Darkness and Light, a poetry journal.
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.
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.
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.