I Will Wait

We Are Only Children Then -To: LMR

I’ve decided I’m not a great commentator. So, Instead of comments, I will begin posting poems. That I’ve written. I hope no one tries to claim them as their own. I’m not making any money off this, I just like to write. Thanks, and this is the first one: WE ARE ONLY CHILDREN THEN – […]

I’ve decided I’m not a great commentator. So, Instead of comments, I will begin posting poems. That I’ve written. I hope no one tries to claim them as their own. I’m not making any money off this, I just like to write. Thanks, and this is the first one:

WE ARE ONLY CHILDREN THEN – To: LMR

We are only children then and drifting in

the back seat of the family car.

as blue & orange neon, tungsten

red & green, and brilliant halogens

whirling-dervish past us fade

into darkness all around. I have a sister and

we are only children. drifting

in the astral seas of youth & language.

“Look” her hand says at the moon.

“Someone must of smacked him with

a rabbit cross’t his face to hush him quiet.

so that night could still be.

and so that mysteries coud still outreach us.”

We count the stars

apart from us and lonely.

“Eighty” ignorant and pretty.

“Eighty-one!” unique.

“Eighty-two!” predictable and lifeless.

“Eighty-three!” oblivious to reason.

Of that we take both leave and notice

drifting,

nodding off.

But sleep’s one fault is that it so resembles death.

–BOOM!–

supernal freight trains like an earthquake shake the sky.

The roar of jet-black jaguars tears the hush-hush

fleshy shroud of sleep

from off us. scattered.

terrified & violent

shadows. schizophrenic fractures split

like spider’s lace across the opaque,

transparency of night.

Then trickle off like rain.

So easily a pebble strikes a windowpane.

the vessels shatter.

My sister wails “What happened!”

The Nightmare House

A Sudden storm done up

And took the quiet from the night.

The thunder

     -burn’t & broken bricks-

Tumbling from the sky.

Pale fires smouldered within the charred shell of a slumped and smoking ruin.

Where once I’d stood

     -now open enticingly wide-open

Was a crater deep enough to bury me upright.

It was easy now to picture what this home would soon become:

That sad & desecrated wreck

     – The Nightmare House.

I’ve only one other dream more vivid of when I would soon meet Her.

Every feature of Her virgin face obscured by mad, starling sworms of the purest ebon.

But when She turned Her naked almond eyes to me I was stripped bear.

I felt fear of an awe both terrible and furiously conjoined.

Fear of what I saw when I stripped Her of Her secrets.

Fear of my own securities being laid bare.

And then She took off running,

     Laughing.

And I can’t you if She flirted or was just…

What?

But I new forever in that instant that her stares,

Her unkempt hair,

Her playful mockery would one day fill our house.

So I chased her,

     God forgive me,

And wherever we went the ground would crack into her feet, sheer gravity bowing to her regal footsteps.

Every few yards, I had to leap across gaping chasms,

Bottomless flames licking at my bootheels.

Portcullises would drop to right and left

 for every hole I jumped another hole 

wouldopen up.

Endymion’s Lost Apple

There was once a young and handsome shepherd king in Anatolia. However privileged, poor Endymion, was touched by sadness. He was lonely and although one day he might find love, he knew death would come to take it. And so, to ease his melancholy, Endymion would take long strolls through the country side at night. Eventually Selene, the goddess of the moon, took notice of his beauty and his sorrow and wanted so much to rid him of his despair. She fell in love with him, but from a great distance. She was nervous to even cast her light on him, because he was a mortal and would one day surely die. Until, that is, when finally she thought of asking Morpheus, the god of dreams, and his brother, Hypnos, the god of sleep, to grant her an intriguing favor: if Endymion could live forever in his dreams, where no one dies, surely he would be close to an immortal. Sebele worked up courage, then, to meet Endymion and the two fell deeply in love. She told him her plan and he agreed: in dreams he could be like as a god and live with Selene in her palace on Olympus. And so he became like one of them in his own odd way and, like anyone who knows he’s dreaming, unafraid of consequences. He filled his life with constant diversions because he was now no longer weary. He became a hero in his imagination, fighting centaurs and harpies, retrieving golden apples from the tallest trees at the ends of the earth. And he was happy. He was in love and it would never end, but in his earthly kingdom trouble came.
A hundred years or more had passed and still Endymion’s subjects were beholden to a sleeping king. Not only that but Death, Thanatos, brother of Sleep and Dreams, grew resentful. Of all the gods, he was most hated by the living: Death is never welcome by the children of men, and yet here this fool Endymion makes a mockery of his only sovereign power. He embarked upon a ruse to trick Endymion and give his subjects their relief. There was a cave not far from the Laurel tree beneath which Endymion would often rest his eyes. Thanatos disguised himself as a raven and interrupted the pseudo-deity’s idle daydreams with a song:
“But, why miss does the baby cry? Because she’s lost an apple? But I have here two to share with her, And yet she goes on weeping.
“Does she not know there are no laws down here and all the vagabonds are kings?
“Or does she miss the one good thing she knew would always be around?
“But though she hasn’t any teeth to eat it with,
“She still has hands with which to hold and misses it.
“Come my little darling, do you hear that laughter down below?
“Or is it singing: the joy of forgetting what we know.
“Below, but not beneath us, are canaries in the coal mines singing.
“They forget the only reason for their being
“Is to die and flood the halls with silence should the good air go.
“But, mother, why does she go on?
“The hungry most of us are missing something,
“Why can’t we stop the wanting?
“Maybe what we’re missing’s in the mines below.
“That unremembered paradise before our mothers’ birthed us,
“Cursed us to chase our apples down the holes.
“But was there ever any reason to go out seeking an end to sadness?
“Once we eat the apple it is gone forever,
“But our memories of how good it was go on forever hurting.
“And the apple slips away from us, gently down the stream.”

And with his cordivae calling, Thanatos led the king into the cave.

“The ground beneath your feet opens wide its doors, go on and enter hero, see what lies in store.Perhaps a golden apple, maybe more.” And with that Endymion ventured down into the shadows never to be seen again. For though he could not die in his endless sleep, he could get lost forever in the labyrinth and tricked into believing he had been killed, which is just as close to death as one can get without giving up the flesh.
But for whatever reason, Thanatos changed his mind and let me live.

No Love Lost

“In a sick world even the hale are sick. And we two, spinning our little life mostly by rote, seldom with clear cognizance, seldom with firm intent, were products of a sick world.”

Olaf Stapledon

“The Starmaker”
An excuse or explanation? I think of all my love’s long lost.  But of one especially (my friends know who I mean).  Did I fail, did she? Or is it that this modern age’s apathy to True Love, that is to say to Compromise, Integrity, Loyalty, Patience And Passion, is a sickness manifest in Hollywood and Disney; a false world where lovers never quarrel and if ever there exists a moment of complacence, the briefest absence of Young Love’s euphoria bodes ill for the fate of the relationship.  True Love, as opposed to Romance.  Which is what we should strive for? And is either guaranteed sustainment?
I look to Jacob who met God in a dessert.  They wrestled.  Jacob became Israel and ever after pondered YHWH’s decisions.  His doubts did nothing to degrade their Love.  But, in my life at least, here on this human plane, whenever one or the other questions the object of their affection, there comes a rift; an ever so slight tear in the fabric of the relationship so small we barely see it until one day we awake and find the thread’s unraveled. The Gordian Knot in opposite.  And we find ourselves too weak, or maybe careless, to pick it up and knit.
We became complacent.  But why should we be enemies?  The struggle that I’m left with.  Was it ever really even Love then?  Or just a pastime to distract us from the tedium of growing up?

*Sigh*

Tea Reading

I just don’ want my kid to end up like the dinosaurs.  Words have weight.  I no longer want this world to burn down – I am certain of it. I am certain that our species will do the Will of God: after the Flood He said next time it will be Fire.

I lived through a tornado that destroyed my neighborhood.  Ringgold and Cleveland before that. As the Family of Humanity we shared tears over the Christmas Day Tsunami, held our breaths over Fukushima, and the Mudslides of Pakistan.   When the Towers Fell, all the world was with us but we pushed them away.  The shootings an gassings in Paris, Tokyo, London, Mumbai all had their starts in Man.

What am I trying to say?

That nothing brings people closer together than tragedy?

The First World War was supposed to be the War to end all wars, but it didn’t.

And now.

Now what?

I’m scared, y’all…

If we haven’t learned from our mistakes, then I wish you Happy Darwin Day:

No more dinosaurs…
“‘The usual state of nature is recovering from the last disaster,” she said. It was a truism of ecological biologists, and she said it the way a religious person might pray. To make sense of what she saw.  To comfort herself.  To give the world some purpose and meaning.  Species [arise] to the environment and that environment [will change].'”

James S. A. Corey

“Cibola Burn”
I guess God’s gonna let us ride it out until the Roaches take our place.  We haven’t seen a Purely religious War since the Crusades, but we’ve made plenty of excuses since: mostly land-grabs and economics.  The current administration is poking at that hibernating bear Look at who has Nukes and tell me this is not the escalation of the Armageddon: Pakistan, India, Iran, Russia, China, DPRK, Great Britain, the United States and Israel.
We have GOT to stop shouting, organize and ACTIVATE!  And I don’t mean with marches, but with a well armed militia.  As is our right under the Second Amendment.  I never thought I’d say this but, “Lib-Dems should put the fight about firearms to rest.”. Choose a side.  A war is coming.

And, no, I am not a millenarian.

I just read tea leaves.

What I Mean by Savage Vagabond

Trumps first ten days.

“God Loves A Lost Cause”
Soured milk, fermented fruit, and dying honey bees

A February high of 80 degrees

the memories of dreams

I woke up more miserable than when I fell asleep
sure anger is a part of it

but I just don’t think I’m one for this world no more

a hundred years ago our great gramprents’ paddle boats and trains were the fastest news could go with out a trusty palomino.
Burr & Johnson took to guns at dawn for chrissake!
We hear in History:

 The Donner party ate their neighbors to survive.

            (Though no one did)

And in the Orpheum, we gleefully participate in cannibalistic orgies of downed soccer teams in the Andes and cruelly name the horrific episode “Alive”.  

Carmike released the secret Melville omitted:

 the part where Nantucket men drew lots to see who’d be on the dinner menu. Over half a year at sea in nothing but lifeboats.
And today we joke of eating the rich…

Doing nothing near it.
“Made in His image,” they say.

“I am fiercely and terribly made”

We’ve fire-bombed Tokyo killing thousands.

Nuked Nagasaki & Hiroshima.  Millions.

Dresden too, Americans, civilians.

Stalin in bed with Roosevelt slaughtered 10 million, but we don’t think of that.

We think instead of Hitler’s 6 to 8 million at the hands of ordinary men “just doing as they were told.”

But we at least had recourse to the Hague and Neuremburg. As late as that may be.

Yet it is very true Columbus sailed the ocean blue to find no gold during his quixotic admiralty.

