A lake lies dead … sickness fills its gills at the ice’s edge … hurried clutter and cramped fur decaying abide … an open mouth surface sucking blue gill seeking the blessings of summer air … a litter moisture white flake scatter of two foot fair channel cat and their grass carp brothers in arms … they were ships in their former life … now barely magnetic worth in a pond of a sea … the eagles land when the strength of winter holds fast against the sun’s wobble spun proclamations … they fill their purposes with craven mouthed worm gills from death’s cold clay …
As for me … I exist on kindness and crackers … the coffee of other’s honest obituaries and funeral home basement sugar cube seven year old powdered cream misunderstandings … oatmeal cookies the Basset hound found forgotten or meant shared later to maddened murder, a mayhem with smiling songs … the children, they are passing as well … one by one of strange prophecies, illness or curse … poppets perhaps, directed to eat my hair while I sleep … dreaming of lovers just beyond the shores of all my ancient oceans … spells to banish boogeymen some dare to own twice … I care not pardon those who choose to sacrifice the seeds to save fruit left un-harvested, un-hailed, and impotent to glory’s grace in exchange for a moment’s licking fire parade of id or ire, either shamed … Will I burn in some fresh hell for this confession that my love of all transcends my love of self ? … I may … Comfort sends me postcards from those who will join me and we plan our potlucks, vegetarian and cruelty-free whenever possible …
Does The Creator seek religion each time war seems endless between his unruly children ? … Did The Christ child within the man looking toward the heavenly home in prophetic hues of black betrayal ? … Is this why we have cultivate flower gardens … to pay for our inability to not break the truth that he came here to show us … that our love could save him … not the obtuse … each day he breathed the bait, yet, remained for Love is the ghost and the game, the trial, the cross, the only healing shot in the veins … driving the damaged onto a frigid tile floor of some convenient store … both have forgotten why at times … toilet water dipped in pain’s stains to thin the sap he gifted those too beautiful to remain whole … once the illusion slipped the remains of memory into the shape shifting phos-copper flames of lotus elixirs … our silver brazed brass glands gasping outside the rain … no end, nor order, never hope to hold the few remains of perishing chased scissor lace … cirrus clouds which banish the bane of dagger thrust sanity …
Meanwhile, … here I am ever weaving webs of light in the corners of Bethlehem … the Spirits of my Grand Mothers ever guiding my hands … tears spun to likened lamp oil light only the Holy may see … praying for wishing horses to ride once again … I never cease believing, though there are some things my heart desires blindness to …
© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved
(off prompt today)
Loosing Neo’s Compass
Is loosing the belief in our own ability to transcend … the darkness in which we may force love to abide … the greater lose felt as we witness … our Self begin to pass through our own palms … sands so parched for care and kisses now … the oceans fear their request to be quenched … lest the salts should harden as do hearts … the grains never reaching landfall … from between pressed and parted fingertips … the breeze kidnapping their crystal core magnetic North … carrying them home again … we shall all return to Zion in the end … or, accordingly, to the Hell of our own making … would we choose a higher love having known this ? … bound ourselves in the vows of watery devotion alone ? … leaving trust behind in the armoury ? … sacrificial lovers lips are the only truth we can sell … to keep the condensation of lies from drowning us … Are you dodging bullets yet, my darling, in your playtime black leather coat? … Me? … I am dancing to the endless silent beats of Zion’s sleepless drums.
© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved
The Cruelest Month of All
Mankind, in all his glory, found it fit to define time … to harness the blessed abandon grace, happening holds not the witness’ wine … with this his attempt to break the spirit of flow, as to bind it to reasonable heights … declaring triumph over vast mountain peaks, some feat above ordinary minds … he swallowed sound, clabbered chaos, indoctrinated the blind … appointed gears, false hands, gold plate, and instrumental chimes … to replace the cycle and rhythm of Mother Nature’s mind … 13 months he set forth to enslave, those he deemed to be lower class … to serve, to rape, to plunder, to gash, the freedom of universal design … in shackles and chains live man, woman, and child, their intellectual seasons now 4 by 3 … to cause cellular holidays to be bred out of the beast … forming worker hives and thought numb disease … man is the cruelest to man you see, no matter what month it be … a fabricated semblance, a mere slight, of all we were meant to be.
May we awaken once more … moment by moment.
© 2016 cdd All Right Reserved
The edge of the bamboo grove is still the eye of the storm spinning roulette in my crown caravan wheels … I sit on Tara’s throne in the cup of a lotus blossom and wait … it has been two thousand years since my oath was taken … it has been only six days since the last battle was waged … my wounds are healing … the rainbow comes each morning to nurture me in the colors given by the master of creation … at times there are seven shades … at others seventy hues of the heavens … yet, more warriors than not can only perceive The Absence or The Light … I soak in the Rain of the Father who brought these children … his Bride nurses my wounds with her herbs and spittle … All is silent in this glimpse beyond witnessing … my construct of sheltered shamelessness … where the voices of the atmosphere are all one hears … until it is time again to listen for the whimpering of battle … to engage … until slightness perceives a wrestling along the lines of demarcation … between peace and those who cannot surrender their slit soaked war … I am honorably armed and thus, I rise to bear the sword of my soul once again … blood thirst emotion not yet mastered … my humans unable to lie down the spear and saber even when the helpless slaughtered can be seen … I seek them beyound the gates of illusion … their Nirvana hidden in the storm clouds the bamboo grove swirls beneath … I face the Void wuxia as was the Buddha.
Why does the bee labour so?
Why do the blossoms come?
Why has the honeycomb stood?
So long in this trusted wood?
For whom is the honey made?
For man, for beast, for micro mind?
For metamorphic clocks of time?
Why have we come to drink our own?
And murder so the host that binds?
For whom is the honey made?
Ask yourself, while there is still time.
© 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved
The virgining leaves tremble in the morning’s essential breeze … Dawn awakens to chase the chill of Night and warm the liquid light bodies of snail and tree frog … the slip and candid fasten frail tendrils of all blossoming vines open their awareness … unfurling the paper white fragility of their dance petal symphony … nodding head mosses stretch through the drench of dew bonnets upon their sleepy heads … as the iridescence of their quartz footings kiss the Master good morning … “It is in your light, I find my freedom” they whisper softly … bluebells opening their life giving sweet songs written in the law of true unconditional love … this mystery turns in the gathering morn … we human have long forgotten … soon, the morel stands witness …
© 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved