Dark Autumn

A dark and rotting world
filled with hungry
broken teeth.

Leaves which once were green
lifting skyward
basking in the warmth
brilliance of sunbeams.

Now lifeless and fallen
lying in the shadows of worms
feasting on the dead and dying.

Is but the turning of the season,
preparations for a new spring’s promise
whispering softly
over the distant horizon.

But ears are deaf
eyes blinded by greed
and wanting more
taste and smell of sweetness
drown in putrefaction
as bleeding hands claw through
shards of broken glass towers
reaching for a way out
of a world we assumed
dominion over.

Fluidic Puzzle

Pieces flowing into
pieces

centers circumscribing
themselves
sinuously morphing
into mobius throughness…

Cherished longings
touchings
liquid keys breaching
worlds and worlds upon worlds
pouring eternally
into vivid
wetness

Comminglingless flowing
mercurial metallical pieces
of melting rigidness
touching from the inside
out
liquidus beings
of dark wombs

Emotive stirrings
roots deep in skyness
reaching deeper into stone
groundedness
lighting limitless suns
skating on edges
of extragalactic worlds.

Pieces of fluidic puzzles
forever dancing
perfect harmonious gracing
lithe entwining
oiled serpents
of passion
timeless in
beads of timelessness
strung on threads
of eternity

Some Souls

Some souls
are not from
the lesser gods

Those gods who
spawned the religions of this world
whose only purpose is to capture, enslave
and control all beings
who manifest here.

There are some souls
not of those lesser gods
who will not be subdued
by their treats of hell
or damnation.

There are some souls
who will not be duped
by promises of love, oneness
and bliss.

There are some souls
who will not be driven
from the wonders of sensation
and the magic which inundates
this world of wonderment
and awe.

There are some souls
who will not be controlled
will not cease to speak
though their words and thoughts
are twisted
and made into the gibberish
of the mad

There are some souls
who are
tormented and
taunted
incessantly
in an attempt to
elicit their silence.

There are some souls
who will not cease
to rip the illusions
from their eyes
though they are
sealed in the coffin
and buried in the depth of it.

There are some souls
who will never stop
reaching out to find
others of their kind
though they have been placed
in a strait jacket of
illusions, lies and madness

There are some souls
who may always have
their words twisted
and turned inside out
but will speak them
none-the-less
in hopes that someone
will someday
hear.

Those souls have
only one thing
to say to those lesser
gods who curse them
uoy kcuf

ssendaS

A new arises
dipped in sadness
each breath leaks out
a heart shaped hole

Joy fleeting
passing unhesitant
like a bee on the run

Cream in my coffee
a swirling cloud
of failure
enveloping
unfolding into
the new

Some pain can never
be quenched
Death only
locks it
deeper in the soul

A twisted world
where one’s
love and care
brings only pain
and never joy

The inside out
the twisted
for them
to live
is evil

Healing

Seeking healing of a wound is just the avoidance of digging painfully deep into it to find the source and cause of the infection. It is better by far to dive deep into the puss and ooze ferreting out the patterns that lie at the root; then once there to work with and understand these patterns and designs so that they can be more constructively used.

So is this healing not really heeling? Just part of the system that dummy us down to follow (heel) the mindless dictates of those in power.

To Awaken

To awaken out of thoughts and ideas, into aliveness and newness; a newness and sight shattering even the moment with its presence. This is the Holy Grail worth burning an eternity in the deepest fires of hell for. It is a struggle of lifetimes to even earn the right to even hope to touch the hem of its shadow. It is so far away, there are so many lifetimes to go and I often grow so weary of wandering blind in the dark wasteland of my soul...

A Walk

I went for a walk and suddenly it swallowed me how I am all those parts of me, the child and all his tantrums; the parrot, the analytic, the sage and the me I think I am; all just parts. Parts I boxed as good or bad, all those parts locked away; they all came out to dance and skip on the side walk today.

A small sprinkler was jettisoning droplets of water like flower petals gently floating to the ground and melting into the lawn.

A red car, just wanted to have a conversation to pass the time away.

Each and every tree smiled, some bowed others humming a little sly tune and I felt like hugging them all and tasting their leaves. I wanted to wrap myself naked around each and every one.

Up popped some apartment nozzles and water from them began to spray. I stood transfixed by the majesty of it all. All in unison they sprang to singing the fullness of the chorus of that watery melody they sang. The drops, some on the lawn and some on the sidewalk puddling up here and there; then tiny rivulets began meandering across, into cracks, flowing like miniature rivers in deep eroded gullies, finally off the edge tiny waterfalls gushing onto the street.

Something is in the air today, something is melting me from the inside out and I too will soon flow like rivets into the street and down the gutter and who knows where from there.

And really I don't really care...

