What Feeds Us Now

Keep it simple, deal with the Now. This Global reset is training us to trust the Presence within, and New Earth dynamics of consistent alignment with highest interests of all concerned.~Sandra Walter

How can I serve? Other than offering
mouthwatering cake in an ambience
designed to obliterate posturing.
Sit down, relax, at peace with common sense.

I can’t eat gluten. Sugar is my foe.
So what I’ll bake with patience, and dish up:
harmonic codes designed to feed the flow
of love, ringing. Just breathe right now. Link up.

Inspired by: Cake, Mouthwatering, Obliterate, Ambience and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt Link.

Written to hold space for the collective shadow work the human race is currently undergoing.

Break Down

There is no sense in pretending
Your eyes give you away
Something inside you is feeling like I do
We’ve said all there is to say.~Tom Petty

Consider the moon. Magnetic control
until we matriculate, feel the sole
source beyond the solar system. Our goal
to say enough! Reclaim, regain our soul.

I know these words might irk; the usual
suspects–meanings perverted, heavy, full
of propaganda and political
mal-intent. Let’s jump into potential

like a baby, attuned to the sky clock
stepping free from all of the false constructs.
What day is it anyway, as we mock
the attempts to corral the sheepish flock.

Here I am to save the day! In my own
peculiar way. Break another phone.
Electrified. You can’t track how I’ve grown
awake, I see I’ve never been alone.

Inspired by Matriculate, Baby, Enough!, Usual, the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: What day is it, anyway?, the current breakdown of the ancient control systems on the planet and my favorite live version of Break Down as the crowd jumps in and Tom Petty warns, “You’re gonna put me out of a job.”  Here’s to the new earth and all the new ways of being–and farewell to all the old jobs that no longer serve the whole!

Re-creation

Oh thou who…beset the road I was to wander in, thou wilt not with…evil round enmesh.”~Omar Khayyám 

Across the chasm of lies where some maniac
cries some strange fiction he writes in
the sand, saying common sense writ in my hand
can no longer suffice–obscene price–this

planned propaganda is not just domestic
the outreach of evil is global.
And we who celebrate life have to blink.
Who is buying this fraud? Who has never

met god? Not that Vindictive Fellow above.
Mind of creation that lives, dies in love
informing matter, recycling stars
unmasked, unadorned at rest then in motion

the true pulse of connection unafraid
in spite of the malevolence displayed
on the world stage, the poorly written script.
The actors are well paid but not by me

I withdraw my currency to invest
my inspired creation and my flow
informed by the Void where I go, sweet rest
each day, emerge refreshed, in light I play.

 

Inspired by: Maniac, Domestic, Sand, Chasm and Write.  The Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt is to select a word that starts with“ch”  and use that (bonus if you start with it) in “stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.”

Someday I’ll Wish

When man up is extinct
and we escape the patriarchal
clinch, embrace instead
what’s rarely said in macho
bravos–lunatic fringe
simply a piece of our
extended tapestry–in short,
when we appear just as we
are, with deep respect
(the long neglect of hope
suspect when we must always
correct some fault that’s deep
within our ancestry) when
that day is here
I declare
the evolutionary leap
the shift is in the air
we breathe and suddenly
we see the edgy intricacy
of our imperfect beauty
simplicity when we
bowing, stunned, aware
there is no better you
the one that we receive
and care, unplumbed
perfection when we dare
admit the hidden pieces
the critic sighs,
looses and releases.

Inspired by: Rarely, Extinct, Hope, Clinch and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt Man Up, the last movie I saw.  Once again, the demand to create a stream of consciousness post stretched me beyond my comfort zone.  And I’m glad!

 

Tuning Into The Song

Toby, my new love, lies besides me.  Both on guerneys in a white, light-filled room.

His eyes are closed.  A nurse wheels in Ben, my first love, and I greet him with delight and concern.  He’s also injured.  I send a circle of love to surround him, become aware simultaneously of Toby, awake, scowling darkly, simmering in unreasonable jealousy.  And he is aiming it all at unconscious Ben. 

I gently remove the finger of smoke, seal Ben’s protection, follow the trail back to Toby.  His heart is loud with hate and fear.  I am unmoved, yet moving with calm deliberation into the blackened heart. 

He is overtaken and still I unwind the hate like music out of tune, and I the tuning fork.  Deep inside, he longs to hear the note to return, return to the song he was meant to sing. 

Dissipating. 

The electricity of his will thrumming now into a new vibration.  I lean back and close my eyes, smiling, at ease.  Something new has burst from me, my song amplified, my powers restored.

