Tuesday, December 27, 2016

The false light of hope

So I talked with my jailor the other day, bout the false
light of hope in a round a bout way. And he told me so
plainly and dear to my heart, you've been doomed my dear
from the very first start... of yer life. You changeling of a past
full of strife.

dogma is the magma of gods... who wield those swords
to rusty old cods, piece of what could have been, if only
gods were made of men. (ahem, I'm a woman in case your not noticing)
When? A dynasty of past comes into play, karma as dogma will
have it's say. Here, here! says the jester who would not sleep, electrified
body of benevolent sheep. I sing a song upon a tuff of a spider's dream
whose weave is enough. Life is tough.

Stringy, and mushy, or sullenly flat, the woman in the kitchen knows about that.

Cooking and baking is all she can do, but ah, the sworn secrets she once did know, are a swirling and curling the lines she once drew. A stick figure man
on the flat-land it seems, the poised little figure on a promise of dreams.

Do not throw pearls to swine, said the rhythm to rhyme. It will all come out
in the wash in a matter of time... my good man. Man-kind? Ha!

So in new age decollage, the tearing away of a moldy fromage, comes the trumpets of what was when, when the peasants have admitted their sin.
And the cycle begins again, to seekers of the armageddon, or to the martyr's
of what might have been. All hope has been lost and what is the cost?

The merry-go-round goes round again. Cheers, says the tiny tim.

If you thought that a Savior could curry your favor...
well, you would be right again. Ain't no sin.

Take a deep breath, and find it within.

Save your... whatever. Now that's a worthy endeavor.

(practical, but not very clever)

Monday, November 21, 2016

The Irvings are Un-nerving...

Seeing with the heart is un-nerving from the start,
when the brain is encased in a pumpkin head.
A jackal lantern will view the world from a logical
conclusion, as the collusives all said. A propo, here's
the world that you think you know. Huh? Say what?
Is it so?

In a linear way we are doomed as the apocalypists say,
we must retreat to the past of a better day and, oh,
by the way, there is this thing called a plausibility
that will get in the way. It's a tower of structure with
mirrors and smoke, leaden windows squared off with
sighs that will choke... a poor believer in a frock coat.

Ichabod, crane your neck when you wake from the winkle,
cider house rules when society tinkles, the wisest of all from
your Tarry-town, where men can ride when no one's around.

Those Irvings are un-nerving, but one thing is sure
if you read 'em you weep for the surely insecure.

A scary world, where the strong of heart is the one to adore.
Oh and meany, you read, and weep, and un-nerve some more.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

The nightmare on mainstreet

So the little fauntleroy misfit has risen to the top
as a well established businessman, a rather curious
kind of fop... the people have spoken in these auspicious
times where there is no pretense or prettiness that can
manufacture false rhymes... it's just pretense of the times.

AC/DC is well and good and death metal is the shout of should,
oh man, it sucks to be a woman if a woman actually could.

The menfolk are all cozy cuz they knew all along, the the goddess
thing was folly in a crazy mermaid thong, she knows you're right
in being wrong. A sponge can soak a lot of tears and wear a cloak of
a thousand years. The goddess is no virgin mother, that story is the one
yet to be uncovered or discovered... whatever the channel will tell
when the money paves its road to hell. Hello, do you like my hat?

An so? What? Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy?
Kids today will not eat ivy, no matter what the pundits say. Reap what
you sow in fields that give a clue against an enemy you do not know, (said
the mousy old shrew, who knew what no lemming ever knew).

Mainstream like main street is just another victim, we don't endorse them
cuz we don't pick them, said the brave little girl who had a little curl
right in the middle of her forehead, foreshadowing what her ancestors
thought but couldn't be said from the land of the living dead.

I see chaos and I see change and dogs of pride with hides of mange.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, don't waste your love on a celebrity star.

Love is what you came to do, love is who you are. Ignore the noise and it will
fade, then it will go away... wagging it's tail behind them and hoping for a brighter day. That day is where you are. It's a dream and you are the victory Star.

I arrest my case. A nightmare is a mental case.

Friday, November 4, 2016

Oh the Goddess... she did not come to please

There she was as an innocent on the beach,
modest as the time of day on a sandy dock
with a poodle skirt and her bobbie socks...
to an evening gown singing happy birthday
with a dia-mind crown. So renowned.

Whore of babble-on, jealous wife who
sought to right the blackest of knight.
Why even waste your breath, on a faunteleroy
with a phantom vest... a poor joke at best.

Some came for crazy dreams, some came for vengeance
from a past so broken as an infinite jest... but I digress.

Born in a world so foreign from sane, like a rusted whale
on a weather-vane... turning with winds from a vacant eye
and wondering, can this really be real, and why?

The menfolk are gathering their forks regardless of their belief
in storks, and cabbages, and kings... they feel reviled by the
fat lady who sings. Sweet Jesus, I'm feeling the sway
of the many men who forgot how to pray in an awkward
but confident way. If they don't have guns they cannot play.
(She just shakes her head in dismay)

The pleasing and cowardly try is a tired old biddy to forces
inside, there's no asking and pleading and sighs,
a force to be reckoned with is waiting, wanting, and standing
at the door. Will you let her inside? She is just another face
that your trying to hide. A sinewy snake but a call to the wise.
We will not stand for this abuse anymore. Not for our children
or their futures in store. Mothers arise, it's what you came here for!

Those most condemned are often the most trustworthy, when
there is nothing left to hide. A goddess holds webs as an art form
as time drifts on by. It's the rightenous holding a black book who
will be uncomfortably shy. The Goddess in compassion will
understandably know why. She is empathic, but not so shy.

So please if you will whatever you believe, see the undoing of your
personal greed and know in your fullest of heart... a mother's love
was the greatest sacrifice of your own little heart.

She will not please or go down on her knees, so you better get over
it and change your mind. The goddess is waiting for the reign of
man-kind. Isn't it time?    

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Dress rehearsal for a parlour trick

Oh I saw it coming like the teeth of the Jaws
the degradations of legions chomping at the maws.
Saddened, but nevertheless I am in awe.

There is no news that is fit to print
just tabloid flaws amongst internet hint.

"Hey, i'm just earning a living"
 gives me great pause...
When that living is a slavery cause.

So the aliens are coming, or so it would seen
from the internet scammers living an apocalpse dream...
see it's a misspelling... you know what I mean.

In the east horizon, on a day gone south
when I flap useless gums from a nere-do-well's mouth,
i see ghostly visions wafting the skies,
projected from thoughts of nere-do-wells eyes.
No need for disguise.

The aliens are coming, there is nothing to fear,
no shit sherlock they are already here.

They come as your masters and ascended one,
or candidates for presidents who consider themselves
won. Please forgive me, my heart weighs a ton.

So projection as planned in due from the east, a little
bit south from the belly of the beast...Nasa, Nasdeq...

and even a little nascent trebek. Spare me the recent
star wars and trek. Movies are projection but what the heck...

The past is dead but our future is now, we all got the memo
and we know it somehow.

I saw the silly ghost, and the creepy clown
vying for options for a very silly crown.

Aliens are coming your way, or jesus, buddha, allah
as some might say. It will be a grand parlor trick

to cause some more fear. The aliens to most kind folk
are already here. Be ready my deer.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Oh the perfect day...

There was one perfect day a long time ago,
no a moment in time without reason or rhyme,
skipping home to a jump rope rhythm, blue sky,
white clouds, happy to be alive as I skipped with
my rope away from the school... home. Past the nursery
of the blossom kind. Birds singing, and me knowing
all is well with the world. Lunch with mom is waiting.

Mom was not so well and the dark clouds came instead.
I can't remember what transpired but I went back to school
and faced a disappointment that day. Dismay.

We learned  scary tunes from my teacher kind as she banged
on an old piano. She wore sunglasses and wept as she taught us
some songs, for the curriculum. No "Bill Grogan's" goat today.

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming...

"And bombs burstin in air gave truth...

No, no, no my day just went wrong.

"Oh beautiful for spacious skies", was the song I wanted.

Fast forward... a half a century later.

I saw the dragon as a cloud in the sky, the moon sucked
into a brain. It passed down a sinus and out of a mouth,
(did I mention there was a rainbow that day?)

It passed out of the nostril of that dragon beast, as it
lit a twilight sky. I felt for the passing of the man in the moon,
but alas, I could not cry. It was a man in the moon with
with a sorrowful grimace that passed through the cloud in the sky.

I know why. She dances her light from the light of a Sun that
is just a reflection here. Letting her little one's know that their gifts may
give pause, but there is never nothing to fear.

A perfect day can never be spoilt when you see dark clouds
in a different way. Oh dear.

"Oh beautiful for spacious skies, and amber waves of grain."

Words I remember from a feminine chant that has stifled
my weary left brain.

"Crown thy good with (mother) brotherhood from sea to shining
sea. It's a perfect day when I'm thinking like me.

Skip roping with my poetry.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

Wolf and a Sheep

Prey tell, to the sheep that bleats well.
This wolf hides deep in your eyes,
an animal sentient and unhumanly wise.

It's a clever disguise.

The hunting are hunting, it's not such
a bad thing. You watch and can see
the human comedy. No fear. Stay with
me here.

Watch the skies, not the TV if you love
the birds, the clouds, and even the trees...
you will see the prey,
it just you and the me

who cares... steps from your heavens of
Apocalypse prayers.

The wolf is watching over the sheep, at least they're
sentient and won't lose their sleep.

Talking heads and crazy church bells come
together as jokers, as the hurricane swells.

Love is the reason that everything is here,
as a threat to the status that makes all of us fear.

It's just drama occurring, loud and bold...
such a old time melodrama whose time is
on hold, a moment in time is a joke in a rhyme.

The wolf and the sheep are beginning to see,
we are both the prey of a dying breed.

Love is the only thing that brings us together,
define the word and you will trust in the weather.

Or whatever.


Scalene... why can't you be true?

So it is written in the sonnets and beholden from the stars
that a scalene with an eye, projects the life on mars...

quite possibly dead, don't you think?
An eye for and eye and a tooth with a chink
of gold... or a story once told that is dead as
a doornail or quiet as a church mouse
never mind, as the storm moves closer
i will shut my mouth... ahem.

Folks we're at it again, and it won't go away
with some winds or a flood, the story goes
inward to the heat of the blood, it's relative
don't you see, the heart of the matter is the you
and the meme... or so it would seem.

A mission is part of the plan, to deny is to
bury good thoughts in the sand, which is blowing
into my jaded eyes... Oh, it's that old trickster and
he's wearing disguise, it's just sand in my eyes.

Quick, like a silver streak only for a glance or
a peek, an isoscalese in the wake, well hells bells
we should all order cake and be done with the past,
the die has been thrown and the future is cast.

Done, done. doner... said a ghost to a wanderer.

The eye of a storm is alive in feeder bands,
just like the disaster of Custer's last stand.

A scalene is what was planned, an isosceles
is what's in demand. A triangle will travel
for sure, not dependent on anyone's word.

A bird told me what might be true, but the
clouds convinced me that what I think will
come true. Oh scalene, why could't you be true?

I soss o lease,  wee are waitin on you.

Tis true.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

The Light that has no eyes, or ears...

Well, I knew it was coming this wave of light
as I always knew everything is all right
in a left hand play the stage is set,
an actor in a play of not yet. The stage has been set.

Feeling quite human in chaos it seems, stifles all
thinking and heart wrenching dreams, a poet's dilemma
no secret it seems. I got onto my couch and into my dreams,
meditation if you will, the colors and feelings that some humans
spill... a fly on the colors shows up with free will.

I spy, then I cry... Love is my mantra, no question of why.

