Never let them take your sweet believing …
It has been 8 full moons since my little right hand pooch left his body. 8 months of me processing, feeling, hiding and dealing with grief in all of its forms. Here is some learning that I have taken from it… this applies to anyone whether they have lost a pet, a friend, a […]
via Grief… the guilt — Aria-Bella Rises
Life is ever flowing ebb of rising/sweeping remission of emotional tides on which the human heart gallops. Opening the palm of the Soul to release a parent is one of the most delicate experiences I have ever been through. Still, walking this path’s journey. Love knows no bounds.
12:52 PM · Feb 15, 2018
Papa,
I believe I am finally breathe once more. You are ever my hero, protector, and the most brilliant man I have yet to meet. Miss you like crazy but, it is time to take that path we always talked about so many hours beneath our beloved trees here.
All My Love,
Your Baby Doll
Walter C. Dunlap of Revere | 1939 – 2017 | Obituary
Someone has been killing our cats, Demonic river congo rats, Seizure tremor clabber dinner, Milk poured from Death's sovereign vat, Trespass coochie bubble grass, A sea of stolen starlight cast, To sail my soul, rasp, and sinner, Until our veils vapor shimmer, Love remains life's dearest need, Whole womb, doom, venom, or seed, Dare cause to arise, must's do plea, Cherries sweetest cyanidic, Forgiveness, poison, daily bleed. In memory of Jabber Box aka Jack the Cowboy Cat. He was thankful for every mouthful he received and defined love more concicely than we humans can imagine.
The catalpa pods dangle, hesitant paper laces in the hushed secrets of the Autumn winds … above and in sentry over the first blush cascades of promising rose hips, nourishment the summer fauns will savor come winter’s killing frost … slightness of the morning turning her palms in offering first testament … there uplifts a billowed lantern dance in unconcealed oneness urging the wood ducks to favor the openness of the lake’s center … thus, they ride on crystal carronades of split prism prayer parades … carnival red, gold, and green gleam … Soul drifts upon this thirst of suggestion, pagoda patter beneath cool bare feet, stone and moss married amongst calliopes with tender mints supplanted … silver bells kiss consternation pouring forth amicable intentions of reaching ignorance’s temple where rest no knowledge of ever knowing touch … the taste of mead and marigolds drunk with a dark silence met … I am your vital leech field, swamp to suckle mud fed seeds, thus, his milky and honey oleander greed.
© CDD All Rights Reserved 2017
The precipice of summer lingers lying quietly to the definitions we cling to … ritual eggs brighten rows freshly tilled by plow shears we forged from the last glance our eyes held with the starving peregrines on the ledges of the city towers … their children are dried to hollow dusty holograms … the tapping of a heart’s chain slung carelessly to trip the rainbow’s remains for their want of nurturing spittle … rain too far a distant dust bowl dagger slit in lamb’s wool absorption to quench … we are vain, almost vulgar, in calling for a holy preservation of the child Self … the yoked sack membrane damp as the due we all crawl through eventually in suckling dread hours … the remainder of stains on duckling cliffs ruby~ing palms and knees … my toes turn in, Leo knows how it hurts, how the martin’s purple came to be … why can’t we take our hands off the joy stick of illusion long enough to know … giving up creation to create with each other … for whatever time we are afforded by the roadside ditches or in marble mansions … ambling, rambling, or scrambling for its living breath … is by design a worthy purpose …
Art work credit: Bloodletting by © CanisAlbus
More …
Tis all I find above sullen skies to sate the Spirit’s climb,
In salty seas to spice the dining of craven hunger bowls,
On Earth to fodder flower, fain, or fauns away from Winter’s stole,
Saving graces by only thine, my fires consumption burns whole,
This Soul of mine was rebuked to despair’s hellish holes,
For the labour of Sin Eaters is seldom seen for its gold,
Until death and decrepit darkness announces me rendered,
As She or Her at last,
So, yes please, … bleed me until I am blind.
© 2017 cdd all rights reserved
Glory’s voice, utterer, potter’s wheel clay culled of Crone Moon and Milky Way,
Starchild, do not seek tenders and hope amongst the colors of your visioned sight,
The heart who claims love yet, holds the darkness as for you a guiding light,
Captive, craven you shall become, as the raven is to the black he sought for envy,
Feed them not with green pools, copper lamp pupil gated souls. sweet glance or glare,
For turning away will their mechanism be, to fantasy, id and ego plated, awaited,
Delicious dishes mirrored selves, both snails and eggs and puppy dog tails,
Go out instead and dress the trees in this your lorn laced ruffled sleeves,
Arm fulls embrace, curtsy the leaves, kissing bark veins, cheeking mossy tellings,
Drawn water as if sapling springs from mountain thaws, awakening warmth in their further fruits,
Not yet even a bud of thought in a twig’s lonesome dreams, when Autumn sings,
There will be found the seeds, the husk for Earth and Star’s child to circle round,
Rhyme past thyme sleeping lazy in the summer sun swinging on the ripened vine,
Hop the creek, toes to minnows cool waters, and algae slimes as tadpoles divine time there,
Now lives for the beauty the children feel in their close and most precious Host,
The Voices of our souls can not express lest we sing the cellular Nature songs,
When we were and Who we are while dancing to Where shall we go next my friend ?
