I’m Here When You Wake

There is no excuse for indifference and cowardice when it comes down to one’s own life and freedom. There is no excuse at all!~Gary D. Barnett

The equinox 22 advice–be strong
have faith–arrives with a string of fives, long
day ahead in gray chill with miracles
if you believe angelic oracles

I use the tools that appear. The field’s clear
responsive when I wake or dream. Here
society’s vestiges seem like ghosts.
Their messages haunt the wealthy whose boasts

fade now they shun lethal boutiques where
air–somehow transformed, can harbor hosts vile
carriers. They shudder in dissonance
blasting blame outward, find no resonance.

Unanchored, numb, they drift upon my shore.
I offer empathy, compassion’s door
open even when inevitably
they focus all their shame and dread on me.

I walk the sovereign path, now sparkling,
know that I’m an electric being.
Grounded and tuning with each breath, I stand
in my integrity hold out my hand.

Inspired by: Boutique, Lethal, Sparkling, Vestige, the fall equinox, and a weather forecast of 55 all day long.

Featured image: An eagle fishing just off “my” shore. How I’ll miss this treasured lake life!

Awake Before The Crows

While crows sleep, I search dark cloud-covered skies
obscuring moon, full and bursting, devise
schemes to pare down, live minimalistic.
A killdeer in distress spirals, mystic

plover calls. Ancient lyrics fall on ears
stuffed with sounds duplicitous feeding fears
society subsists on. Making lists
while sunrise hints and plays with blue-shade mists

I’ve lost the rhyme; I’m trying to stay true
to love’s most simple path. Aim high. Askew
impulse-driven males precipitously
begin panicked flight uncritically.

I’m grounding, watch my family run by
making wild choices. It’s their time to fly.
At last the lightening sky, overcast
grim bearers of gloom threatening amassed

the day forebodes with muted calls to wake
and treasure even this intense heartache.
Hummingbirds voracious in fall’s chill, sip
before starting their migratory trip.

Inspired by: Duplicitous, Crow and Subsist.


Someone’s been telling you stories, and they just ain’t true. They just ain’t true.~Dan Fogelberg

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.~Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

When the narrative shifted kafkaesque
and showing my face meant I was undressed
and herded sheep signaled social distress
behind masks unspeaking, I must confess

melancholy as the chasm revealed
those fearful in illogical minefields.
Sovereign, my freedom rippling, I’m a stone
in murky waters. I will not be owned.

The gallery of cosseted in deep
depending on a salary to keep
a lifestyle dissonant destroying souls
scurrying under leaky roofs. The holes

and gaps too numerous to count. When will
they cease their bailing, and discount the shill?
Wake up and seize their freedom? Bitter pill
ground underneath their heel? A simple thrill

creating a new story quite unique
raising this voice, recalling how to speak
and breathe, a lion rising from the sheep
proud and grounded, no longer fast asleep.

Inspired by: Kafkaesque, Gallery, Melancholy and Cosset. And this article about being a lion.

Featured images: This hawk came to visit and then allowed me to photograph her flying away.


From The Ashes

I have cried too long. Like a phoenix, I have risen from the flames. No more living someone else’s dreams.~Dan Fogelberg

A cormorant’s head peeks through the long green
until the sun reveals a black leaf seen
with wide open curiosity. Child-
like wonder steals the thunder. Once reviled

I rise, a phoenix from the ashes, flamed
by scorn, derision and denial’s blame.
Ah, adversaries, we must reconcile
contrite. Don’t take exception, be hostile.

Our squabbles, symptomatic of the rift
belief systems impose, narrative drift
is just a tale now stale. Let us create
a story to embrace humankind’s fate.

Inspired by: Exception, Symptomatic, Adversary and Contrite.

Featured image: The sun and lake beautiful illusions call me to imagine new creations.

Strain at Gnats and Swallow Camels

You advise me to soldier on, stoic
facing calamity, be heroic
in this nine-month gestation between stars
uranus retrograde, venus and mars

until the shifting skies will galvanize
me into right action, confident, wise.
But restless as impulsive scripts play out
–a heron scolds my porch light here, casts doubt

and so I puzzle in starlit predawn
swallow my pride, resist patterns I’m drawn
to repeat. Old wounds have broken wide–death’s
gift. I calm and ground, thankful for each breath.

Written for the Saturday Stream of Consciousness prompt Puzzle and inspired by: Between, Swallow and Galvanize.

Featured images: a glorious dawn and the heron who flew over, scolding me as I photographed.

