More ?

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


Tunnel… I’m not the only one …

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

Holy Vapors

4102464783_9d1fc299a0_oMary in a Roman Catholic Church in Chicago

I had forgotten what it feels like to breathe … taking in lungfuls I could claim as my own … for the moments we had held them … the utter thoughtless exchange, otherwise now a dwelling stay … I’ve been giving it away so long … to anyone who will take it … or was it to anyone who would let me have a dram … does it matter what caused the stain when a cancer is the day’s remains ? … he said he saw all my pain in the betrayal of my soul’s window panes … suffocated lambs behind them lain in poultry rows for counting games … shims and shacks, shake and shame … the balance of the blade became soft once I realized … air left volume to perception’s choice … to the dreaming city sinking sea bound at the break of a new eon … terrible in the white blaze it wrought before us …   we held cirrus clouds in our cheeks just then, inverted O~ring memories … praying to undertake the glorified transfiguration and not become their Holy wafer … but the vapor, each breathe seeks to pass across in death.

© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved June 11, 2015

… on the edge of time she has waited …


… on the edge of time she has waited … toes sipping the star pools spinning galaxies with stories her eyes hide for lack of magic handling by snake doctors and fools … she only thought she had a song or knew the colors of darkness … the night rainbow’s secrets or the rose’s dew in her playful potions … until you tapped her on the shoulder with your “May I take you by surprise?” … like Alice she began tumbling through the gates of … at last there will be a crest to align worlds to … undone … balls of molecular twine your dendrites to hers for they are ever rearranging … to suit the lovely star maps you leave upon her mind with even the mere whisper … the slight sigh … completed is her undone in all that is thine … breath of new convergence … morning … noon … and night …

Flag this message Delete this message

NaPoWriMo 2016 #22

flowers 016

Mother Earth, we come to you in the only way a child knows … with water and spoon … imagination and rain boots … incense and honey, as our offering … It has always been child’s desire to plant a new tree … in place of every stump we see … wishing for the all seeds to grow … we save and store those we see dwindle … to gather and learn signatures … with our crayons and colored cloth … We sing the songs of creature care … chanting through the moon as she phases … serve the season well and dwell beneath your reasons … spring must wait as it is, dealt and due … forgive us for those who trespass so … who dig your flesh, who mine your soul … we are but your children of Father Sky … left behind when time ran dry … Someday all shall dance, hand in hand … upon your sweet shell shores … in the meadow green lands … on mountain tops and valleys low … Remembering, One peace, One love, One cause for all … that our purpose as your children … contains no dross.

© 2016  cdd All Rights Reserved
Photo Credit © 2016  cdd All Rights Reserved

NaPoWriMo 2016 #8

Let There Be Love


May the children in the morning rays,

Remember love will always stay,

In their hearts if they are gay,

As they grow not forgetting to play,

Let There Be Love.


May our brothers come together fast,

Building bonds of strength to last,

A creed defined across all caste,

Molded from the ghosts of visions past,

Let There Be Love.


Will sisters struggle arm in arm,

Heal at last and do no harm,

Beat the drum fighting back the swarm,

Grow hearts at home and fruit upon the farms,

Let There Be Love.


And when at end of day we rest,

Bring kindness, joy, and peace to test,

Care for Mother Earth’s children best,

For We are seen and We are blessed,

Let There Be Love.

© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved


This is my wish for you all today and every day. May we all be as One and May there be Love.



NaPoWriMo 2016 #7

(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


NaPoWriMo #3

Dearest Mr. Cohen,

I came to your music quite late in my life,

Pardon me, but this couldn’t be helped,

I was born a little too late for my soul in nineteen sixty-four,

By this time in your life you had already seen,

The stitch, purpose, and the cosmic inseams,

What about life and why we use words,

Having been placed so strategically.

Yes, I am American born, wishing more understood,

The depth and compassion, you’ve given the world,

I guess it is true, as I’ve always been told,

I just have a flower girl’s soul,

For my inner child knew, when first I heard you,

As a poet, as one of the wilde,

You spoke from my heart, so true.

I’ve listened, I’ve learned,

I’ve read and reviewed,

Studies your portrait a million times through,

Held the words you have offered,

The naked soul you shared often,

And, yes, I argue with God too.

You kept it simple so much of the time,

No need to make burdens or bruise,

You made it so hard, you tore it apart,

Just for a reason to use up the glue,

You planted weeds and harvested flowers,

Boquets of glass, caskets for those who choose,

How we live at times, to merely taste the hues.

You’ve taught us of love’s emaculate embrace,

Kissing war of the foot though with distaste,

To sing for our sister’s freedom and grace,

Even though our counting beads are worn,

On hands stealing bread, feeding mouths of babes,

Your strong laughter lives in our pink hallways,

We shant ever forget your face.

You examined all our heros, and the heroins relaced,

Immortalizing these fragile poets promise with your praise,

Others dared not walk that space for lack of courage spent,

You, Leonard, took the dark wood’s path with lampless gallows,

For there is the greatest danger in lighting a smoke,

When your clothes are soaked in your truth and gasoline,

Opening all of the closets at once with no conical of refrain.

With Sharon you’ve breathed life into woman, Glorifying She in the fullness of the Self,

In Her truest beauty, Her sins, Her nakedness, or your word gowns,

Tis how we find our compass all so often, music being all we have,

In the temple, in the bedroom, in the grass or flowing fountain,

The melody seeks the melody hands dancing passion’s play to love,

This seeking ever draws us home in the end if we listen long enough.

To thank you overly, Mr. Cohen, for the songs and poetry,

I know that’s not your particular style, So, I’d like to say I am grateful, friend.

For your journey being such as it has been,

For your sharing, for your great smile, your diligence, and the quest,

The risk you took in searching so deeply, inside your wounded Self,

For Suzanne, Boogie Street, and Master Song, (to barely name a few)

for every drop of yourself you gifted.


Carla Dawn

© cdd All Rights Reserved

Wuxia Honourably Armed

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.

© C.D.D.AllRightsReserved

#NaPoWriMo 29

Poor Prayer

There is no Saint who can hear an empty heart,

Exists no God who sees a self proclaimed fool,

No Matron Mother bears beliefless children homeward,

If all prayers are whispered on the wings of woe,

This is why we have Angels come into our lives,

To lead us to the light once more, when darkness falls.

#NaPoWriMo 29
© 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved