City Foresting

The city forest chittering creates
a rescue with me, obliterates hate
as we assimilate birds and bunnies
solitary ear-plugged walkers, mummies

focused–beyond this lovely peace–on bars,
rectangular block sidewalks and parked cars.
From the porch the trees and I commune, show
the torture of electricity, oh

I’ll log on, publish, send aloha love
through the ether until the day you shove
out of the cage, listen from true heart place
where we’re connected past all time and space.

The day is almost nigh where we will touch
without a wire, a satellite–declutch
and let our natural powers arise
surprise what we achieve here in the light.

Inspired by: Obliterate, Torture, Rescue, Assimilate and The Invisible Rainbow: A History of Electricity and Life by Arthur Firstenberg.

Featured painting by my creative 4-year-old grandson!

An Bradán Feasa

(featured image by the brilliant Quinn Blackburn found here.)

And now for something completely different…

The way is long and convoluted to her house, but when I arrive, the journey behind me feels like a breath. Old and wrinkled, bright clear eyes, she’s at the door of the ancient stone cottage, wooden spoon in hand. Behind her in the hearth, flames leap, steams and interesting smells waft.

“You again,” and I ride a wave of defensiveness of my intention. This visit was unplanned and is always happening, and I must bring a pure heart.

“Greetings, beloved Grandmother,” I begin, and bow deeply. Then, with an inhale for courage, “I seek An Bradán Feasa.”

A sparse white eyebrow raises. “Why would the likes of you…”

“I need to know, how do I work with these subtle forces well?”

“What is well?” She is untying her apron, stepping fully out into the sun, upright carriage though she is impossibly old. “What is work?”

I am silenced with the immensity of this journey.

I say instead, “How can I host gentle, loving curiosity and kind regard in this moment?”

“Come,” as if these words reveal my heart, and we walk into the deep grove of ancient trees. We approach a large poplar I know well, roots exposed, and she nods, “Here is the way.”

And I dive into the roots, first deep down, and then spanning across until I burst into a crystalline pool.

“I seek An Bradán Feasa,” I announce underwater, and the huge ancient Salmon of Knowing is swimming beside me.

“Do you come devoted to not knowing?”

“Yes,” I say without considering, and An Bradán Feasa opens a great mouth and swallows me as if I were a hazelnut.

“What?” I am shocked in my consumption.

“This is participation,” I am instructed, “true and coherent with the whole.”

The fish swims deep and I watch from within as long, thin black strands of poop come out and float down into the depths.

Then the fish leaps into the air, a great arc of silver flash and rainbows of water crystals.

And in fear, I shout, “There are fishermen seeking you!”

An Bradán Feasa laughs and laughs, until I am shuddering with the motion.

“They see me leap,” and the great fish rises again in powerful joy.

Without warning, I am choking.

Wordless, together we follow the movement of the energy to the place where a prisoner of time is caged. A terrified and tiny being, unmet, restrained and constricted. She can’t breathe in her fear. We bring the space of loving curiosity and allow the energy to move. There is no attachment to what emerges, simply this respect for the blocked energy and the intention to release it through light and space.

And the next breath eases and opens and I sigh.

Exhausted, I rub my eyes and realize I am swimming up through the roots, back to my grandmother, who gives me a cheeky grin and a careful kiss on my third eye, and I am following the drums and the call to my place and time of the seven-chambered heart where my siblings open their own eyes and we regard each other in silent wonder, swimming gently in our connected stream.

 

Featured Ancient Wise One as recounted in Irish mythology.  A version can be found here.

Note: Normally, fish poop is the color of their food. Long stringy poop is a sign of stress. The long thin black poop right after eating me suggests a lot of toxins I brought to the mix, that An Bradán Feasa was able to process and expel.  I’m just guessing, standing in the invaluable “I don’t know.”

Resonance For Dissidents

I give no quarter to the dissonance
I will not stay for foolish money-making games.

Honoring hunches, I’ve composed
a team diligent for resonance

and commonsense. For lunch we dine
in present tense, savory morsels nutrify

now that hoodwinkers pale, exposed
cloying lies of propaganda baked by squads

unknowingly employed by greedy
billionaires, so awed they cannot hear

the silenced tongues in poisoned air
and food. Control the narrative the main goal,

in the power grab of our very souls.
And as I sing and play, refuse to host

this fear that clings to earthlings, a ghost
of all the childish terrors we can’t bear

—create the safe container, meet me there!
We’ll shriek and cry, throw on the lights,

under the bed clearing the trauma
stories amplified spinning our heads.

No longer waiting for a master
to save us from our carefully painted

disaster-set, we summon our deep
wisdom in loving intention, feel into

the rhythm—don’t move if you’re not
called, there’s a unique dance for all

a brand new role, new lines,
we take over the stage

release our siblings from their cages
real and imagined, now we understand

we take a stand, focus upon a
different dreaming play, informing matter

as the old paradigm shatters.
We choose each step with care

we celebrate the way, dare
to come back into ourselves and praise

each stunning moment
of this brand new day.

 

Clouds In The Lake

Compulsive thought patterns shape our experience and our lives….The human brain is capable of a drastic transformational shift in its relationships with mental narratives.~Caitlin Johnstone

With this squeegee I clear the tiny
smashed lives, the streaks and wings
no longer shiny in the aftermath
murder on my behalf, enthralled
I live behind a glassy wall of
solid belief, a waste heap midden
assumptions hidden in my very words
bias unheard by my trained ears
forcing away the truth in panicked fears.
Today as I become a stickler
honoring each prickle, the intuition
sings, even as I’m herded into
unquestioning, I blow
at my oppressors like a zephyr
gentle and yet inexorable
as I get into the swing
of this new dance. I dig
the roots of each nuanced trance.
Aha! Asleep? Which lullaby
impelled my dive into drear,
curbed my imagination? Dear,
let’s make a pact, be quite exact:
let’s venture out to nature’s
transforming teacher
leap into a brand new role
this play with other waking souls.

 

Inspired by Zephyr, Stickler, Squeegee, Enthrall and Hidden.

And by a photo of clouds in the lake, reminding me that the illusion of confusion is simply a play on words, and there are other, more loving games.

Festival of Valor

May this day set me in motion, I ought to be on my way.~James Taylor

The retrieval begins as history
seethes alive, unintegrated mystery
seeping lavalike through the cracks
we finally see propaganda matrix
cannot hold the avalanche of comprehension.
Just as young, so very young beings
we were not met, rocked ourselves singing
lonely in our survival anguish
even now in these adult bodies, wish
as we are vexed by these troubles offered
like a blessing awkward we try
to cut, bury and exclude, we cry
foul, deny what bobs behind
towed larval as we struggle, eyes
fixed firmly on a magical horizon
believing we can create a new
unrivaled shore the past is blue
awaiting the arrival of the candid
mating: irridescent swallows landed,
white flash of startled killdeer
two diving ducks are still here,
flock long departed, have they started
a nest? A cardinal flashes a red kiss
and everything I’ve missed luxuriant
green nestling violets’ valor.
The joy-praise sunrise song settles
to a soft and subtle fluttering petals
from the magnolia and I revalue
and adjust my filters, ambrosia
connection silent and filling
with presence: stilling the should-bes
as I see and say: this is the way.

 

We Who Rise, Illumined

“We’ll know our disinformation program is complete when everything the American public believes is false.”~William J. Casey

The new me emerges courageous
from the deep where we presence

our roots. In quiet, commonsense
reveals the fabrications false science

weaves to muffle innate knowledge
self-healing nature I acknowledge

we are divine
our brilliance shines

love sets us free
when we can dare to say:

I am holy.
As are we.

Inspired by: Express, Normal, Tagged, Elixir and Validate.

And by this poem by Rainer Marie Rilke:
The Blessing of Earth

God, every night is hard.
Always there are some awake,
who turn, turn, and do not find you.
Don’t you hear them crying out
as they go farther and farther down?
Surely you hear them weep; for they are weeping.