***

Written for the Saturday Stream of Consciousness prompt: Loud and this impulse to write flash fiction this morning.  SoCS rule number 1: Your post must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. (Otherwise, I would go back and fix some things!)

Where We Belong

His journalistic range, Black Thought expressed,
is a catalyst for change–for me, a big yes!
to all this live electricity streaming down
to find my ground. This is key:
finally sitting in my base
expressive face
letting my body feel it for a change
open and available to mystery.
Don’t get frosty–the way I do,
all my chilled trauma places preventing you
from touching me, containing us
I could regale you with the stories
but why make a fuss. The energy
sets the stage: when a child cannot
express her rage, she goes inside
or finds a pen, crafting rhymes
to keep her hand in. Until today
excitement bounds in the deep
inner space that channels the sounds
from higher places
where we are round
integrated, safe and sound.

Inspired by: Stage, Frosty, Regale, Excitement, the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt “key“.

And the continuing inspiration of Black Thought Tariq Trotter’s freestyle chops expertise utter brilliance.  (An amazing interview on his process here.)

 

Running Dishes

He let me know this spooky
dress-up costume Mommy sent
is not for me and so we leave
it in his bag. After all,
I’m going as a poem
in spite of his advice:
poems are not scary!
I grin and scribble more.
Shine a light on family
secrets, spark irate debate
from friends and huffy sighs
from lovers. In between
we sing a little star that
twinkles. He ad libs
verses of the shiny moon-
friend, cows jumping and
a rebel spoon. Sparks
winking in innocuous
rhymes all the time.

Inspired by: Irate, Light, Innocuous, Spooky and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt dress.

What Appears To Be

It is time to practice how to attune to the new reality that Gaia is preparing…See people awakening and walking their own paths towards the new.
The circle of humans that stand in the light of the new reality is larger and larger. Rejoice and give thanks.~Marko Pogačnik

In the ubiquity of fear and smear
of politics and media, oh,

we fall asleep standing right here,
declare we’re copacetic—cheer

thrilled as the festivities appear.
We forget that we are desperate

addicts, looking for a fix, oh,
we won’t call it that, hush, dear.

As Gaia makes this quantum leap
in her own evolution, the sphere

we are vibrates into light, oh,
breathe into us the words: all clear.

We’re fingers on the hand waving
into the mirror. We are love, oh,

look into our palm, life peer,
the lines are trails into the new.

The web we weave spinning, oh,
into the space appearing now.

Inspired by: Copacetic, Ubiquitous, DesperateFestivities and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt, oh.  (The rules: Your post must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.  And today it was sooooo hard not to edit.)

The Old Stomping Ground

For M.C.

I met my old lover on the street last night.~Paul Simon

At four in the morning, I detour from prone
shadows rasping through the sudden chill

winter’s first hard shove and though I
bunched my summer blankets in a scrum–

nervous dreams–still sharp cold nipped
every inch of skin I offered. When a lover

dies, we all clamor for recognition, jostle
into chronology as if grief gives rights

at last. All the newly revealed lessons,
once mouldering in the dank basement and that

final call we never made–did I think that
he would rise from his deathbed, demand

my distant voice? He plucked my heart
in his passing, so I reenter that sticky

web I fled so many years ago, the one
I carry with me still, in the dark enjoining

strangers and new friends, regale my
side, painting romance over the edge

of terror and pain revisited. Oh, I saw
this day coming, long ago, and yet right now

there is not even a glimmer of dawn, not since
nightfall descended. The moon is bursting

wide-eyed full over my shoulder as I peer
into indigo east searching for signs.

Inspired by: Detour, Nervous, Shadows, Nightfall and Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness prompt: ground (which means no editing, just put pen to paper and press publish.  No matter how much I wish I could change.) The soundtrack for this one is Paul Simon’s Still Crazy After All These Years and Stars by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals.

Simply Nuts

In the forest I hug the oldest
denizens and whisper, Grandmother

always heeding Treebeard’s plea
keep an eye peeled for the Ent-

wives. Perhaps they’ve paused here
in deep languor inspired to hold

the wide lake view in cliff perches.
Gathered in a presentation of beauty

glossy and green. Surely they won’t
take umbrage at this three-year-old

practicing his initial magic,
unseasoned and wild hugs and

shouts of joy. You may scoff
at my stories, but I know

a secret: a net of word games
holds us enthralled, from history

pages at age ten to the nightly
news, spinning webbed fantasies.

I choose to believe in trees,
honor the keepers of the planet,

listen to the songs their bird
messengers carry. Find the deep

knowledge in ancient tales, celebrate
the great treasure each fallen acorn.

Inspired by: Umbrage, Languor, Presentation, Initial and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompts:  ent, ten and/or net.