Calling for help from heavenly spheres, that come to my anguish
and know why I'm here for the basking... dolphins are there for
my asking.

The Light is blinding and I'm not afraid, cuz I promised to
be, and to be is just brave. In a full fledged attack I hold fast
to my heart, that barely quivers in a body of dark. No snark.

Wake-up from dreams that hold colors not seen, the One Love
of All Love is not what it seems. It's beauty without any seams.

A promise is made for my soft sorry soul, I have two more wishes
more precious than gold. Keep a family solid in love and in mirth,
keep the dream alive is my gift and my worth.

Blasted back to a humble couch, a dream that is living
if just for a day... a Love that makes all fear go away.

I'm thankful that I've been targeted today.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Catcher in a Ball Game

"Davey, everyone wants to be a pitcher, we need a catcher."

Famous words from the Family of God or some church,
we remember the animation and know the tune
and those lessons of children still echo as a rune
in our minds... these thoughts come in rhyme. or not.

There are pitchers who swagger and hold the ball court
and jesters who watch and know that the rules
that preside, secret hand jestures taken in stride
to the knowers only.

In front of a crotch, it's the manipulation
of the lesser of jock. A catcher will pick up the slack,
to make the game look easy as a crack in ice, when the
snow glazes over. As a simpleton dog, gives commentary
to the slackers that think twice. Dog-gone dogma.

Play you fools or don't get paid, and if you're lucky you might
get laid. A games of thrones, to the homeys unknown.

Now give us our bone.

How does it feel to be at home, all alone?

Saturday, September 10, 2016


In the beginning, in some circles was the Logos,
or the shhhh... word. A dangerous conspiracy of
sorts, when the wind, the birds, and leaves always
shone fine, like an infinity sign. An eight, like a
crazy, but not broken like a nine.

So the logos, or legos, or lagos, or sow the lugos
saw through from the beginning of our time...
a new age, so fraught in history and so sublime...
a matter of a concept so lonely, like a decrepit father,
could only be time... yes. out of mind. fraulein.

oh, no, it's mother goose on the loose... take a gander.

The word as I write is so proper and contrived, poe it try...
but it ain't like my homey who died. A mystery to the one who
loves poetic hisssstory. Honey, take a pill... I feel a chill
just waiting for the hot sweat of sympathy. Yea, you do know me.

Logos, the beginning and end of a psycho trend, your word is only
as good as your name brand... you jolly green giant, I saw it in a birdseye of yesterday. As green man of Starbuck grunge, competes with the runner of Dunking... I'd lay scones to donuts that it will never be free... it's just
Logos trash talking the money out of me. Curious or curiouser, I have none, don't you see? A looking glass wish that took a devil out of me. A crow giggles by,
thinking, a raven i'll be. Nevermore, a folly of wish for your soul...too easy. (duh)

It's when I sit on my tuffet, shunning those curds and whey, I am the spider
that frightened and fancied those lascivious gods and snared them away. Logos,
as word, has nothing to say. Uh...

Good day!  

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Antique Match Girl

Little antique match girl,
huddled in a corner starving
knowing the certain fate and yet,
in the shivering cold the new
becomes the old. An icy purview
is all that she knew, as the last
of the lighted tiny torch
burned her fingers and stung
her mind. Oh it's not unkind.

She came for this as a poor me dove,
did it for sorrows and did it for love
of a kind that the world never knew,
that lighted flame snuffed the fame
adieu. She knew that dreams that count,
don't come true. But still, she pursued.

Now some would say that it's perverse to
abide with something that longs to expose
another side of a coin, but the time isn't
right until the feeling is home. Alone.

The hero's journey is hard to bear, when in
jester's doubt you have not a care...
you sit like a lumpkin to some truths
laid bare... it's a rabbit joke to the march
of a hare. Down a whole of hard to swallow.

You came to lead but not to follow.

In a cold and wintry hollow the little match girl,
still... after all these years, will not and can not

... and i as a fragile hummel am apt to crack
if handled by the bargain hunters. For I am free
and not for sale.