Morning Pages

As I was writing my morning pages this morning, I kept getting a whiff of ink from the pen I was writing with. I hadn’t smelled that smell since college or maybe early in my career when a pen leak was not uncommon and geeky pocket protectors were a necessary accessory. There was no leak, no mess, just the scent of ink as I wrote, playing and frolicking in my nose. I got up to make a second cup of coffee and as that smell now danced as a memory; I poured the water from the Brita filter pitcher into a measuring cup to microwave. As I poured, the sounds of the water swallowed me, their lips sucking me in like a piece of spaghetti and carrying me away, tumbling and rolling into the cup. The sounds continued to echo even after I was done and returned to the writing.
Sensations kept coming, the feel and texture of the cushion I was sitting on, the clamminess of my skin from the warm humid morning as the sun began to pop over the tree tops. The taste in my mouth, latent aftertaste of that first cup of coffee and a reminder that a brush, toothpaste and mouth wash was in order.
I continued to write, thoughts of wounds, questions of healing, how’s and meanings, rights and wrongs, solutions, answers; a quest for an elixir of wholeness and cure. When in the depths of the quest, thoughts flowing feverously winding up for a profound break-through in understanding; the silence was shattered by the earth shattering CRUNCH as my cat began eating its food. Again and again, another and another, some short, some in pairs or triples, no two the same. I stopped and listened, listened to the voice as the universe spoke, hearing her voice, remembering the taste of her words, the feel of their texture and smell of their essence. And in all this cacophony and thought distracting diversion, a tiny spark in a cavernous darkness lit those thoughts, though dimly, but lit them none-the-less. In the echoing flashes, a glimpse of thoughts, faces without eyes to see, smooth without nose to smell the fragrance of wonder or a mouth with tongue to taste the colors; no fingers to touch the sensuous wonderment of all that surrounds me, no arms or legs to move about this astonishing world; nothing just bare naked, sterile thoughts running frantically as if to make meaning.
Yes, thoughts, ruminations of regurgitated experience masquerading as life. The quest for healing, a frantic attempt to hold back and stop the blood flowing from the opening of an old wound, the blood merely an illusionary confirmation of a straw surrogate's attempt at pretending to be me. Let it bleed, I say and let the life blood flow, because it too is an imitation, a putrefied liquefied illusion, dyed red by fear flowing through cracks in the straw. The dying straw man merely last gasps of an old belief falling away, as the king marches homeward to reclaim his lands.

Inside Of

Inside of nothing
Inside of what I can’t see
Inside of the fear
Inside of the fear I can’t see
Inside of my past
Inside of myself
Inside of myself I can’t see
Inside of the crying
Inside the little boy
Inside the angriness of a toy
Inside of alone
Inside of the pale
Inside of the beak of feel
Inside of the inside
Inside of the door shut closed
Inside of the room
Inside the shards of tomorrow
Inside of the perilous new
Inside of the who am I
Inside of the me
Inside of the emptiness inside
Inside of the helplessness
Inside of the lovelessness
Inside of no feeling
Inside of the hurting
Inside of the lost helplessness
Inside of the falling away
Inside of the nothing nothinglessness
nothinglessness
nothinglessness
Inside of the no-way-out
Inside of the inside-outside lost

I remember that night
I remember my mom
I remember my dad
I remember the screaming
I remember the choice
Choose me
Choose me
I remember the choice to choose
the screaming to choose
choose
who do you want to go with
who, who who
I remember the hate
I remember the wanting
Wanting it to stop
I remember the screaming
I remember not wanting to be
I remember not wanting to feel
I remember not wanting to hurt
I remember just wanting it to stop

I remember
inside of the nothingness

I found my home…

Precious Gifts

If you cannot hear her whispers in your ear when a gentle breeze blows, or feel her kisses on your feet running naked across the lawn or bending down taste the sweetness of her early morning dew then you are missing so many of the wondrous gifts mother earth has given to us.

For the Sleepwalkers

by Edward Hirsch

Tonight I want to say something wonderful
for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith
in their legs, so much faith in the invisible

arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path
that leads to the stairs instead of the window,
the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.

I love the way that sleepwalkers are willing
to step out of their bodies into the night,
to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,

palming the blank spaces, touching everything.
Always they return home safely, like blind men
who know it is morning by feeling shadows.

And always they wake up as themselves again.
That's why I want to say something astonishing
like: Our hearts are leaving our bodies.

Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs
flying through the trees at night, soaking up
the darkest beams of moonlight, the music

of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.
And now our hearts are thick black fists
flying back to the glove of our chests.

We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.
We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-
walkers who rise out of their calm beds

and walk through the skin of another life.
We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness
and wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised.

The Prize

Black hearted knights
rushing in for the prize
exquisite jeweled bronze
displayed bright before
their eyes

Not even a thought
of the gold trampled to dust
in racing to win
as surely
they must.

Lilies Thtough Melting Snow

Tantalizing flowers
tongue tailing lizards
flowing from dancing
juniper berries
as twisting
tulipturous trinkets
tinkle their
painted toes
at the edge
of drool

Media Mites

Semanticated words
swirling
around a drain
disguised as an ear
attached to an eye
blank
vacant
lit only by
an incessant thumb
drumming to the tune
of control room
programming

Media mites
crawling insidiously
into each and every
fold of gray matter
ironing out the
wrinkles
placating acne
teasing sex
from the rotting
corpse
putrefied by
endless positive
affirmations

A Morning Haiku

morning’s light blows
quietly playing dew drops
flute song echoing

Colours of my soul

The fathomless depths of one’s soul, frightening even to the one who calls it home.

Garden of gods, Temple of silence - Deuter

And there is such beauty in this world, to see, to smell, to touch, to hear, to taste, to feel and to be…

Snowflake Water

Snowflake multitudinous facets
sparkling brilliance in the sun
glacial water flowing
over alpine stones
...

Decisions, decisions

There is this constant battle. A choice to make that seems to never end. To keep trying, even though I am seemly destined to failure, or just accept my fate inevitable and step out of the game before it plays out. And where is the game, where does it begin and end? Is physical reality just a small corner of this cosmic gladiator’s arena with no exit? Guess I am just a little tired today of same wrestling match with those same demons. Even with end in sight, it still feels endless.

Mirage in the Soul and the Plight of Phineas

I know of those places, windows unopened, voids unfilled. Perhaps they are a sign of the depth of our souls. Always something deeper waiting to be discovered, revealed, opened and known; a hunger, never satiated or satisfied, a feast always just about to begin. That first delectable bite or kiss just moments away. Taunted and teased, forever reaching and never grasping; my reach always short of my dreams and desires.
Yes, Phineas, I know your plight and what price you paid for having angered the gods. Only somewhere, somehow I have forgotten my transgressions and will forever pay the penalty.