And out of rage and desperation directly butchered a million islanders and for what? Sugar and molasses?  Yet he has his own Holiday.

The architect of our “God-fearing” nation’s own genocide still defiles the twenty with his self-righteous face.
Shame!

Goebels slandered Neitzche with his  interpretation of the Ubermensch.

Dostoevsky strived to understand his own Raskalnikov, but found him wanting in the balance.
Ubermensch: above the law, superhuman.

Raskalnikov was a rat and coward. Hitler, too. And Stalin, Caesar, Ghengis Khan, Pol Pot, Allende, Torquemada, Alexander.

I need not continue.
Some Americans now consider themselves the hens of the Neuvo Ubermensch: cops that kill, a president that defecates on our shared American liberties a thousand ways in just his first ten days.
Facebook and Twitter flame wars, a Civil War on social media pits friends and relatives against each other.

And all the while our children hear with open ears. 

And they learn.

They learn to be self-righteous, yet remain complacent.
The Reverend Doctor King, the Kennedys, and Ghandi… Shot for seeking peace.

Should we turn our sites away from pacifists and feed the tree of liberty with blood, and bombings, martial law and violence in the streets?  
Soon enough Kent State and Watergate and burning Mississippi will be as tinder for the fuel we Lib-Dems now ceaselessly toss upon the fire.  

Soon enough it will become a pyre into which the Nation in its own rhetoric has eagerly stepped into.
Yet I am not for 99%ers bongo stroking laziness.
Condolences, I give up on pacifism.

I stand with the fifth estate. I March with the black brigade. I want to watch this whole world burn.
What surprises me as I say it is that I do not regret it. I’m fucking sick of turning cheeks and bending backwards.
I am finished with forgiveness.
I once claimed that Mother Nature will eat her children all in time.

But why bother.  We’re doing it already.

A finger for complacence!

Soldier on believers.

God loves a good lost cause.
What was Israel but an Immigrant?

Jacob, Mary, Joseph, Mohammed, Buddha, Christ.

More drifting vagabonds than refugees.

Today the WASP won’t let them through the gate.

Given time all dictators fall.

Pray for our nation and go ahead and scream. 

Smear your door with lambs blood.

Remember Lot, his visitor, and what happened to Gammorah.
With any luck that night will once more come.

Lovers Complacent

“In a sick world even the hale are sick. And we two, spinning our little life mostly by rote, seldom with clear cognizance, seldom with firm intent, were products of a sick world.”

Olaf Stapledon

“The Starmaker”
An excuse or explanation? I think of all my love’s long lost.  But of one especially (my friends know who I mean).  Did I fail, did she? Or is it that this modern age’s apathy to True Love, that is to say to Compromise, Integrity, Loyalty, Patience And Passion, is a sickness manifest in Hollywood and Disney; a false world where lovers never quarrel and if ever there exists a moment of complacence, the briefest absence of Young Love’s euphoria bodes ill for the fate of the relationship.  True Love, as opposed to Romance.  Which is what we should strive for? And is either guaranteed sustainment?
I look to Jacob who met God in a dessert.  They wrestled.  Jacob became Israel and ever after pondered YHWH’s decisions.  His doubts did nothing to degrade their Love.  But, in my life at least, here on this human plane, whenever one or the other questions the object of their affection, there comes a rift; an ever so slight tear in the fabric of the relationship so small we barely see it until one day we awake and find the thread’s unraveled. The Gordian Knot in opposite.  And we find ourselves too weak, or maybe careless, to pick it up and knit.
We became complacent.  But why should we be enemies?  The struggle that I’m left with.  Was it ever really even Love then?  Or just a pastime to distract us from the tedium of growing up?

*Sigh*

“Considered even without reference to our belittling cosmical background, we were after all insignificant, perhaps ridiculous. We were such a commonplace occurrence, so trite, so respectable. We were just a married couple, making shift to live together without undue strain. Marriage in our time was suspect. And ours, with its trivial romantic origin, was doubly suspect.”

Candy, My Stocking’s Stuffed With

Candy, My stocking Is Stuffed With

Chris Rozema
Somehow or another I was able to slip out through the sliding glass door just off the kitchen without waking anyone up.  Come dawn, some restless aunt or third-cousin-twice-removed would doubtless make it her chirpy morning mission to get the coffee going, start the cooking, and indulge the pets with crudites from this evening’s feast.  But at this time and on this night it’s just me and the moon.  And a chilled westering breeze.  By the time I strike my Zippo and grab my first puff of the last three hours, a veil of powdery snow, like a ghost of ashes, drifts across the lawn then gets caught in the creaking trees.

It’s Christmas in Tennessee and I can almost hear the moisture freeze each time I breathe.  I venture away from the house, away from the shadow of this evening’s cacophony of relatives who know each other only through this ritual gathering in Gatlinburg at the timeshare-cabins that everyone chips a little in for.

I’m not sure why we all celebrate Christmas but for tradition… my side of the congregation consisting mostly of atheists and nobody inside the cabin is at all particularly religious. I suppose we gather to celebrate that another year’s done gone without anybody being taken from us.  We share cheap, gallon-jug, red wine and participate disinterestedly in the 5,000 piece puzzle strewn across the coffee table in the den.

There’s a yule log in the fireplace and beside it is hot-apple cider marked either “grown ups’” or “kids’”.  This year the music is more for persons of a particular age: velveteen Bing Crosby or Ella Fitzgerald, sprinkled here and there with Vince Gauraldi.

Of course we all unspokenly rejoice in the very real comfort of a-whole-nother year passing with no one in the family going insane.  This family is as gilt in genius as we are wrought in pain.  From childhood through-on to centenarian, some part of our inheritance will come whirling dervishly at us.  My son once when he was younger awakened both myself and his mother at two in the morning with howls of fear and imminent pain.  But when we opened the door we found him still sleeping – upright on his futon bed, eyes wide, arms at his side, and we could not wake him.  The next day we rang his pediatrician who explained it with nonchalance as “night terrors”.  As if a two year-old child could have anything to be scared of besides missing a nap now and then.  And five years ago my cousin Jamie, just then recovering from rape, while we all played White Elephant Gift Exchange, wandered outside to just about here when she’d stopped to exclaim: “GETTHEFUCKOFFME, GETTHEFUCKOFFME!!”.

Childish of me to wonder if the smoke I exhale might disturb the Jade Rabbit.  Could my wishes be heard by the stars.  But what then could they do for me?  All pasted in place.  So sad and alone, so beautiful. So distant.

“Starlight, starbright,” I catch myself whispering.

Suddenly the peace of this utterly silent night is shattered by the remote stirrings of some creature about three yards out.  A mouse or a shrew out rummaging about within this selfsame spot for what – two minutes – four?  It seems like forever; it may well be just a couple of seconds

− PEEP

− peep peep!

−   …     … PEEP

− (even the beats of his silence sound desperate for answer)
PEEP-PEEP
− peep!

It may be that he’s broken his leg or something and he’s calling out for help.

That lie.  That greatest lie a man ever told: that sweet relief to hear that everything’s gonna be alright.  That from one moment to the next to the next there will exist an unbreakable continuity which God Himself – should I be so bold? – could not and would not break.  As if the details of our days either matter not – we are so minuscule – or, paradoxically, are such vital gears in the works of God’s greatest timepiece – so we’d best wind on unafraid and ever forward.  Either nothing really matters or everything counts!  So why be so timid?  Why would a coward die a thousand deaths if he could die but once?  Surely, there must be some explanation waiting for us at the end of our road to perdition that must be some answer, some apology for all of life’s great deprivations, humiliations & indignities?!

– PEEEEPPP!!

As if his friends & family, like mine, just inside, might hear his pleas for help and come rescue him from extermination.  Right.  Maybe his leg is fine.  Could it just be that like me he’s left the dank den for some air on this full-moon night to gather his thoughts?  Or maybe he’s wishing on those sequined stars up above us.  It could well be that his wood mouse squeaks might be more a Pater Nostra than an S. O. S.?  Or could it be that I’ve read waaaay to much into this?

Hmph.

It could be that this year my family won’t have my sanity to celebrate.  He squeaks until I smoke my whole cigarette; Five? Six minutes – start to finish?  Then another full minute longer…  the intervals between each new peep sound more resigned to fate, yet so much more utterly desperate.

– peep?

Then from above me and just missing my right-sholder and ear
__
THUMP
– –

a BIRD like a torn-off limb simultaneously lands and uplifts:  a great-horned owl, I’m certain.

The whole world once again returns to ice crystal silence except for the breeze being torn through the arthritic knuckles of the dagger-like trees.
Next morning I’ll rise with the biscuits and reach in my stocking all but certain only coal there awaits me.  A daily, if repressed, pang of involuntary knowing:  we are all blind here and slowly rushing toward a cliff we know not how far away.
I slide the door back in place as my restless son, who’s awakened by my own awakening wanders up. I bend to lift him and kiss him and bring him back to bed.
“What is it, daddy?”
“Nothing, Otis.  Everything’s okay.”

But is it?

You’re Late

YOU’RE LATE

Christopher S. Rozema
Lonely neutrinos & unnecessary muons,

Your ghostly gravity:

Spooky action at a distance.

Immediately, I felt your heart break

From the the fifth corner of the globe.

An angel needed me…

But I was somewhere else.

Drowning in your river, buried in gardens,

Letting my freedom turn into stone.
The circle was broken-

Superstring now common helix,

Charming, strange and maybe,

Demising bosons prove the weight of woes heretofore unknown.

Joyce & Pauli called a conference.

The only sense

I make of it:

A ghost on the road to nowhere ordered once; by whom?

Rabi’s bewilderment when met with fact:  “Who ordered that?”
The fear is not of “What?”, but “When? ”

Never of “Enough sleep at night.”

That way leads to decay-

Real as the bones in my body,

The stench of the flesh as it rots away.

The Plainness of the World, I Guess

The Plainness of the World

Christopher S. Rozema
I should have pulled you down the moon to make our love upon

So that the stars would envy us our passion.
But I didn’t.

God, our hearts pumped blood back then.

Not all this vitriol & hate

And there was the ground

beneath your feet I could not worship:

No weight could bring you down

Despite your certain gravity even envied by the galaxy

which kept us pulling back into each other explosively for more
There is the plainness of the world I guess,

The getting on through days.

The memories of unrepentant joys irrevocably past.

And that is what I’m left with.

My sense of self

-forever more,

Will be defined by the memory of your embrace.
There was no ground beneath your feet back then or else I would have worshipped it

No weight could bring you down

But somehow it was I who did
And that is what I’m left with;
The unrepentant memory of joys irrevocably passed
Below but not beneath us lie the embers of the city

Just now

the masters all

are up flirting with the rooftop wind

And the stars just then fall one by faintly one from out the sky

And flags gust ripping at the empty wind
I should have pulled you down the moon to make our love upon

Then even the most distant stars would envy us our passion

(the only true romance is sad & cold & distant)

But I didn’t

I should have laid you down on wine & bread & blankets

So the waves would sing to us alone and the wind would forever moan our names

But I just didn’t
And that is what I’m what left with –

I almost cannot bear to see the springtime world play

The joyful noise of jays’ wings, chickadees and finches feeding.

