Precipice

crazy and wild
with thoughts gone child
and caricatures of infancy,
the world spins though diplomacy
with madness and desire.

as the old retire
and the young aspire
i walk the precipice of uncertainty.
each step a dream,
each dream a mirror,
each mirror a mind
as we all look within
and try to find
the one we call self.

bliss and pageantry fall to savagery
as guns and viral treachery
careen through nations locked in war.
watch the headlines to see the horror
from the safety of an entertainment center-
a center of distance and seclusion,
of ignorance and delusion;
this is necessary -
the apocalypse of greed
is precursory to seed
a global emergence of civilization
back unto one.

Schism

In wind and fury
I'm lost and dreary,
withered to the bone.
Lasting longing,
hoping, calling,
aging takes its toll.
Pretence reared its ugly head
and a schism did unfold.
Cascading tearing,
fraught not fearing,
settles in like cold.
The day to come
all love undone
may never be in time.
I've lost the trust
that never was,
forsaken to the rhyme.
Unto the street
I tread with feet
not wanting to the beat.
Find a stranger
to fill the manger
and cure the heartache
in the chief.
Go spend a dime
to heal the mind
and capture some relief.

This is Trinity

Lightning strikes as thoughts go 'round
the ranks of knights and saints,
thunder sounds its way through town
as the horses gather weight.
Heaven falls unto us all as the rain tumbles down.

Ten thousand foes I once did know
in the flush of someone's eye.
Three million things were told to me
by several friendly women.
These women were gone once night was day
and the mystery lingered on.
The armor was shown to sing and pray
the majesty of the play.

In skies I see the tempering of buddhas' wrath and glee.
Ten storms have come, ten battles won,
and time returns to sea.
With age begun and tempests done,
the casualty will cease to be.
Freed from desire, attachments undone,
one can now become.
Once become and all things done,
the self returns to harmony.
Upon return to harmony,
the self dissolves,
the world resolves,
the body becomes unity.
This is trinity.

Where Would Be World?

The revelations I see come across softly,
guided with precision and wisdom
born of age and divinity --
sometimes surreal, sometimes rude,
yet they all include
the people who care.

They walk through hardship and pain,
knowing suffering, but coming back again,
through illusion, to pull others through.

I pull too. And sometimes push --
against the will to grow.
It is the growth of the family tree
that dissolves suffering,
and the family tree need not be kin,
but kin can be grand
and the best kind of family at hand.

Were it not for family,
where would be girl?
Were it not for girl,
where would be boy?
Were it not for boy nor not for girl,
where would be world?
In family I see divinity.

Emergence

Weddings, mercenaries, and love
transcend the bonds above
pain and treachery.
I see similarity in desktops
and the bullets that blind
compassion and mercy
from the saint's eyes.

Whose freedom weighs more
than the mass of humanity
hurtling through time
in a matrix of emergence
and the flower of neutrality --
the scent of which echoes
traces aeons deep of cultures past
and cultures last to catch a glimpse
of inherent design.

What mind envelops the sphere of haste
to temper the urge to freedom
from men with guns
and children with sorcery?
Free in the way of now
and the balance of nations
on a rock born of chemistry
and a seed from afar.

Calculate my distemper to see
the error in humanity
and pacify my treachery to be
one with kind.
We all fly together, now, forever.
Lets keep our planet in one piece.

Old School

So this is my first non creative post, and it's one of modest glee, simplicity, and subtle suggestion. I wish to share my satisfaction of the purchase of a reel mower -- you know, the old school motor-less push mower, the kind that your grandparents used. In fact, as my elderly neighbor put it, "That's what we started with." In modest yet opinionated response to that, I say, "That's what I return to." Having been raised on a property in northern Vermont with ample acreage, the power mower was the way to go, especially for a youngster with limited strength or desire to mow the old man's lawn. Yet now as a middle aged dude responsible for the care of an averaged sized single family urban home in SE Portland, OR, I have to say that the reel mower is the way to go. Having used an American made reel mower in the past for a similarly sized lawn in an adjacent neighborhood, I knew the merits of this type of approach to lawn care: low/no noise, no need for gasoline, low environmental impact, good low impact exercise, and low cost. So I decided to go the route of the urbane, progressive, geeky Portland culture nut and purchased a German designed, Czechoslovakian made model named the Gardena 380. Following a week long wait post purchase due to freaking inclement weather, I now write the day following a happy hippy mowing afternoon. It was so sweet, smooth, and gratifying to mow my lawn the old school way, like the feeling one gets while slicing through rush hour traffic on your commuter bike.

My elderly neighbor jokingly said, "I'm telling!" Well, so am I, a tattle on myself, a confession of environmental non guilt, and an admission of geeky pride. Call me old school, wonder at the choice to push a motor-less mower rather than walk behind a self propelled bellowing lawn monster, laugh at my choice of words. Good. That's the way its meant to be . . .

Children After Midnight

Children After Midnight
Neon screams in the desert night.
Demons on wheels roar with fright.
Jesus is praised with staff and might
by the derelict gone sane.
Countless lost souls wander
the urban oasis lit like
the alien mind that rules this world,
a world of currency, false dreams,
and the grand illusion.

Intoxicated and betrayed virgins
cry for mischief, blind to its consequences.
Party with me - I'm yours.
I won't tell in confession
of our sin tonight
beneath desert skies,
swarmed by lies,
and the premise of risk.

The promise of fortune
does not decieve me.
I stand apart, calm, and alone.
Thousands gather, yet I cannot meet
the thousands of stares
in reflections of illuminated distractions
with dignity nor share:
they come to play and forget their sorrow.

I come to bear witness
with frugality and restraint
to the playground in hell -
a cartoon hell,
full of gross exagerations,
profit in loss,
security in insecurity,
and children after midnight.

The Adventure in Your Soul

The Adventure in Your Soul
Listen to the stars,
watch the wind--
walk with power within.

Feel the sky,
smell the rain--
touch deep within the earth.

See the eagle perched
on your mountain home--
merely a dream away.

Ask yourself all
the questions unanswered--
by a million generations.

Mystery begets sorrow
if left untouched,
like the rain that floods
if the earth does not drink.

The passion between earth and sky,
written in flower petal letters
and the luxurious song of the trees,
calls unto the beauty in your heart
and the infinite framed by the window in your eye.

Waiting with wisdom, a smile,
and a twinkle in the night sky;
I desire the adventure in your soul.

Walk with me to a familiar beach
unknown to rational minds,
crawl across the silent lake
and climb up to the stars.
Believe in this and you will find
a secret doorway to our past.

The harmony, depth, and passion
of the temptation in our voice
leaves you but little choice
to wander through the night,
fearless, present, and near
to the canopy above,
hoping and dreaming to hear
the language of our touch.

Enraptured with Self

Enraptured with Self
Cry my love to your children.
Walk the plains of heartache
to the source of your pain.
Dry, cracked, and sullen,
awaiting tears of acceptance,
an honest history,
and integrity of spirit,
your creations seek the nobility
of tears cast with touch--
each drop a jewel of personality,
a world of experience flowing within your vision;
let them taste your remorse to know your love.
Cry plaintively in the dark
to reach the farthest
forests of your soul--
remote and alone,
your beauty cascades around
waterfalls stepped deep inside
the prisms of your palms.
As the feather anciently touches your face,
the raven awakes deep within you
and carries you back to your dream,
children awaiting,
the dog fooling,
and the sky open to your imagination
to be filled with cloud and emotion.
Fly softly into the cedar
and let its wisdom fill your blood
with medicine and alchemy.
Your velvet sheen midnight wings,
now charmed with decision,
envelop your love with protection
to shield your circle from disharmony and hate.
The fallen feather marks the change
to a more positive day,
and it's touch upon the earth
clears our mind.
Be kind.

Mystery Cued

Mystery Cued
Sunburst sunset,
scattered red love,
cotton cloud dream diffuse,
cloud gate open,
revealing herself
to a portal above.
Mystery cued by the setting sun
and the canopy above--
the warped, rolling, undulating
cloud canopy colored with wolf tones
beckons the thunderbirds home;
the feathered serpent coils itself
with color and mystique,
searching its way to the last hole.
The skyworld gleams with
the great golden shower of the dying day.
A sea of perplexion awaits the night
with poise and expectation.
Whose hands have formed this brilliant artistry?
Whose hands have touched my heart tonight?
I want to know . . .
I want to know . . .
who is this mystic?
What touch of faith
and otherworldly experience
rendered this poet a mystic?

Last Halo's Touch

I dream tonight of a forthright companion,
a nebula of familiarity
and the promise of tomorrow.
I hold the warm charm potential
close to the chamber of spirit
and let the echoes of ancestry
touch upon her form.
In resonance I feel promise,
and the chamber glows
with the shimmer from her eyes.

What world awaits to unfold it's cries,
it's triumphs, elations, and ardour?
It is this question that I dream,
and each moment that I dream
a fractal of continuity blesses her grace
and traces aeons of destiny
through labyrinths of space
as the time between last halo's touch
fades to nothing in a lasting embrace.

Along the Creek Side

Along the Creekside

Silent bright pain
in thousand colors fallen few;
scattered leaves and shattered dreams,
dancing lightly, follow you
with the scent of fall,
full of warm promises
and the mercy to pardon you all.

far blue sky
so far from eye
as far as the hope
for I to die

To hibernate from
the silent bright pain
during the winter to come
and the absence of shame;
leaking through fissures in silence,
speaking in riddles of defiance,
my lonely tortured heart
aches to open to the failing sun;
along the creekside the wolf did run.

Turned Aside

Turned aside

Warfare, greed, and catastrophe
around the world abound,
genocide and corrupted lies
foster unholy political ties--
from the earth this cannot hide
from the stars comes the giant tide
tsunami
tsunami
devastation tragedy magnified.

global relief effort unified;
inside we try to dignify
all the moments we turned aside
from the pain and the horror
of humanity divergent pacified.

Unanswered

Unanswered
In a cold and vacant day,
haunted by sunlight
and the great blue reminder
of the pain of now,
the fierce wild wind
pushes mercilessly against motion,
pushing deep into the memory chasm
to the Gothic reminder
of the sorcery to your becoming.

Fighting the torrent
to the crest of the hill
to relax in the moment
and escape the soul's chill,
ascend into revelry
of madness, and kill
the urge to delusion
of the devil's own thrill.

Who made me do it--
abandon myself?

Forgiveness

Forgiveness

Naked floating heartache,
rising in the night, bleeding senselessly
into dry motive dreams;
screams in the doorway
mark rigid defiance of alien forms.
Half life bred, incessant doom compliance
to falsely nurtured mediocrity agendas
in the plaintive now and lucid tomorrow.
Forever I shall find misery
in the hallway connected to the doorway . . .

Footsteps found pleading
next to the bleeding
as the escape ghost
haunts its way to forgiveness,
forgiveness of self.