Because Proteus could assume whatever shape he pleased, he came to be regarded by some as a symbol of the original matter from which the world was created.~Brittanica.com
Today I’m determined to swim in now
a delicate operation and how
I summon my protean ways to dive
from complacent habits’ unaware life.
Inspired by: Complacent, operation, habit, protean and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt difference.
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.
You need to aim beyond what you are capable of. Make your vision of where you want to be a reality. Nothing is impossible.~Paul Arden
After clearing shadows of possible
monsters, he zooms into morning, crammed full
of unexpected insights, such delight-
joy to be alive while teens balk at light.
You have to think fast, peruse the system–
grandmotherly words meant to assist him.
My task’s to civilize young excesses
hoping to lessen rambunctious messes
while boosting wild imagination. Poised
on the balance beam, enjoy the world’s toys.
Create with each breath, grounded, having fun
outside in the spring sun. Come, let us run.
Inspired by: Peruse, unexpected, system, balk, the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt run and the amazing opportunity to be untamed by a four-year-old who loves to run at full blast.
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.
One kitten’s lounging on my lap, sister’s
on my chair. The writing day’s begun. Stir
gold ghee into my cup, shake collagen.
My morning practices are wearing thin.
Under clear skies today, resolve pervades.
A big dog enters, gentle, but evades
(she wants to go outside, her ball is there.
She doesn’t hold with angry poems.) Air
the traumas we no longer can contain
in sacred vessels. Each electric gain
powers my high trajectory. Today
appears, prized intuition shows the way.
Prompted by: Contain, Clear Skies, Pervade, Angry and Butter (I’m allergic, so I make my own ghee) for the Stream of Consciousness Saturday and inspired to evolve by the loving beings around me.
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.
There are no limitations set by this electric universe upon any man’s multiplication power. Each man sets his own limitations in accordance with his desires.~Walter Russell
Show me a limit, I’ll tell of beliefs
created simply to hold you, decreased
and disempowered while you fuel freely
the master liars and conniving thiefs.
Opening and closing doors is delicate
with two cats playing pounce the paw through cracks.
At 5:55, I am desolate
struggling breath. Reviewing all the acts
which bring me here, summoning nerve to change
the movement of my being, the curve strange.
How do I rearrange these filters made
so long ago? I claim my power, trade
the dubious distinction of black sheep
now washed clean. My ablution performed deep
in layers that dissolve. As solutions
rise, my new eyes call for revolution.
Inspired by: Dubious, Claim, Movement, Ablution and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: nerve.
Don’t fight forces, use them. ~ R. Buckminster Fuller
I believe in my luck, irrespective
of this chaos of crumbling empire.
I greet the day cheery in perspective
luminous as I keep aiming higher.
Give me a hug, exponentially expand
as each fractal grows bright, breaks the hex
of programs insidious threatening
joy with these stresses perfidious. Sing
in high praise and create unrestrained, as
below so above. Improvise like jazz
sensing notes just before they appear,
manifesting in tune harmonic new stands.
Inspired by: Luck, Hug, Luminous, Cheery and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt above/below.
Into this bright cold sun we gaze soaring
morning. In between hugs, sleep dazed, we sing
of l’s and w’s and listening
as a wizard or lizard glistening
and caged awaits her fictitious story
whatever role she plays in her glory
no furbelows or frills, in this knight’s role.
He’s a four-year-old boy in rescue mode.
My poem drags behind his signal flag.
Cathartic purge, emotions surge. Ah, love,
my unexpected evolution shove.
Inspired by: Cathartic, Soaring, Fictitious, Furbelow, and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: flag.
