Castles In The Sky

Morning prompts call quite a bitter riot
tempting me to vilify. Disquiet
sneers at mongrels. Remnants of lucid dreams
as my night castle, toxic at the seams

revealed hauntings and skeletal remains,
the seminal turning of my domains.
I know each facet mirrors and I’ve asked
to be shown the next steps. Prodigious task

to evolve while generations held sway
by lies. The grand illusions have their day.
I scribble cryptic notes, wordlessly mope
with motes intelligent who convey hope.

Inspired by: Prodigious, Seminal, Mongrel and Disquiet.

A la búsqueda

No existe la libertad sino la búsqueda de la libertad y esa búsqueda es la que nos hace libre.*~Carlos Fuentes

She coaches my situation is dire.
I haven’t broached the destruction. Afire
my titanic urge for evolution
moves me through the diminution. Desire

so convoluted hatches schemes endued
with opportunities. My dreams imbued
with prophesy. It seems I’m poised. This brink
implores me to new usage. What I think

curled tightly in past’s cruel restrictive arms.
I must break free of these redoubted charms.
New life is surging through this April ground.
Undone and shattered, now I present, crowned.

Inspired by: Coach, Titanic, Usage and Endue.

Freedom doesn’t exist, only the search for freedom, and this search is that which makes us free.* (My translation)

Wordless Web

The most potent use of words has been to round out some transcendental event, giving that event a place in the accepted chronicles, explaining the event in such a way that ever afterward we can use those words and say: “This is what it meant.”~Frank Herbert

Sometimes he believes he’s a radical
though he’s bought by the patriarch’s dream. Full
of words, he’s caught. What might beseem a pearl
gleaming is trampled for he’s taught bewhirled.

Inspired by: Patriarch, Radical, Beseem and Sometimes.

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Who Can Feel Sad With Forsythia?

Who knows when a welcome has worn? Worry
strives to master joy’s salute. Sorry, scorned
antithesis is born in disaster.
Outside the world is blooming. Hope reborn

scuttles in dread, a reversal. My heart’s
rehearsal dwelt too long on enmity.
I see my part, dragging identity
down dysfunction’s paths. Who’s unflagging art

accompanies from shore to door? Who can
answer my hesitant knock? To span
a long life, my illusory bridges
must fail. The dangling track’s prodigious.

Is everything I’ve wrought reduced to naught?
The train’s long gone when the caboose, distraught
creeps by. I say that I’m a lover. Fear
defined this life and is no longer dear.

Inspired by: Antithesis, Caboose, Strive, Salute and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt to start this post with either who or whom.

Creating Glitches

How can we ever hope to awaken people to the fact that an ecocidal, omnicidal oligarchic empire is driving us toward disaster while singing us to sleep using propaganda lullabies?~Caitlin Johnstone

The visual clues obfuscate our view
–we’ve sworn all our lives we know what is true.
We’ve been trained, after all, quiet and prim
accepting the jinx, lies filled to the brim.

Wanting to be helpful, participate
in the spell woven ’round us, demonstrate
our worth. Outlandish to consider how
the days and weeks and months and years allow

manipulators dreamworlds to narrate
and we buy in, accept the silly prate,
build lives amid lies. Our family ties
despised and shunned. Our dissonance divides

until bankrupt, we realize the earth
essential grounds us. Though we’re taught from birth
how we should think and how perceive what’s real,
now we wake up, abandon the false spiel.

Inspired by: Visual, Jinx, Prim, Outlandish and the Stream of Saturday Consciousness prompt day/week/month/year.

Be Dreamers Of The Day

All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.~T. E. Lawrence

It would be a travesty to impose
a moratorium on slumber. Woke
folk in the know insist bliss in the throes
of dream’s unseemly. Full moon at the stroke

of grandfather’s clock, the mainspring unwinds.
We find our enslavement peculiar,
yawning as we climb out of constructs, primed
to slip through time, seemingly our ruler.

Outside the meager narrative of need
we say aha and follow passion’s lead,
decline the lagniappe; our pursuit of greed
forgotten in reality’s stampede.

Inspired by: Meager, Moratorium, Lagniappe, Slumber and the Stream of Saturday Consciousness prompt “-sty” and the constant intention to be free.

New Ways Through Storms

Something inside me’s just begun….there’s always magic in the air.”~Genesis, The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway.

I cannot staunch the bleeding. Foundation
exposed by enthusiastic
lambs led to slaughter. The degradation
pains my empathic senses. If I stick

my fingers in the holes, the flow just goes.
Go with the flow, abandon ship. Golden,
we walk on the turbulence, beholden
to the light. Illusions’ fright just shadows.

The halcyon days of yore beyond storms
where nests were safe for laying: myth platforms.
Creative now, we breathe intentional,
imagine ways multi-dimensional.

Inspired by: Staunch, Lamb, Halcyon and Enthusiastic.

Who Has Seen The Wind?

The life of this world is wind
Windblown we come, and windblown we go away.
All that we look on is windfall.
All we remember is wind.~Charles Wright

In the fallout of my repeating steps
lives are transformed. I don’t feel different
sitting with my windfall, doing my reps
in the dance of morning. The inference

now I’m a millionaire, I won’t settle
in squalor is felt by astute watchers.
Through all the crashing towers, my mettle
tested again and again. Plan botchers

or a heavy karmic debt, it’s all me.
I’ve tried, I’m here to stay. I cannot flee.
In neutral, I breathe serendipity
and manifest through doubt and fear debris.

Inspired by: Fallout, Repeating Steps, Serendipity and Astute.

Featured image: A 450+ year-old oak tree I communed with yesterday sends blessings.

Winter’s Song

Is this uncouth child frowning in timeout
because he tried to break my thumb–no lie–
in the mafia? There is little doubt
that he’s two months shy of five–no jive.

My sobriety is begging me–just
one little toke turns this into a joke.
My glow is dimmed. This winter hymn’s a dirge
mourning the bitter dark as shadows surge.

I’m on the verge. Portals emerge. What’s true
is far beyond my view. I sit and stew
until a pause for breath. Celebrate death.
The world’s askew. Release old. Welcome new.

Inspired by: Glow, Mafia, Sobriety and Uncouth.

11:11 on 222

I’m listening for the angelic choir
in this particular month, ears on fire,
eyes sparking, a live wire. My new voice sings.
A crystal, I oscillate between swings

over chaotic choices. I reach out.
My ancient cousin says, have you run out,
with a certain glee, lonely, sitting high
atop a stash he’ll surely need in the sky.

Behind every rebuff I see how
my new being is mistaken. I bow
under the weight as I awaken, shed
possessions and limitations. Ahead

of the wave, I ride. My hesitations
old programs, filtered perceptions I’ve saved
in ignorance. How this world I create
propels me past my comfort zone. No wait.

Inspired by: Particular, Oscillate, Month and Rebuff.