Darkness and Light, a poetry journal.

 

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Introduction

Dear and gentle reader, I will be sharing entries from my private poetry journal for your entertainment. Hopefully you will find them worthy and entertaining.

Enjoy.

 

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Chapter 1

 

Although I love rhyme because it was our primordial way of telling stories when paper was non-existent, I love the raw power of free verse. While rhyme reminds me of ancient campfires and tales told when Druids lived, free verse and spoken word are poetry forms that speak from our hearts and speak the truth of our beings. This is my take on the western world. Enjoy!

 

With enough shovels.

Copyright 2013 all rights reserved.

 

Teen spirit begins

With spirit week

Rally's, mascots, dancing and doing trivial, meaningless, stupid shit

Ending

In superbowl madness, fighting, team loyalties and screaming

for the star athlete/slave/mercenary who could give a shit about your

Dumb

Ass

Eating

Drinking

Star spangled beer and salt infused chips fries, and juicy

Juiced up burgers

With steroid enhanced performance

All viewed in loving all encompassing Technicolor

From the fattest lounger in the house

Remote in hand

Comfortable set and setting

Relaxed body alert mind

Ever vigilant for those pesky commercials interfering with the 30 something cheerleaders

Flashy

Forever teenage sexuality

If mindless plastic Barbie dolls turn you on

Which they do

Mostly anyway

All habitual ritual hard wired into the chimp brain from immersion

Within a public fool system when the young budding Barbies had no benefit

Of implants

Yet

And the young Kens had no idea that they were not hot without them

Yet we trudge through it all

Sleeping with real women while dreaming of Barbies and peak performance

Eating FAST food and wanting it Faster while surfing the web for porn

And social media

Doing everything possible to not see

The ugly truth

Of our total and absolute meaningless

But truly

We are only sand under the white capped waves of existence

Waves pushing and forming the wondrous grey-white ridges of our real lives

Imprinted by the questing feet of gulls, crows, ravens and the occasional stellar jay

The trails of crabs leaving the ocean

And of course bull kelp

All the while cruel and tangled shells encumber us

For we are stardust water beings

It is said by some

Our collective salty tears have the oceans signature as they form their timeless rivulets

Within the fabric of our existence

We are cousins to dolphins say others

Children of a vast and ancient primordial sea that once covered Mother Earth

Deep royal blue when she feels like reflecting the heavens

Green and grey and wild with froth when she chooses to display her temper

Her grains of Gaia sand move within her sacred circles and cycles

Receding and flooding from being-becoming and nothingness

Void to form

Form to void

Earth, Air, Fire, Water, Void

Myamoto's five rings cannot be truthfully denied

Although we deny them every day

Again and again the sacred lessons never stop until learned

To be roses and purple dawn to be magenta twilight again and again

We are sand under celestial whitecaps

 

I hiked a factory tree farm once

The experts told me it was trespassing and

"Illegal."

I did not see the truth of that because it looked to me to not be a farm at all

Rather

Only a destination for smoggy diesel lumber trucks

Exploding fossil fuel making its collective poison

The wage slave worker ants swore to me it was a "forest"

Because

The corporate slave masters hire scientist wage slaves to say it is a "forest"

They forbid my entrance however having been a slave once myself

(Now they call me a "veteran")

I walked the fake forest unknown to them

Immersed within a language of symbols used to deceive my heart rebelled

Because my heart speaks a secret and universally repressed language and it feels differently

About things

About truth

About perception and cognition and the affairs of the heart

I can quote their symbols

"All doug fir and redwood like"

"A tree is a tree"

"With enough shovels"

"Just say no"

"Good propaganda is good for the people"

"Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun"

"All Tempacheer"

"Kool-Aid's got thirst on the run"

(I guess that pretty much means fuck water.....right?)

Well......

They've drank that collective Kool-Aid

And their collective hearts lie to them now

Or worse...their hearts have died

For this forest, no matter how far I hiked

Had no companion plants

Just factory death

Like the factory farm death

Like the factory fishing ship/processor death

Like the mining death

Like the grazing death

Like the modified genetic organism death

And let us never forget Botox while we're at it

Because a little botulism makes everyone's face just a little bit better

Just a little bit smoother...

Right?

For we must all remember to smooth those things over that are uncomfortable truths

Because this makes us more comfortable

And this is far better than uncomfortable

Right?

Monsanto soybeans make their own pesticides

Genius really

All for your viewing and eating pleasure

Not unlike the liquefied pig shit destroying the sacred waters of our ancient mother

Darkening and stealing precious life from the Safire beauty of her emerald depths

With enough plutonium

Maybe just maybe

With enough global effort

We can kill father moon and break mothers holy cycle once and for all

The cult of Armageddon in all its crazy forms has a jealous and homicidal sky god

And he is coming back they say

The part of me that is Cherokee says

"I hope we have enough shovels"

And my Celtic part says

"I hope we have enough time"

 

Within a real redwood forest the tree folk create their own precious blue-grey fog

A sacred and timeless capillary perfusion that feeds them all collectively

Designed by an ageless panspermia magic that eludes us now

Three sets of chromosomes older than the fairy rings the oldest trees leave behind

Sequoia Sempervirens

Sequoia Gigantiem

Metasequoia Gleptisides

Named in an ancient dead language

They are named none the less

And my strong heart, unable to be fooled by the symbols of the collective lie

Undiverted by the non-music, knows instinctively that that they are subjects and not objects

Sublimely wonderful sun filled subjects

Shelter for myriad and diverse life forms

Dank and wet and ancient within sacred cycles beyond word connected thought

Out of time

Out of time?

Already?

We have danced together far to quick to become partners

The sacred mystery dance of life the secret in plain sight the circles within the circles

That the chemtrail masters want so badly to erase forever

"A tree is a tree"

I know....I get it

And so I must point it out because I am a poet and poets are traditionally a pain in the ass

For some anyway

They call me crazy......

And I feel crazy sometimes lost here in the wasteland

Burgers, petrol, pesticides that kill so slowly, stylishly, and comfortably

On regular or premium

"Got Milk?"

Say the smiling GMO death merchants

The part of me that sings Cherokee blood laughs and sings an old song

A song of people by people

The song asks

"Got water?"

My Celtic part chants an old poem, a poem of many campfires and full Druid moons

 laughing with the Cherokee and asks

"Got air?"

The Cherokee and Celt sing together and ask

"How much do you charge the cattle for it?"

Anyway....

The cycle of death that poses as life

The culture of lies that pose as truth

Redwoods are just dollars in the wasteland

Inflated fractional reserve currency

Booming to bust apart while people starve and land washes away to strangle the salmon streams

Dollars are objects, trees are objects, people are objects

And water cannot be collected from even father sky for that is an illegal act

"A tree is a tree"

"With enough shovels"

"Just say no"

Well I say....

We can bury anything, even truth and never even see it

As a sacred subject, as a gift, as something to be protected and cherished

And as the wastelands nuclear corporate daddy beams down upon us all

Like a black hole sun

So benevolent

"And energy for all" rings out sea to shining sea

North pole to South pole

Fukashima to Antarctica

All this time the Cascadia subduction zone gathers her dead to her ample bosom

As the wage slave prostitute/scientists deny truth

Yet others are gathering like death cult priests already naming Her Coming Rage

The Pacific Event

Or

The Fukashima Event

Nuclear Daddy whispers "Just put the dirt in the brown countries"

"Let them eat cake"

But he means "Cake"

Google that shit

Cake + Nuclear

I dare you to do it

I know

The real cycle cannot be broken for the future in created in the present moment

Gaia has no backyard and we all eat the poison "cake"

I know and I see and I am called "crazy"

But my Earthtribe brothers and sisters see it also

And all we really want to do is hear frogs and bees again and swat bugs off our faces

And smell what is no longer there to smell anymore in the wasteland

My heart feels broken in the wasteland but at least it still feels truth

And although my heart refuses to speak in symbols it does so not from anger

It simply cannot do it and I cannot ignore it any longer

My heart cannot hear the non-music

So I cannot dance the non-dance

And I cannot laugh the non-laughter

And I cannot talk the non-talk

For the first domino has been pushed

Thus my heart waits patiently for the real music and real dancing, and real talk

The music of the celestial spheres that Copernicus could hear with his heart

That all can hear if all listened with their hearts

One day we will all hear it

 