I seek you, because they are passing
right by my door. Whom should I turn to,
if not the one whose darkness
is darker than night, the only one
who keeps vigil with no candle,
and is not afraid—
the deep one, whose being I trust,
for it breaks through the earth into trees,
and rises,
when I bow my head,
faint as a fragrance
from the soil.

Grandma’s Advice

East of the sun, west of the moon

close your eyes:

Who do you love?

A pot of gold?

The ring of truth?

The way we work

where the wild things are

I hope you dance!

Ahwoooooooo!

Plant intelligence and the imaginal realm

the lost words

potentiate your DNA.

Grandma's Advice

Written for ‘s dversepoets prompt to write a book spine poem with these simple rules: 

  1. Go through your collection on books, and note the titles.
  2. Sort them so the titles form a poem.
  3. Take a photo of the books.
  4. Write down the poem.

 

 

New Moon, New Seeds

Love is everywhere. It protects the very heart of our beings. So it’s all right. Everything’s all right and always has been.~Jane Roberts

We’re trained from birth, our very words
that’s bad, that’s good, we cling, survival

seems impossible from our arrival
we gasp in poisoned air, injected

when we least expect it in a crazy
world where toxins are called medicine

we must endure misguided doctors’
incessant quackery studying separate

cells to proclaim a discovery, another
name to cloak the reaction

to the putrefaction of air and soil
and drinking water, full-scale slaughter

in the name of greed and promulgated
by the fear-porn screed.

We sit alone, we’re trained, perceive no choice
lower our voice, and even so the angry

sons shun their insane mothers
all dialogue blocked with dangerous others

the truth a sauce our diets now
prohibit, our only eyes for lies

as they exhibit the visual clues
of this unhealthy news and yet

if we can set aside our certainty
that harm is looming, dooming, carelessly

and simply quiet, presto, the tempo changes
the heart of the matter rearranges

the score and more, we realize
the love nature displays, miracles

every day in every moment we connect
to source, we laugh, we hug,

we understand, of course,
there may be malice withal

there is a greater force.
We plant the seeds, we open hearts, we call.

 

Everything was all right, always had been all right, it had only been their own anxieties and doubts that ever made it all seem wrong. They were all couched and safe, forever secure, forever jubilant at the heart of their own beings. There was never anything to be afraid of, if only they trusted the great sweet security that forever held the vitality of their beings, for they were all truly splendid, a part of a loving universe that cradled them forever in a safety and love literally beyond all comprehension.~Jane Roberts

Fierce Narrative Shift

The hidden costs now fully leaved
and we can choose to believe

hundreds of thousands of years
life brimming close and vital

feeding each other with love survival
plain, we’re here, what changed

is only story. The one is the glory
and praise, divine nature’s call

here in my instrument I set my intent
if there’s one thing sweeping the globe

it’s control by fear, and I won’t host it here.
Every traumatized fragment will arise

that happens when you’re hypnotized
awake I commit to my song, to speak

when I perceive the wrong, embrace
the hidden places clamoring to steer

upon the rocks of misguided fear.
one thing to praise and love

awakens my desire to be a force
the divine law the source

outside we stride into the light
know in our hearts what is right

I’m here for this. Essential me. Please
add your voice in this time to rejoice.

 

The Opening

I must stop this talk now and let love speak from its nest of silence.~Rumi

Predawn lake a cryptic silver
gleam embracing shadows

mated ducks by the shore
seem to doze. Large shapes

goose-step across the green
expanse, silent ashore

saving obnoxious honks
they preen, and I am caught

in stillness as life emerges
from creative night.

Into the light now birds sing
in the sun coaxing with magical

music the slow rise.
They flutter past my screen

insistent praise, calling me
to the trees, the sky

where geese announce arrivals
question: where are you?

Feel your true grandmother
tremble for your electric

grounding. Come outside,
leave the hectic! And I must heed,

be present now in this time
of need. My morning voice

is deep listening, where love
buzzes and thrills, glistens

and writhes in ecstatic
connected trills.