An antique sentiment still dear to my heart. As the antique
match girl's world falls apart.

Sunday, August 14, 2016

Chaos... you lil stink.

Well, here's a clue that all is well...
looking down the wishing well of disillusion.

An old memory haunts me, me, my mom and grandma
sitting by an old well... wishing well actually, and
eating orange boat slices together, My first feeling of
anxiety and disillusion. Those two whom I loved so dearly
did not one another. It was a cold chilly feeling on a warm
sunny day. It was a day of quiet realization that love here
does have boundaries, and it is not free and warm and
nurturing. It is hard and survival skills count. My love
for these two icons of heredity were put to the test.

I looked into the well, and all i saw was darkness and an ancient watery hell.
The birds were chirping, the grass was green, and sweet
juice of orange was all i could seem, and enjoy. They could not connect.

Sad, for a young girl looking for a strong woman for a mentor.
Women bound by the spell of distemper. Humming like a rainbow.

She grew, and knew that the women of her past she would outgrow.
Genderless wonder for a while, just looking to be free. No labels,
no not for me. People meet and share and seek what they need.

Scarlet red, to violet night... colors stolen in the day of the light.

Really, X-men you stole the show, the slips are cowbells to the seeds that you sow on a sojourn to bring some more of the same, your whore of babylon knows
your name and your game.

I wink, and think... a funny dream can really stink... oh it's not cute,

but forgiveness is needed to the cowardly brute. He's really an unloved
Fauntleroy in disguise. I saw it with a goddess eyes, it's no surprise.

It's just chaos in disguise.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

The scent of the senseless

Oh brother, what a bother
to know the intel of senseless lies.
I know, therefore I hide from the
scalene side. The eye's is a-watching
and a-learning in stride, I look, I see,
and I feel it inside... like the wake
in a tide.

A protest detesting, something or another,
the chanting and professing of the vile deeds
to another, or a brother, or whatever.
High on a perch like a fish out of water,
i hear the mayhem and feel the slaughter,
like a good little daughter.

White folk are protesting like black lives matter,
while a black soldier far from chants doesn't matter.
He's sleeping on the sidewalk in spite of the chatter.
The cameras were there and plenty of police, and some
sniper camos looking spooked in their creep.

Just another attempt to lure sheep from their sleep.

It was over before it began, activists shout to
the shatter of scam. The civil war was over, but it's
back in the hearts of some. It's a a battle of us versus them,
it will never be won. We are One.

Love isn't boastful and it need not be snide, it's inclusive
and quiet and in hearts it resides, no weapons or chants
will make it survive. It's children who act out the dreams
they are taught, and when all is said and done those
chants come to naught. Or so the blind man thought.

No snipers were needed, not black cladded cops, or posters of anger
from some white snappy chops of the media waiting for a story
to tell... it was over so fast and a no story for hell.

Love was waiting in the wings and saw the charade that this new world of order brings. Hope to love you to death, to the crease of your seams, schemes, seems.,,

Everyone dispersed so quickly it seemed, to carry on with their own unfulfilled
life and their own broken dreams. It's all OK or so it seems, for now... disaster averted... it's only a small chaos for now...

Sweet dreams!

Sunday, June 26, 2016

Shhh... here's a secret

I have a secret of a big, fat, lie
said the crazy wasp to a butterfly.

Just go with the flow or an eddy and find
in a plausible structure, rhythm and time.

Stay safe and stay stupid, I've stung you
and still... I will sting you again if you
speak of free will. Take a pill or a swill
and shut your mouth and be still. C'mon
behave like you mean it, you do know the drill.

Nooo, I know and I saw it and in that eddy
it's caught, yet the flow isn't easy unless
the mind is bought. Give it to whom? 
I'm aghast.  Humane humanity
doesn't need a blueprint.
If that's what is offered
take your unique life and sprint... fast!

The cloned spirit will always shoot first,
with no understanding necessary. Just following
orders to the tee. Psycho-psychlops at it's worst.