It’s the emptied husks of seeds the robins drop that hurt the most

Spent things –

used to be so full of life

have served their purpose

and are so then cast delightfully away.

The smiling faces flitter, then, to higher branches.
And I would rip the skin from off my back to bring a smile to your face

I would die to feed you once

To give you life for one more day

But work and school and mortgages and child-rearing somehow got in the way.

Imatience

Impatience

Christopher S. Rozema
Impatience caught

By the open window breathing

Wraithe or saviour

Gossamer creature

The gap between us filled with words

Empty                   empty

Only those things left unsaid &

The freckles on your cheeks have meaning

Don’t get my daydreams twisted in the sheets

I’m not some rabid beast

Confusing love with lust

Salivating, wanting, needing

All them baser instincts I suppress

As you lay sleeping in the bed beside me

Undressed and blushing in the morning

Not quite as naked as the dawn

But more revealing than the light of a hundred

Suns in nothing but your flimsy cotton

A patient passion’s embers

Fueled inexplicably & unforgivably

By rare texts & fading memories

Indulgent silence

There’s canaries in the coalmine singing

In school we would have traded mixtapes

As adults at the beginning of our nervous(was it courtship?)

Instead we swapped youtube music links

Incandescent shades before us

Flicker twitterpated

As the much too rapidly approaching

Certain distance only weeks away

Comes a-rapping at the gates

Impatient

And I guess you are my type of crazy

I keep forgetting to forget you

Madness

A Writhing Beauty

A Writhing Beauty

Christopher S. Rozema

The South will rise again,

Forever.

Despite Her own best efforts.

Knowing what  She now knows,

would Water Spider still bring the flame to man?

My lovely home,

my birthright,

my refuge.

The Cherokee Treblinka,

place where two spear points meet,

A place of owls now,

Forgets what her own name means.

Look close at any gastro-pub.

The walls bear bullet holes.

The mortars mixed with blood.

The Grand Histories once had voices all theiir own,

but they don’t read the way they once did,

worn after all these years collecting dust.

Despite Sequoya’s magic &

the Phoenix risen from the ashes of Her burnt forest.

The South will rise again,

floods and flames be damned.

The Turuoise birthright of the Seven-Nations continues to expand.

The South will rise again,

some dare utter flurling Stars & Bars.

How right they are,

The mud remembers the Place of Blood

the battlefield, the chains.

And haints continue in their midnight charges through the sky.

Macabre cadavre snatchers diggging up the slaves.

But master & servant have exactly the same fate.

The hills remember, the valleys too,

The hickory and honeysuckle.

Mother Earth will devour us all in time
The South will rise again, forever.

To spite the pain.

Each time stronger than the last.

Flayed and broken men, unburnt

usher forth from mines.

Hard-ass world.

Damn dirty life:

to not give two whits to bird-call…

until all of the sudden it quits.

But beneath the mountain no one cares what tongue you speak or what color your face,

just put your back into it.

And heed the words of Mother Jones whose aim’s to take the haints away –

a fair days pay instead of scrip, imagine it –

And so around the hollers towns are built.
The South will rise again.

Forever.

Each time more fecund than before.

And sho’ nuff, By GOD,

She will celebrate.

The music & the moonshine,

once we crawl again from muck,

Means it’s safe to breathe again.

But if the South’s to shimmy

then the Earth’s to quake.

And once again Mother Eartth & daughter Appalachia will once more lose their feet.

The earnest trembling of new birth,

this time fed by again by dead,

comes at the cost of children burning live in churches

and pastors shot by cowards as they greet the sun from balconies.

How’s that for irony?

But that’s the doings of the moon more than the hand of man,

working hard  on lunatics.
The South will rise again,

forever.

Short life of trouble,

but our mothers know these trifles pass.

So bring the floods of our own damns.

Crow will come again,

raise the dead as dancing spirits

as she once rose the furrows of the Land from Sea.

Otis

you are a wonder Child

who makes all my worries forgotten
a wonder Child
who reminds me that all the world’s not rotten
you bring with you the joy of Laughter and forgetting

and leave me with a fondness for reminiscing

to hear your voice alone is sweeter than all the music of Heaven

to see you smile but once is indeed my soul’s protection

a day, a week, a month apart but still present in my heart
I awake each day and sleep each night content that we’re apart
because I know you love me
and that I’ve found that purest love for which my whole life was spent in search

because I know you love me

I can be at peace; that into my life can come no hurt

you may be eight and like to fart and punch and burp

but I see in store for you a future full of wonders, hope, and worth.