The Foundation is Rotten

People should think things out fresh and not just accept conventional terms and the conventional way of doing things.~R. Buckminster Fuller

You ask me to label my beliefs, quick
and simple. I look beneath. I’ve been sick,
stuck in differential diagnosis
fed by Big Pharma psychosis

so I dig deep. I’ve got the stones to speak
of false premises, germ theory critique.
I know my body, respect the terrain.
When symptoms arise, toxins are to blame.

Keep It Simple, Stupid, Occam’s Razor
shines through fictive narratives, a laser.
Believe disease is everywhere: insane
focus poor symptoms for drug profits’ gain.

It’s come to this. I didn’t take the leap
to some imaginary place asleep,
restraining my breath, injected by slush
amalgamates of poisons bound to rush

past all body’s defenses, breaking down
in ways too horrible to think. You frown
and call me quirky, justify the lack
of evidence: it’s science. You’re highjacked

by stress from dissonance. Intuition
will break the spell. Just be still and listen.
Turn off the feed. Observe awake creatures.
Focus and find nourishment in nature.

Inspired by: Poor, Stone, Quirky and Intuitive.

Also inspired by What Really Makes You Ill?: Why Everything You Thought You Knew About Disease Is Wrong by Dawn Lister, and the daily exposés by the investigative reporter Jon Rappoport at NoMoreFakeNews.com.

What I’m Missing

Grief is in two parts. The first is loss. The second is the remaking of life.~Anne Roiphe

In the morning teardrops luxuriant
paint my cheeks in salty secrets. I can’t
control their entrance, sometimes sweeping grand
down the polished staircase, hankie in hand

with a decisive voice calling: make way
for sadness, incoming tears. Or you’ll say,
what are your plans? And I dissolve. This step
in front of me is clear. The spiderweb

clutches. In its sticky grasp, I still. Weep
as I must. The convoluted wound’s deep.
Decades of weaving hold me as I keep
breathing, such a painstaking feat, to grieve.

Inspired by: Decisive and Luxuriant.

Featured image: the last of my mother’s yellow roses in bloom.

I Cannot Safely

Imagine, if you can, a better way
and if you can’t, try harder!  Once today
is over and you’re deeper in the trap
action’s oppressed and there’s no going back.

Caught in a fairy tale, a despot’s dream
accepting lies as currency.  It seems
au faite, the only way, compliance begs
the gullible to feast on bitter dregs.

This grief as I move among sheep. I’d thought
the world populated by humans, not
these bit players eager for their roles, paid
to lie and money’s scarce.  Faces erased.

I cannot safely wear a mask.  And I
can see, this is the first of hoops to leap.
In my full sovereignty, none of the rules
for automatons apply.  I’m not a fool.

You see my sacred vessel?  I live here.
You think it rare and odd, report with fear
my free progress as I hold space—for you.
You cannot see it, dangerous looks true

and war is peace and fear is love.  You hide
behind a mask.  Your freedom is the price.

Inspired by: Action.

Featured image reminds me that every word, thought and action creates a ripple in our connected field.

Shall We?

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.~Carl Sandburg

Where heavy-handed choreography
designed propaganda cosmography
stumbles, the ramifications tumble
each subsequent movement panic’s fumble

a constant stress of shocking illusion
no time to consider–such confusion
even when the truth’s exposed, the dancers
pirouette past all of logic’s answers.

Entrained by centuries of outright lies,
taught to question our worth, our very eyes
deceive us. How to wake inside the box
poisoned and gasping, have we been outfoxed?

Bare feet on ground, crowned by the rays of sun,
lucid, I challenge the whirl. I am done
being spun by narratives built on rot.
I dance my tune, reject the old gavotte.

by: Choreography, Kaleidoscope, Ramification and the Saturday Stream of Consciousness prompt where.

Featured image: Last night’s sunset on the lake, kaleidoscope effect.

Thinking Outside The Box

The black bamboozle box lurks foreboding
leaps to his voice to flood the cabin-zing
hey google, dissipate the peace, release
the latest fear, please don’t hesitate, seize

reality; I can’t create today
too frightened by the scenes shown yesterday.
He’s hypnotized. He cannot reach the ground.
Past constructs spinning, holding him unsound.

Our paths deviated when the earth showed
common sense beats electronic mirth-mode
that keeps anxiety on high alert
and energy’s sweet currency diverts.

Inspired by: Bamboozle, Foreboding, Cabin and Dissipate.

Featured image: What we create today seeds in ways we cannot fathom.