I tried to share the secret, but it's really hard,
between the good book and hard science
there are no flowers in my yard. I look to gentle
souls who dance and like themselves with glee,
and smile to think that they are one with me.

Unique and free.

But always there's a killjoy lurking in clouds
and others hiding with their dogmas in their ugly
fearsome shrouds... their ancestors should be proud
in their pinstriped suits. Ha! Kidding, Shaa. Gadzooks!

Shhhh, said the dearly departed... don't say those words too loud.

The yap in the yard is the bard to be
as a singing dancing mocking bird
high in a tree, that a blackbird doesn't see.

That bird is a me of the we ... shhh, it's free.

Wednesday, June 1, 2016

An Opera of Oprah-her

Oh the memory of a meme, cried out
as a voice on a screen, a curious meme...
I cried with the rest, I could not rest.

People just want validation, so it
seems, but guts are bursting in
a girdled dream. Ah-hum said the
humbug in a lonely dream.

Validation is winning at best, a noble
notion and an infinite jest. I read so
i past the test, still here, so i'll finish
a jaded... well... not the best.

The women are swarming as infinite spies,
with powerful humming of wantonly sighs,
the Goddess they mocked with their corporate
lies and gathered a fold in sheepish disguise.

The wolf lies in wait for the foolish demise.

The power that waits comes from innocent eyes.

The children are coming and they know what is what,
and they cannot be trusted to the what that is what,
a trussed up facade that is sacred here, is a trussed
up facade that falls deaf to the ear, your words
are not relevant here.

Do not talk of validation to me, it's a word and a
place that's not valid... see?

I see, said the blind mind. It's not relevant to me.

Friday, May 13, 2016

Living in a fishbowl

Oh the glory of being a fish with a wish,
glass boundaries and some food thrown in
for thought and sustenance... moving with the moon.

I thought that I was sovereign, never knew that the
contract I took was come due. Huh?  where is my
silver spoon?  I came as a humble volunteer,
to make Earth well and be of good cheer. A good egg.

Or so I thought, like many other dupes so long ago.
The human experiment is a place, I'd rather not know.

Too late, I came, I lived, I saw... (big sigh here),
Too livid and raw...  
on a half shell of living a perfectly synced up life,
a perfectly delightful and beautiful wife.

Oh now comes the humor, the joy of divine,
what I sought for myself wasn't nothing so fine.

I'm just a little goldfish that all
 could see...
except the delusion is that the joke is on me. i cry,
i laugh, then i'm proud to just be.

Blowing bubbles of breath,
i look out to see that those
bubbles of breath are the
bubbles of me. I'm here,
alive, and most perfectly free.

Sunday, April 17, 2016

dudes... missed it.

You skated in reckless abandon... no fear.
They sold you a pipe dream in a milky way
of rebellion... and the goddesses walked by,
dudes, you missed them in their golden bodies
and reckless felines ways...

i hate cats is what you said,

the cougar understood and watched
you pass your wet chance by
showing off your reckless passion
on a goofy foot 360 bored ollie
as they veered by your bravado.

The sun still shines in the eyes
of the unborn, rebellious as ever,
the show continues with, or without
you. Please just show up and skate
or saunter,

It is never too late.

Get outa your head... numbskull... laugh it off.

I heard the divas sanging
in the sanguine color of their youth
and they whispered in a laugh...
doesn't matter what you say or do
just be... record, watch, and parrot
the world, it is your's to live and share.

Numb scull has been listening to a voice
of doubt and defeat and fear of why, why,
did I come here? Sucky luck of all places
where you could still pay dues. I can, i will
my do doos. Damned, numbscull will have the
way as my rational brain looks on in dismay.

No more prayers to pray, i've gone astray
with make-up smeared, hair in a dis array.
Zeros and ones do not make my day, as they
once did. Healing is a cleaning of the mind,
numbskull finally admits it's time.

Frame that photo... a picture of now and
nowhere somehow. All good, the very
picture of should on my shoulder bare

not a worn out thought or a fucking care.

I don't belong but my gentle and fragile
heart does. She laughs, and sheds tears
on the path of no resistance, nothing
to show, nothing to hide... no anger past
or future pride.

Here is good, it's where i've been hiding
between the could and the should.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Crone and Mother will laugh with the Other.

Oh maiden full of grace, a wise soul gaze
on the innocent face.

A child with a wizened face.

Look upon this landscape,
this land's scrape,
but never lose face.

You were born to soar, you cowered
at fear's disgrace. But excuse me,
Granny was there, to hear your song
and to sing a prayer. You carry the
torch of a lighthouse somewhere,
climbs the steps to a breath of thin air,

I will always be there.

Mothers come to reap some seed,
not out of malice or motherly greed,
life is a continuance of earthly bleed
and the maiden is the one who knows
she'll succeed. She has no agenda and
no worthy creed. She plays in a garden
at creativity's speed. She sows a seed.

Grandma, the knitter and weaver of brow,
came from the same purpose somehow.
She can spin a web of a fine cool thread
and cocoon intruders as ignorance dead.

What a web they have weaved
to the children deceived. Carry on
said the vultures... food for thought.

Crone speaks to a mother's cry, birds of
wisdom dare to fly and carry on... carrion.

The maiden will blossom and prune the blooms
of written words and dusty tombs. Dancing
in Springtime, a chorus of all visions of
love gone before us. She lives in hope.

Grandma in her ancient wisdom, understands
the law of the contrast schism, but will not admit.
She weaves in solitudes and grasses of grace,
admonishes the seekers of a soul-less embrace,
her basket is empty to the tireless face.

The tree deserves a hug. A cockroach is just a bug.

Together the ancient, the has been, and thee...
will together laugh throughout history,
biding the time and biting the tongue
and laughing together when the time has come.

Oh, it's here at the garden door...
we wink, high five, and we laugh some more.
Life j'adore.

The Grandma of the Popol Vuh,

laughed at the grandsons dangling thing,

it cannot give birth, bad corn is the drift,

the Crone's laugh is humanity's gift. 

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Once a mother, a grandmother becomes fearless

Once upon a rhyme in a kingdom
of old, a mother birthed her young,
cruel cave of inconvenience, she
labored to bring forth a new life.

Amnesia and anesthesia cannot
make her forget the pain
and the joy. She guards the laws
and loves of the future, as only
a mom can do. She does her best
in a pity of failure to remember
her task... love them unconditionally.

It was whispered, and the newborn
only remembered, "you are loved."

Now, many failures and lifetimes later,
a grandmother sits by the web, dressed
in black and white lace collar, smiling
and spinning the silk of timeless stories.

These are yours and these are mine,
a spinning wheel in front of a mime-
do my bidding for the children if you are
so inclined. I've sewed many a thread of time.

She laughs as she spins knowing the maker
of grace, she's a Loki and knows her place.

Fear is a joke, life is a jest.
the future is mocking
from the little one's face.

A grandmother's wisdom
knows her place.

Monday, February 8, 2016

The cheerleaders... from the past.

Can you imagine, I think that you can
all the ancestors in a DNA can
that could, if they would...
leaving behind the world of should.

Here you are, a thought and a being
living a life and striving to be seeing
that you have arrived... a secret, shhh
to the ones that are seeking. A tattle-tale being.

They say you are depressed if you live in the past,
the present is the gift and the one that will last
to the future. Don't be anxious or you won't get there.

Think of the history that you were taught, dismal,
abysmal, in the wrongs that were wrought...
makes you crazy... if your brain is not lazy.

Those ancestors that came before, are hiding in rafters
upon a shore of lives lived in bondage and in death
become free... are the cheerleaders now, rooting and singing
in the lives of the you and the me. DNA is a god from the past
that can see. You  live for yourself, but your victory is for
your ancestors unlived dreams...on the sidelines they clap
for their own small schemes. A past that lies hidden in dreams.

