of eternal jolt and bolts of flashes—across many skies—of many places seen and known and started and stopped—only to again-begin and again—to sweeten life together—dance—with drum beats—racing hearts and together strength. The ‘I’—is welcomed into ‘We’—powers-to-be-a-sea of them—and the gentle ends—of ‘Me.’ And! It is OK to ‘Dance the Night Away.’ Machined wonders—spirits that guide—the processes of robot arms—robot legs and—watch through robot eyes and hear through robot ears—and once or often weep spirit tears and die— never-ever-even—if a book-or ten call living—‘sins of flesh’—when spirited robots—must live and die and forever move—into dusted star-streams—-while dancing ‘cross twinkles—sketched across the winter’s sky.

And! Beware of the middle of middling places—where middle robots produce the non-productive station—of stationary worlds—no twirl spots without—tops of fashioned—fastening clamps to fantastic swirls—of chaotic-creative—creations. Spaces—without the creations of wonder and joyful—productive productions—crease and cease—along ribbons in space-time and—the continuation of any reason to be—a being—melding into together and universal power. We are—light and darkness—silence—but for a moment—then flash ‘we’ across forever—riding with—sweet Witches of Creation—come—midnight blue and Life…

“Governments are power systems. They are trying to sustain their power and domination over their populations and they will use what means are available to do this. By now the means are very sophisticated and extensive and we can expect them to increase. So for instance, if you read technology journals you learn that in robotics labs for some years there have been efforts to develop small drones, what they call “fly-sized drones,” which can intrude into a person’s home and be almost invisible and carry out constant surveillance. You can be sure that the military is very much interested in this, and the intelligence systems as well, and will soon be using it.” by Norm Chomsky…

There are times—when good silence—makes ways for righteous noise—when sound-speaks another word-or-two—then makes way for again good silence—behind the tucks of night-light and morning’s hush. Of Freedom—with no concrete meaning—attached to the word. Freedom—as idea—must have definition? If Freedom is a principle—it should have definition—to allow implementation…Opened-Eyes—Opened Mind? And! Seek protection—from ‘taking-a-stand’—refusal to admit—the nature of what is accepted—is supporting plans—designed to achieve serfdom? Still! Love or believe in Freedom…What crime is committed—if ‘crime’—is not crime and has not—occurred—in memory-man…What crime when ‘no-law’ provides for it?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Wooden Ships’…performed by Jefferson Airplane