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 …
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Glory and Goodbyes
The singing of glory songs is common in the tent camp of mutation … come follow the tracks of Snake Oil doctors … their wagons heavy laden with the sins of scam and dereliction toward the eldest, those suffering … learn a trade you can fall back on when your day job is misguided by the prairie fires and dust bowl prayer pamphlets … they will be printed on the backs of recycled WWII Sugar Ration coupons … The day we buried the most beloved elder of our nation he met her at the white man’s roadside … his clothes no more than rags now, the buckskins of his youth shredded beneath the towers of steel and copper indigenous compression, now thought to be his Sunday best black wool teasel brushed … he wore his moccasins in protest … only those with their hearts still aligned with Great Spirit could see them …He had walked to the hard road from somewhere in the shadow of the pines where few ever cared to wander anymore or any less … his thin skinned face telling stories to the rocks and upwards warmth seeking blossoms … as the path of his eyes was only the few steps ahead of where the dust rose in constant presence … cradled in his hand was a hat, not fitting the suit or moccasins yet, trembling for was his heart … as she passed in the gas piston carriage for the final time … he bowed his head with a depth of slightness which even the trees ceased their sway to catch in their branches … centuries rose from the aura about him and his countenance rode on the four winds once again with her … their sacrifices palpable even to the rain who quenched Spirits’ thirsts metamorphosed into the sweetness we each cotton … blessed and forbidden … bringing none the less our choice of flower fair or vain, glory or disdain, is that which meets us each on the final journey home … to love perhaps, as he did secretly … for you have a fairer face to guard and gain … a road to travel in a way for remembrance from which we all came … may all your noble lives remain joyfully arranged.
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Morning breaks in the red ruddy flames of Dawn’s plumb and blush … sleepless bedlam born have I been with wine stung eyes masked in anticipation … anxious tears wear the dancing crone’s stem in ritual cascades beneath a mighty thundering gather … my skirts are yellow as Rudbeckiah’s petals with cornflower ruffles, polka dotted and gingham in the manner the Phoebe sings … its own joyful soul liquid in trills and moss maiden purposes … It is in his love’s bower my heart keeps spry, wise, and sunrise surprised at what news the blue skink shall bring to window pane … poem and uttered palette knife collage travels through ions on spider web silk succor and chalk painted prayers … beetle dung orb anchored celestial illuminations affixed to his canvas slipping wormhole wobbles with the ancient excrement of all peoples in One skin … this is his Spirit’s time clock and rip cord flying squirrel sun dial, where it’s always the moment of Now … of his most precious choosing … My gladness buds from the rust of city rail and rain gutter drain remains from lord less fools who disdain such beautiful veins … cat whisker chin tickling garden gains thrive where color cast Babbit grains and the granite Adam roams the maze … ever a seeker of a finer faire cause rosy sway … tis noble I say … a cause I sink satin and sword alike in to stay a course worthy of Inanna’s grace … for I love him as soul’s first felt lace in the darkness when reaching towards Light … auric circumference of Luna’s bright shadow … I, ever bitten, brave, and bare throated in happy bondage to love’s priceless surrender.
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The peacock’s latch and key feather frames of the boundless Benoit Mandelbrot refraction within the eyes of our most ancient antecedents … splay meringue spread fully fan … an altar ripe reason to carry him vestibule varied to the temple … upon thrones of Rose of Jericho come from foreign deserts to blossom in privileged honor … their fern frond palms out stretched and moist with the duty of their birth … the children are gone now who had come plant blessings … frond to tiny button finger tipped palm and prayer pressed as messengers of The Light … it is with this blessed assurance the footmen arrive to carriage the Lord home again , “Light as a feather and stiff as a board ” … they move the sand thrones of deserted time … his tail of a thousand eyes following behind to ward and wary a protective parade … against all spiritual poisons of those who desire to merely fest on the flesh and deem pot block the sins of others … boiling their intestinal fortitude into cloyed purple confections pate for their supper … hearts can beat without bowels and skin as well … suck the marrow of our roasted bones, cheese the brains as you care, to our sorrows swim in the blood of pools you gathered when slain the strutting Self you dared … the colors you scent all in your sighted worlds, your pox blankets and whiskey, your lands and treaties … we are like the peafowl we carry our colors within … do as you will, you can, you may, and you choose … the farther you tear at us the more light you shall find … shrouded in Crone and Warrior, Wisdom and Hag, Father and Mother, Grandmother and Elder … pink and wanting, brought and borrowed, Mother moon spun spelled … All Goddess granted, bright or shelled … your ultimate gift must always be, the part of you She entails.
July 11, 2016 2:30 am
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Sweat wand hair triggers press the oil stain of guilt upon life’s innocent … in the scope’s glass the assassin’s eye synced to God’s pupil dilation … reacting only to the dark side of the moon these days … the remainder of the time seeking the light of the angel’s looms … weaving man’s additional moments based on when Leonard Peltier dreams of making love …
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Believer in Signs
Upon rising in the morning, the dreary window pellets of Dawn’s still falling rain clinging to the frigid glass, I glanced out upon the lake, as is my custom … Across the mid distant clay completion of it’s surface, beyond the brushy bank, now green with grasses below the leafing river birch on their high banking perch … I took in, having waded out a good measure perhaps as much as a horse is long, the starkest white crane I have seen since my early childhood … When I was small we could encounter the Whooping Cranes often, wading in the salt flats near the tiny village where I was born … Yet, this ghostly apparent wandering light seemed no ordinary Blue Heron I have spied before and most certainly not in the drear of a rain … My eyes seemed spellbound to the creature. lost in it’s magnificence for moments which I cannot make my self accountable for to wakefulness … It examined the bank where the geese have chosen to make their nest this year, a great intensity caught it up on the bank, yet, venturing out of the water it did not … Raising it’s neck to what must have been the full extension of it’s body, carelessly like an innocent child stretching after sleep … It seemed to make invisible contact with an answerable entity … Gaining the solution sought it stepped lively around the nearest lobe of the bend of hazel brush and was gone from my sight all at once … After dressing, I returned to the window in search of it’s beauty once more, to find it perching in one of the Great Cypress leading up to the meadow and forest beyond … I come from a long line of poets and the like, for myself, there was an unspoken message in this spiritual totem, this rare sighting of the Great White Egret …
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Photo Credit: Budd Titlow
The prompt today was to use a phrase from an instructional or informative manual of some sort. I chose “Earl Mindell’s Herb Bible”. The Chinese say of Ginseng, “… prolong life and make one feel young.”
To speak a phrase strung for the elegance of finger tipped strands … pearls to the teeth, the tongue must taste to craven derive a signature … their tale hidden porous pears gritty grain which begs eyes to hunger … blind thirst the palms seek by damp cavern wall chains of sweating vapor glow … we follow the beating heart echo corridors claiming the sand in our sandal soles … pen or brush we seek passage through doorways the mind laid brick foundation for …melody of the psyche sublime sconce illumination unlocking hidden havens … the journey taken in quest of self expression, soul in flight upon winged words to prolong life and make one feel young.
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Photo Credit: https://www.yahoo.com/style/nicola-griffins-lingerie-shoot-slink-172600630.html