Summer Again
movin' into summer
wind plays in cloud formation
drifting into deep elation
sun rise
blossoms to a
rhythmic peak
sending out, sending out, sending out
radiant vibration
reflected in summer skies
I need to tell a tale
of fantasy and careless
leaning into tall grass,
fruited trees, languid leaves,
brilliant sunshine warming
soporific
melting melodies
The tale unwinds in brightly
colored ribbons,
dances gypsy comedies
of breezy, dimpled romance
In silken perfumes bathed
sweet and scandalous
deign o dainty smile
laughter bubbles out,
bursts, raucous music flames
filling summer eves'
glistening fairy light
Tell a rollicking tale,
we demand of the piper
We have paid all the long
seasons of darkness
It is time to reap an early harvest
of moonbeams dancing to dawn
Begin, Being
Soft Summer night.
Stars and open carless road.
Kicking up bits of stone and dust.
Saying:
I could be anyone.
I could start here.
What is beginning?
Aware of the first rays of
conscious aloneness.
Summer is harsh on
fragile skin, newly opened eyes.
They catch eager forays,
studies in communication;
simple truth hidden in rules,
mine-like cages, punishing
rewards that bind and itch.
Beginnings are not the point.
They are portals, not the
mystic river,
the sand so burning insubstantial,
the forest enchanted in
eider and whey.
Beginnings never warn of battle
flame or drunken dares.
They only promise vague
adventure, valiant possibilities.
Looking up to the night sky for
solace, a soft moment,
an endless road
to ride along home.
Loosening from light, long hazy days ebb golden,
corn fields and buzzing
early harvesters of wild lore.
Cold is still a legend, a remembered song
soon enough we'll be singing,
huddled into aural lamps for communal warmth.
Tonight, as twilight melts into familiar
constellations, migrating like flying life,
early harvest still feeds celebration.
Crossing the Threshold
At the crossroads at midnight
my lady did swear
that she must be alone
to face up to her demons.
"Please understand that I must
be aware of just who I am
and where I've come from."
I sat by the bridge
as she set forth her flames,
her sorcerer lore, her alchemic runes
so she'd know who to honor, to break
and to blame,
what she'd been made for,
her journey, her tools.
At the crossroads, past midnight,
just before dawn,
my lady thrice nodded and
stamped out her flames.
She beckoned I join her out on the meadow
to kiss and rejoice
and reveal our true names.
A to the core belief
in the self -- miracle of seed expressed
sweet spot of bliss and exultation
deep reward for daring to feel complete
creates no war, no competition, no other to defeat.
These illusions of aggrandizement belong
to self doubt,
to desperate deifying of right and wrong,
to self-alienation.
a sad thing in life is when you meet someone
over an evening, dissolving separation,
finding eternal meaning and validation,
learning to be in love
until reality of the human kind steps in
grand fantasy set free to wander
obsesses through your mind
Don't let go -- just be who love has made you.
Not a Lucid Dream
She is not some willowy fragile damsel Queen
awaiting champions to compete
for her hand.
She is not grand, imperious.
Not more than a child, yet strong of will,
of purpose.
She sings herself to sleep,
deep lullabies to entice
prophetic dreams.
Potent streams, unconscious bliss,
offer drenching.
Hydrating water falls
drawn down, release all pretense.
Surrender to fate --
or collaborate in adventure.
It takes a Queen to drink
from the sacred cup, to
read the trails of sludge,
to answer.
She heeds serendipity's call,
heals her aching wound,
hears soft moisture mark her path.
Cracking ice spells runes to
guide, sprite luminous shades.
Wavery blue, ectoplasmic arms
trace salutations.
This is not lucid dreaming.
This is the sign promised.
Taste the frozen blood;
know its story, sharp, shining.
Live the legend,
even when
it is furthest from your mind.
We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
webbed space and time.
All that ever is, like sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
rainbows
or other illusions
into effervescent poetry.
Gestures
Desperately reaching to convey
imagery haunting like
a phantom stalker
pervasive elusive illusion
parade
I intrude, I do
and make panicky getaway
Intrusive, illusive, a sultry sigh
I tried to tell you
I cried
inside
Accept our human coil
wrap sweetly as eider
cozy, drowsy, dreamy
into a field of play
Engage in battle strategies
Enrage when others fail to please
all the while that deep wide smile
sees outside the eyes and miles
into a great well of laughter
Nihilist explanation
Formless in quantum relationship
Stark drifting beyond living landscape
Such blatant ego whining contradicts
bliss, wonder, biology,
squandering the price of admission
A forest is a poem
in a language of life, of action.
Symbiotic swell into echoing song.
Bright catalytic light, dark layers of still
nurturing long decay, fragrant rhythms
tune to animal play and parry,
seeds join in emergent glee, new forms
for old, set in sound and fury.
Forest
the word itself carries intrigue, tales
of magic and remorse,
of maidens hiding from horrific beasts and
handsome knights sworn to fealty.
Sweet sprites, winsome serpents and ravens
whisper oracular spells to trap or free.
A mere parade of words may create no sap,
no clinging moss, no berries enticing birds
to build for a future family.
Yet a forest is most certainly
a poem.
Protection
I wind into a tight cord
expel ice-tipped thorns to repel
your good intentions.
You are not my troubled mind.
You are my always touchstone,
my center of reason, promise of peace.
In psychotic chaos, moments torn,
my instinct turns sharply inward.
Primal wariness, protection against
irrevocable reverberations of violence
shattering our sacred bond.
Glow World
Go with the glow, bioluminescent
inscrutable bright night flare
a grove of ashes
a nest of vipers
a tangled garden lair
The forest is old,
wild road stained in adventure,
obscured in ghosts and mysteries,
sculptured by drifting seas, fallen stars,
exulted pleasure,
eternal embrace of decaying leaves, sad savagery.
There is primal fire here.
Glowing coals that never relented
keep warm our restless slumber,
feeding us through famine
burnt remnants, perennial weeds, piquant renderings.
The glow screams of escape --
our demons free
through fingertips, lips, oozing.
Cauterized wounds re-inflame, never heal.
Scenery, like a trellis
slowly turning, pauses at this
portal.
Destiny
shudders seismically.
Angels of light,
diamonds in the night
shatter into promises -- pristine
honour, repose, strength --
of charismatic grace.
Go with the glow.
movin' into summer
wind plays in cloud formation
drifting into deep elation
sun rise
blossoms to a
rhythmic peak
sending out, sending out, sending out
radiant vibration
reflected in summer skies
I need to tell a tale
of fantasy and careless
leaning into tall grass,
fruited trees, languid leaves,
brilliant sunshine warming
soporific
melting melodies
The tale unwinds in brightly
colored ribbons,
dances gypsy comedies
of breezy, dimpled romance
In silken perfumes bathed
sweet and scandalous
deign o dainty smile
laughter bubbles out,
bursts, raucous music flames
filling summer eves'
glistening fairy light
Tell a rollicking tale,
we demand of the piper
We have paid all the long
seasons of darkness
It is time to reap an early harvest
of moonbeams dancing to dawn
Begin, Being
Soft Summer night.
Stars and open carless road.
Kicking up bits of stone and dust.
Saying:
I could be anyone.
I could start here.
What is beginning?
Aware of the first rays of
conscious aloneness.
Summer is harsh on
fragile skin, newly opened eyes.
They catch eager forays,
studies in communication;
simple truth hidden in rules,
mine-like cages, punishing
rewards that bind and itch.
Beginnings are not the point.
They are portals, not the
mystic river,
the sand so burning insubstantial,
the forest enchanted in
eider and whey.
Beginnings never warn of battle
flame or drunken dares.
They only promise vague
adventure, valiant possibilities.
Looking up to the night sky for
solace, a soft moment,
an endless road
to ride along home.
Loosening from light, long hazy days ebb golden,
corn fields and buzzing
early harvesters of wild lore.
Cold is still a legend, a remembered song
soon enough we'll be singing,
huddled into aural lamps for communal warmth.
Tonight, as twilight melts into familiar
constellations, migrating like flying life,
early harvest still feeds celebration.
Crossing the Threshold
At the crossroads at midnight
my lady did swear
that she must be alone
to face up to her demons.
"Please understand that I must
be aware of just who I am
and where I've come from."
I sat by the bridge
as she set forth her flames,
her sorcerer lore, her alchemic runes
so she'd know who to honor, to break
and to blame,
what she'd been made for,
her journey, her tools.