When the death dams die

Worn thin to nothing by fast and free water

Rushing and swirling, singing to Father Sky

When the sacred rainbow symphony boils and coils with uncontrolled life

Up river again to spawn on cycle

When the frogs and salamanders speak and no longer cry

When the grizzly marks old growth that has never known a chainsaws scream

Nor the screams of the Old Ones when cut down

When the bees and earthworms and plankton no longer die

From the suffocation of pesticides and the burning of a torn ozone layer

When the tens of thousands of blind rabbits in Argentina can see again with undamaged corneas

When the tuna recover from their angry extinction event

When Gaia's precious lungs can breathe again and are restored

And upon the amazon basin lush, leafy emeralds of life glisten under a golden sun

Again

When the Cult of Armageddon finally swallows itself

Finally taking the life it wanted all along

It's own

Then we will be free

For Gaia's children are always born again

But until then

Until that magical day

Superbowl Sunday rules the sheeple

And teen spirit begins in the non-time with spirit week across the land

Rally's

Mascots

Ending in super bowl madness and mindless team loyalties, the hero worship of slaves

Screaming for star spangled beer, oil laden chips, fries, and hormonally challenged hamburgers

Steroid enhancement all around viewed in Technicolor splendor from the fattest lounger in the house

Remote in hand for those pesky commercials interfering with the cheerleaders flashy, forever teenage  

Sexuality

If plastic inserts, lip injections, butt implants and Botox turn you on

Which they do

Mostly

All habitual ritual hard wired into the chimp brain from total immersion within the public fool system

(You can thank your limbic system)

When the young, budding Barbies didn't have inserts yet

And the young Ken dolls didn't have a clue about true beauty

"So natural looking"

Yet we stay asleep in the wasteland for being awake can be a crime and being awake is frightening

(Just look how the awake ones are treated by the unconscious people)

Sleeping with real women and wanting them fake, eating fast food and complaining that it is not

"Fast enough"

Dreaming of peak performance

Uploading and downloading what is left of our lives while doing everything possible

and impossible

To not see

To stay asleep

To recognize our absolute and total disconnection

to life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Low tide mussel

Copyright 2013 all rights reserved.

 

If you listen I am as empty as an abalone shell

and as full as the sound within

if you listen you can hear

a continuous and windless sunset of magenta and gold dancing

all misty, wet, cloudy, cold across the lonely, rocky beach.

I am rotting seaweed and flies and a dead harbor seal

at my lowest tide.

Wound ballistics reveal the secret

dead from a 30-odd six

shot by a fisherman competing for fish

at high tide.

A wound channel is always important

however it is tissue pulping that really kills.

I find myself as empty as that screeching tone

that leaves my exe's uncaring mouth

just like muzzle flash

words cannot be taken back once fired.

I find myself full now.

For my cup has no room anymore for what I feel

and I fear I have nowhere to empty my cup.

I fear what I am becoming

and what I was

for

I was that dead seagull that never learned to fly

yet lived long enough to see others fly

I was that grounded and broken winged slave forced to work at

unnatural labors.

I am a red tide mussel on a plate

tempting a bite a skin bag filled with delicious excrement

topped with melted butter and sour cream.

If you listen I am only a lonely cry

from a solitary gull

limping under a full blood moon.

If you listen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Low Tide Mussel

Low tide mussel

Copyright 2013 all rights reserved.

 

If you listen I am as empty as an abalone shell

and as full as the sound within

if you listen you can hear

a continuous and windless sunset of magenta and gold dancing

all misty, wet, cloudy, cold across the lonely, rocky beach.

I am rotting seaweed and flies and a dead harbor seal

at my lowest tide.

Wound ballistics reveal the secret

dead from a 30-odd six

shot by a fisherman competing for fish

at high tide.

A wound channel is always important

however it is tissue pulping that really kills.

I find myself as empty as that screeching tone

that leaves my exe's uncaring mouth

just like muzzle flash

words cannot be taken back once fired.

I find myself full now.

For my cup has no room anymore for what I feel

and I fear I have nowhere to empty my cup.

I fear what I am becoming

and what I was

for

I was that dead seagull that never learned to fly

yet lived long enough to see others fly

I was that grounded and broken winged slave forced to work at

unnatural labors.

I am a red tide mussel on a plate

tempting a bite a skin bag filled with delicious excrement

topped with melted butter and sour cream.

If you listen I am only a lonely cry

from a solitary gull

limping under a full blood moon.

If you listen.

 

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Cybele's Spirit.

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Standstill.

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~

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