Cut the Tree Down

I’m beginning to lose faith in my country. I used to be Blac Bloc Anarcho-Syndicalist. But I long ago decided I need to vote and participate in non-violent action. Even knowing that in my district and in my state my liberal ass views are in the minority, still I vote. Still, I protest. Still, I chain myself to backhoes to prevent deforestation. And still nothing seems to change. Could it be possible that maybe our TACTICS need to change? Maybe we should use the opponents’ weapons against them.  Hate, Anger, Insults, Libel, Bible Verses, Mace, Bats, Guns? I mean “the tree of liberty sometimes needs to be watered by the blood of martyrs,” right?  We don’t live in the 60s anymore. What was the result of the 99%er sit ins? Awareness, yes, but not CHANGE. If anything, i feel like it might of contributed to Trump’s election. It was mocked by everybody as being a pot infested hippie drum circle. I’m not saying WE need to start the violence, I’m just saying THEY shed first blood. And I for one am getting sick and tired of being kicked around. By the courts, by the legislature, by the cops, by the governor, by the president. It wasn’t Woodstock that changed the 60s it was the deaths of four little girls in Birmingham and three college kids in Mississippi. There were more than one auto-immolations in protest of the Vietnam War. One was done right in front of the Pentagon.  How many deaths is this generation gonna take before we say “enough is enough”? Maybe the tree doesn’t need to be watered anymore. Maybe it’s so rotted and windblown and lightning struck and full of termites and weighed down by poison ivy that instead of waiting for it to fall on our house in the middle of the night it finally needs to be torn down and have the stump burned, because whatever it has become it isn’t the liberty tree that I fell in love with anymore. But what would replace it? I’m honestly hoping for a Zombie Apocolypse, lol! Am I crazy?

Blue Harvest

I try to think of myself as a simple man. One filled with Love who communes with nature. But invariably I find myself standing at a place where two points meet and the world then demands my attention.  I was a born a ram, an Aries. I was born to firmly stand my ground as the ever looming precipice quietly awaits beneath me. I am not scared that I will fall. What I fear, my only fear, is my desire to jump.  As I move through this life both physically and temporaly, I am aware of the ground constantly shifting beneath my feet.  As pebbles, rocks and stones give way beneath me, I can’t help wonder which stone may strike a boulder and end it’s trajectory or which precariously entrenched pebble may dislodge an avalanche to the horror of them passing unawares below.

And careful as I am to plant my feet on solid ground with every step I take, I’m always prone to make mistakes.  And I’ve caused whole mountain sides to collapse behind me as I wander along my trail.

I am connected to the Earth, the Foundation of my being, but I hold my head up facing ever towards the Firmament. I can feel telluric currents gently nudging the unfolding of events. But every time my actions cause the cliffs I tread upon to collapse, I can’t help wondering where the true fault lies; was it me or circumstance.

I am a hermit but not oblivious of my responsibilities to life. I am no friend of nostalgia, the pain of returning home.  But I am and ever will be a sentimentalist.

I try so hard to stay away from situations that could cause harm but they seem to seek me out.  

My ex-lover, the love of my life, she sought me out. Poor her.  We spent a year or two getting acquainted and she decided to have a baby without informing me. We started fighting in spite of our agreement to bring him full to term. The fights were constant. But our arguments always ended with brutal & persistent silence.

You see.  I’m always lonely. I have my novels. I have these pretty words. But I have no story.

So i await the storm. Let it wash away the past. So that I might move on along the slopes and hope it wasn’t my tread which crumpled the cliff in my wake. 

Each step I take I focus on the landing. For despite the possible repurcussions of my acts, I must move through this manifest world. To lay down in fear of hurting others is to assume the role of a god. I act when I must act. I go because I must ascend the heights. To reach the summit is not my goal for what lies at the summit besides further vertigo?  I must reach the summit because I must go. It’s as simple as that. And if rockfall thunder down the mountain taking trees and homes in it’s wake it has been the will of Brahman, YHWH, Tao, Allah, Krishna, whomever has borne me on this path.

Not to go, to do nothing, would be to defy God’s will and shame will be my burden.  And it seems I must tread my trail in solitude – to be sure, quite distinct from isolation. I want a companion to share this mission with, but all quests of the heart must be undertaken alone.

I have been told that on this path no effort is wasted; no gain is ever reversed; and that even a little of this practice will shelter me from great sorrow.  Therefore I must go. I seek the Godhead, Theotokos. Not for my own sake but for the sake of my son and family, I go on dutifully. Trembling with every step I take, I defy the Earth to give way beneath me or the sky to come crashing on my head.

It might seem like pride, to continue upward despite the possible -inevitable- consequences of my actions. But to lay down and die? I fear whatever might or, worse, might not await me at the end. To continue is not pride, but courage.

I love my son and I love his mother. But she and I will never forgive each other.  And it wrenches my heart both day and night to imagine he might come in time to only think of me as a boulder rolling down into his world or that I may have been the one who dislodged such.

But where will flights of fancy get me? I breathe deep thin air and wonder at the valley below. So many folks going on about their lives, they take no notice of me. Am I conceited? No. I just don’t want my one true love, my only son, to become just another one of them. That… That is what terrifies me most of all.  That I will be villified by his kith and kin for my being kept from him so long. That he might not learn how to be independent of others’ judgement. 

I keep him with me in my heart and there I have gouged out for him a home. And that is where my emptiness comes from.  A ram longs for his kid and it is getting harder to breathe up here alone.

I am ultimately unattached.  But is that a good thing? The choice was not my own. He was taken by his mother for her particular reasons. And I endeavor to forgive her. I fought with all my heart to keep hope alive, but passion soon overtook hope, leading me to shameful acts, and now I must learn patience. I still clutch tightly to my dreams. I am conflicted. Unattached, did I say? No: I hold onto hope as if it were a shower curtain and I, a man of no importance, slipping in the tub. I will someday rend the fabric of the universe and make it so that human kind can fly and so avoid these slippery slopes.

If God had wanted us to fly, he would have given us wings, some say. Troglodytes, rooted forever in place. He gave us brains and imagination. Free will to get ourselves in trouble. With which to build airplanes.

I was an addict. That was her principle reason for leaving. If God didn’t want us to feel closer to him he wouldn’t have given us poppies, cannabis, St. John’s Wort, valerian, kava kava, yeast, tea, coffee, coca, psylocybin, tobacco or ephedra. But he gave us these to use as sacrement, not for recreation. And here is where I made my mistake.