At the crossroads, past midnight,
just before dawn,
my lady thrice nodded and
stamped out her flames.
She beckoned I join her out on the meadow
to kiss and rejoice
and reveal our true names.
A to the core belief
in the self -- miracle of seed expressed
sweet spot of bliss and exultation
deep reward for daring to feel complete
creates no war, no competition, no other to defeat.
These illusions of aggrandizement belong
to self doubt,
to desperate deifying of right and wrong,
to self-alienation.
a sad thing in life is when you meet someone
over an evening, dissolving separation,
finding eternal meaning and validation,
learning to be in love
until reality of the human kind steps in
grand fantasy set free to wander
obsesses through your mind
Don't let go -- just be who love has made you.
Not a Lucid Dream
She is not some willowy fragile damsel Queen
awaiting champions to compete
for her hand.
She is not grand, imperious.
Not more than a child, yet strong of will,
of purpose.
She sings herself to sleep,
deep lullabies to entice
prophetic dreams.
Potent streams, unconscious bliss,
offer drenching.
Hydrating water falls
drawn down, release all pretense.
Surrender to fate --
or collaborate in adventure.
It takes a Queen to drink
from the sacred cup, to
read the trails of sludge,
to answer.
She heeds serendipity's call,
heals her aching wound,
hears soft moisture mark her path.
Cracking ice spells runes to
guide, sprite luminous shades.
Wavery blue, ectoplasmic arms
trace salutations.
This is not lucid dreaming.
This is the sign promised.
Taste the frozen blood;
know its story, sharp, shining.
Live the legend,
even when
it is furthest from your mind.
We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
webbed space and time.
All that ever is, like sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
rainbows
or other illusions
into effervescent poetry.
Gestures
Desperately reaching to convey
imagery haunting like
a phantom stalker
pervasive elusive illusion
parade
I intrude, I do
and make panicky getaway
Intrusive, illusive, a sultry sigh
I tried to tell you
I cried
inside
Accept our human coil
wrap sweetly as eider
cozy, drowsy, dreamy
into a field of play
Engage in battle strategies
Enrage when others fail to please
all the while that deep wide smile
sees outside the eyes and miles
into a great well of laughter
Nihilist explanation
Formless in quantum relationship
Stark drifting beyond living landscape
Such blatant ego whining contradicts
bliss, wonder, biology,
squandering the price of admission
A forest is a poem
in a language of life, of action.
Symbiotic swell into echoing song.
Bright catalytic light, dark layers of still
nurturing long decay, fragrant rhythms
tune to animal play and parry,
seeds join in emergent glee, new forms
for old, set in sound and fury.
Forest
the word itself carries intrigue, tales
of magic and remorse,
of maidens hiding from horrific beasts and
handsome knights sworn to fealty.
Sweet sprites, winsome serpents and ravens
whisper oracular spells to trap or free.
A mere parade of words may create no sap,
no clinging moss, no berries enticing birds
to build for a future family.
Yet a forest is most certainly
a poem.
Protection
I wind into a tight cord
expel ice-tipped thorns to repel
your good intentions.
You are not my troubled mind.
You are my always touchstone,
my center of reason, promise of peace.
In psychotic chaos, moments torn,
my instinct turns sharply inward.
Primal wariness, protection against
irrevocable reverberations of violence
shattering our sacred bond.
Glow World
Go with the glow, bioluminescent
inscrutable bright night flare
a grove of ashes
a nest of vipers
a tangled garden lair
The forest is old,
wild road stained in adventure,
obscured in ghosts and mysteries,
sculptured by drifting seas, fallen stars,
exulted pleasure,
eternal embrace of decaying leaves, sad savagery.
There is primal fire here.
Glowing coals that never relented
keep warm our restless slumber,
feeding us through famine
burnt remnants, perennial weeds, piquant renderings.
The glow screams of escape --
our demons free
through fingertips, lips, oozing.
Cauterized wounds re-inflame, never heal.
Scenery, like a trellis
slowly turning, pauses at this
portal.
Destiny
shudders seismically.
Angels of light,
diamonds in the night
shatter into promises -- pristine
honour, repose, strength --
of charismatic grace.
Go with the glow.