Whatever you do, whatever you live... their connection to you is
the life that they give. Matter or energy cannot be destroyed,
but manipulated, and grieved to the gods they've employed.

There is one belief that I hold dear, it is Love in the Now where there
is nothing to fear. The cheerleaders of the past are counting on
this... let go, if you dare and find your free bliss. I came and I heard
them and they won't be dismissed.

The cheerleaders, as ancestors, just wanted to let you know this.

Friday, February 5, 2016

The Lotus.. beauty from the mud

Oh no... Venus was not from the ocean,
she has her roots in the murky mud.
The myths were made from a mad man's mind...
tales from scales and crud... quagmire to be precise.

Edit this my evil friend, edit to your heart's content,
we are all in this together again, and again,....
if that is in your will, do with me what you will.
(there are no more "so
sorrys," or tears to spill).

You see, I thought it out, my heart can't stand the thoughtless
draught, or doubt, or wanton ways, you live your life
in a heartless daze. But in the morning murmur drool,
you live your days as thread to spool. Slaving for toil in countless
ways, to what fallen god do you give praise?

When here I am in shame and doubt, a knob in a pool
of murky past. I look from that pool where my roots are
laid, and I bless them for the dreams they once made.

I know my place in that pond of dark,
seen my roots underneath me, scary as a shark.
Oh bite me already if you must, my daze come from a mirrored place.
A living testament to your disgrace... I feel you face to face.

I will grow and flower from that damp, dark space, for
I know their plans, yet I know my place. I am a flower
in a pool of mud, kindred to a school of blood, but when roots
beneath the surface lie, what gives boost to shoots in the sky?

A lotus is pointed, a kind and gentle flower whose roots lie
buried in a murky pool... she is an arrow to what will be,

the lotus is a beauty rising, and found in the you and the me.

A lotus is sacred, the Lotus is free.

Saturday, January 30, 2016

I saw the dewlap of lizard... it was a call for love.

Oh there was the joy of the drink
and a sunny day upon the deck
of a sweet and speckled depth
of a turquoise pool. Leaves as flotsam
float together as wreckage from
trees that dare to bear their young.

I saw him there, on edge,
the anole lizard watching
me splash as mermaid with
all my cetacean charms.

He did not blink, not once,
but watched and stood in his
baby stance of cuteness.

And when the goddess in me
saw him at his little sorry self,
I swam up and announced my
being. Little head and tiny brain
held high, i saw the sadness
of his ancient eye. He held
his stance, and I, mine,
there was no dance,
but a dewlap shown.

I was softened...

and a shiver later a giant
teardrop from his hindmost
dropped... a bubble of urine
his only gift. He ran off.
I accepted the dignity of his gift.

He wanted love and acceptance
and for a brief moment
he got what he longed for.

Everything changed.


Saturday, January 16, 2016

Why love isn't like...

Why do I love so truly, madly, deeply
what i do not like. I must be mad
as a hatter, or a march hare
if I dared to care.

I did not mean to share,
but I must say what I care,
in despair.

I love so many people and in a madness
that sucks the air that I breathe,
I find that the one's that I like the most
are the one's whose
time I cleave. Bear with me if you please.

We have come to a time when like is a click,
and it's mostly tied to a newfound trick. To
make you like the burgeoning new and
leave behind the tried and true.

What gives? I wish I knew.

The people I love are left behind
as out of sight and out of mind. The likes
of me that come anew are leaving the ones
that I once knew. It must be the bogey man
come as a flu.

Alone with me and yet not afraid, I yawn, and
dance and face this unbraid. My hair is long,
my teeth feel wrong and I live while I die
to this like I have made... a sad song.

Why can't I love with the ease that I like,
falling apart in the middle of night, and by
day all seems right... i'm kidding myself
by a child's hindsight. I know, it doesn't seem right.

I spent a lifetime learning to love, but in this life
like is a dove... elusive, flying and eternally free...
I love that I like this mysterious me.