We have forgotten that the seed bearing plants and herbs were given us to use for nourishment. Instead  we use them to turn a profit or to temporarily escape. Here we are: wretched prisoners draped in clanging chains. Imperceptibly connected to the Earth’s atmosphere by fire and rain. It is an untenable position. 

But with faith I reach higher to the summit. I will meet my maker and I will face Him.

There is no peace unless we force it, such a contradiction. It does not simply come.

Their is no justice unless we make it. And mine has just begun. Woe to them in Ivory towers. I shall make the Earth quake with a stomp to send them reeling back to the realm of mortals. Where the masters go on flirting with the cliffside wind and them who sleep on benches are vagrant princes, vagabond kings drowsing on their thrones.  The shamed will one day have remuneration against the high priests and magisters who defile God by handing out, as if it were there’s to give, damnation. In a world where accusations are equivalent to condemnation, blessed are them for whom human justice failed, for God in his great wisdom has increased their numbers so as to overwhelm the self-righteous. If only the masses of discouraged had the will to take back their inallienable rights. There is no room for liars in the courts nor for them who bear false witness in the heavens. And for all who’ve passed a beggar whilst feighning deaf and blind, refusing even the generosity of a dime, they shall know shame in time. It will be incumbent upon us, then, to usher them into the flock with loving-kindness.

For it is writ that we must forgive, show mercy, but never were we told we must forget.

There is no shame left in this world today; only arogance: mirth, gossip, greed and anger. Those of us who are still with conscience are seen as malcontents or anarchists. Our failure to conform is seen as an emotional leprosy and so we have been put out to the margins. We see that life has more than only joy in store for us, but our worries are felt by those same troglodytes I mentioned earlier as anachronistic in this land of TV, milk and honey.  Envy of the Joneses keeps the lump sum of “civilized” man twittering of jokes and posting only happy telegrams.

Real life comes with real emotions. An examined life, the only life worth living, finds contentment with both decay & growth; ecstacy, depression. But in this modern age we must turn to strangers with whole alphabets following their surnames or else be turned out by friends and family for ever feeling blue; for daring to disturb them with our woes, seeking only consolation. We few who truly live must hide our hearts with gay replies or else be perceived as freaks to pity.

 

There are so few artists whose works bear weight. Everything enjoyed by the masses is just so much bubblegum.  Where are the goddamn songs? And what’s wrong with blue humour and emotion? It is the color of the rivers, lakes and oceans; the shade of the sky in which birds so delight and the average man perceives a glorious day!  Indeed what is wrong with darkness? It is the time of sleep, of peace, of dreams and of rejuvenation! 

We must learn to cry again, or else fall prey to laughter and forgetting. That’s not to say joy has no intrinsic value, but it must be balanced before it turns to mania. And in the valley they are fond of madmen.

And suddenly, I feel as though I’m no longer treading towards the summit, but balancing on a thread. I fear, here, I must make myself clear; to ready my intention. That is, I don’t wish for folks to suffer, rather just be honest to their deeper being. To go on pretending as we do now, is to wallow in hypocrisy. We have become somehow endentured to the notion that only joy can be sublime. So much so that in hiding our pains and shames from others, we’ve actually reached a stage wherein we deprive ourselves the transfiguration brought by crisis. Short of forging strength in the flames of true passion, we imitate. Or we deny those galvanised by pain the nobility of their tortorous baptism.

Furthermore, in refusing to face our own hurts and humiliations, we begin to fear them who are most honest or, worse yet, pity them and offer silly platitudes and reflexive condolescence. Today, we may see a news piece which for but a moment solicits a meagre and self-indulgent compassion, but tomorrow, if not just minutes later, we will have forgotten that token gesture of sympathy as if it had never cut us to the quick. And so, by denying the darker nature of our inner-selves, we deprive the tormented souls of loved ones courageous enough to ask for help the lifeline of dignity and companionship, throwing instead a gossamer thread of heartfelt but empty words capable of bearing nothing.

As a kid I took great delight in stumbling through the forest at night. The moon would cast her loving gaze upon the crooked dogwoods, and hickories, intricately weaving their shadows into the cloak of my memory as I eagerly sought the place of owls I’d heard, but could not see or the cave from which the bats I saw, but could not hear must have come. I delighted in June with its dancing fireflies so close, so brief, so magic. Even the howls of wolves and chirping dens of young coyotes seemed to me as warm a blanket as the midnight rains and bellowing of bullfros. Crickets played their violins at eventide and all was right. And all was right.

I never felt the crackling of fires, the pops of sap from incinerating greenwoods, the light of camps were meant to keep the darkness at bay, so much as to stake our claim within it. For, ever was there truly darkness? If the moon was new the stars shone that much brighter. And if it stormed the forge of Thor would briefly light the way. The thunder never menaced me any more than Nana’s voice easing me to slumber.

And between the night and full daylight came slowly yawning dawn.  Be she in mourning veiled in indigo, adorned in resplendent crimson, awakening from tangerine dreams or rising next to nude from the horizon barely covered in her flaxen gown, the world was yet unchanged.

My Dear Boy

Into this world you were born

Through no fault of your own

And where I see shadows and lack of light

You delight to hear the call of owls

And where I had no use for life and all its woes,

This veil of tears became swept up by laughter

You asked me to smell the flowers

And I overcame my fear of blinding color.

You never asked for me,

Yet still you let me need you.

Thank you, child,

For your very being reminds me yet to breathe

With you I count the stars and make up stories

Where before I saw only absence, cold and distance

With you I know God’s love

My sapphire, my tulip

I will dig for you a garden

mine diamonds, gold and rubies

From the future.

This empty homes become a field where horses play.

How I Dare to Go Alone

I try to think of myself as a simple man. One filled with Love who communes with nature. But invariably I find myself standing at a place where two points meet and the world then demands my attention.  I was a born a ram, an Aries. I was born to firmly stand my ground as the ever looming precipice quietly awaits beneath me. I am not scared that I will fall. What I fear, my only fear, is my desire to jump.  As I move through this life both physically and temporaly, I am aware of the ground constantly shifting beneath my feet.  As pebbles, rocks and stones give way beneath me, I can’t help wonder which stone may strike a boulder and end it’s trajectory or which precariously entrenched pebble may dislodge an avalanche to the horror of them passing unawares beneath me.

And careful as I am to plant my feet on solid ground with every step I take, I’m always prone to make mistakes.  And I’ve caused whole mountain sides to collapse behind me as I wander along my trail.

I am connected to the Earth, the Foundation of my being, but I hold my head up facing ever towards the Firmament. I can feel telluric currents gently nudging the unfolding of events. But every time my actions cause the cliffs I tread upon to collapse, I can’t help wondering where the true fault lies; was it me or circumstance.

I am a hermit but not oblivious of my responsibilities to life. I am no friend of nostalgia, the pain of returning home.  But I am and ever will be a sentimentalist.

I try so hard to stay away from situations that could cause harm but they seem to seek me out.  

My ex-lover, the love of my life, she sought me out. Poor her.  We spent a year or two getting acquainted and had a baby. We started fighting.  All the time. But our arguments always ended with brutal & persistent silence.

You see.  I’m always lonely. I have my novels. I have these pretty words. But I have no story.

So i await the storm. Let it wash away the past. So that I might move on along the slopes and hope it wasn’t my tread which crumpled the cliff in my wake. 

Each step I take I focus on the landing. For despite the possible repurcussions of my acts I must move through this manifest world. To lay down in fear of hurting others is to assume the role of a god. I act when I must act. I go because I must ascend the heights. To reach the summit is not my goal for what lies at the summit besides further vertigo?  I must reach the summit because I must go. And if rockfall thunder down the mountain taking trees and homes in it’s wake it has been the will of Brahman, YHWH, Tao, Allah, Krishna who have borne me on this path.

Not to go, to do nothing, would be to defy God’s will and shame will be my burden.  I must tread my trail alone. I want a companion to share this mission with but all quests of the heart must be undertaken alone.

I have been told that on this path no effort is wasted; no gain is ever reversed; and that even a little of this practice will shelter me from great sorrow.  Therefore I must go. I seek the Godhead, Theotokos. Not for my own sake but for the sake of my son and family, I go on dutifully. Trembling with every step I take I defy the Earth to give way beneath me or the sky to come crashing on my head.

It might seem like pride, to continue upward despite the possible -inevitable- consequences of my actions. But to lay down and die? I fear whatever might or -worse- might not await me at the end. To continue is not pride but courage.

I love my son and I love his mother. But she and I will never forgive each other.  And it wrenches my heart both day and night to imagine he might come in time to only think of me as a boulder rolling down into his world or that I may have been the one who dislodged it. 

But where will flights of fancy get me? I breathe deep thin air and wonder at the valley below me. So many folks going on about they’re lives, they take no notice of me. Am I conceited? No. I just don’t want my one true love, my only son, to become just another one of them. That… That is what terrifies me most of all.  That I will be villified by his kith and kin for my being kept from him so long.

I keep him with me in my heart and there I have gouged out for him a home. And that is where my emptiness comes from.  A ram longs for his kid and it is getting harder to breathe up here alone.

To Jilliana Babb

When the world drives by her walking in the rain heading to or from their hateful jobs where they sacrifice their dreams, lost in their own imagined pain, it seems she knows a secret and smiles full of self esteem and somehow she is gorgeous with forgiveness, courageous in her patience.  The sky is falling and the multitudes are muttering, yet here she is, dancing through the puddles. Not angry, only slightly saddened by the loss of courtesy. Feet rooted firmly to the Earth, arms upstretched to the clouds above, a pillar connecting the Foundation to the Firmament.

Speaking as a fellow Aries on the cusp of Taurus I fight. Let detractors be damned and hopelessness be buried deep behind us in the past.  Let the rains come and dowse the fire, embers burn on still. With patience and with passion tend the light and let it grow and be not afraid of night.  Climb the mountain even as its passes crumble, narrow and steepen. Climb on steady feet up toward the summit and bring the flame of spiritual Love up to the highest height. Alight the evening’s stars persistent Ram and should the darkness cloak us once more in fear seek out once more a cinder and then begin the quest again.

To Becky Wilson

I’m at my whits end too.
pray for me and I’ll pray for you.
allow the tears to wash away the stains,
and confront the fear or they will be all that remain
that thunder in the sky above’s
God showing consolation
and if friend be not near take solace in quiet contemplation
but never isolation
in my own hard won opinion
staying positive is just denial
and why defile your emotions
that suffering is just the other side of happiness
welcome sadness as a friend knocking quietly at night
reminding you that even if it doesn’t all end right
at least you’re still alive
and with life comes always,
though later than some would have it,
a million extra chances
fight against despair
and rage at the dying of the light
you maybe a tiny thing
but remember the exploding atom’s might
– and some of us just love you too much to see you frown
– if not for Becky Wilson, then when you’re ready smile once again for us

All my prayers, for whatever has you down…