Hope More

Hopelessness is a psy op and it’s world-wide.  Don’t fall for it.~Jon Rappoport

“I want” implies I lack, I turn my back
on cognate kinship, all in my path

decried, the poisoned earth’s wrath
with lies. I say, this is not mine,

it’s all your fault. The circle
dancing ensō draws me swift

justice lesson-patterns reflect
the now I must bow to, respect.

Inspired by:  Circle, Dancing and Cognate. and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday post to use “want” as the first, second or third word of your post.

Featured image found here.

Choose Well

“We didn’t have to convince everyone to move to Peace with us.  Peace already exists, and anyone who wishes can move there whenever they choose.”~Richard Bach
Be still.
Question the roots.
Use free will.
Give fear the boot.
Host love heart-centered
inspiration. Laugh at the cosmic
joke, just that aeration
opens the way.
Rejoice. Receive each messenger.
Enter the flow.
What you resist persists
so let it go.
This toxic model leaves a bitter taste.
Practice discernment, interlaced
with kind regard.
Be a bard.
Create images in art.
Smile, give thanks.
Allow love to start
blessings cascade
from deep within
the sacred glade.
In every moment,
choose well
your focus the clear bell
to break the unloving spell.

 

Inspired by: Astrology, Message, Dough and Image and written for the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt (specificallydirections.” Find a household cleaner/bottle of shampoo/something in the freezer/anything you can find with instructions on it, then copy down a single direction (just one) on how to use/cook/etc. your chosen thing, and make it the first line or word of your post. Then keep writing whatever comes out.)  I found a magical potion called Curl Maker, and seized “How To Enjoy” from the first line of directions.

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.

 

Betwixt and Between

“The world cannot be translated; It can only be dreamed of and touched.”~Dejan Stojanović

In civilized company, I forget
the animal sounds I uttered in sweat
giving birth. That epiphany groaning
like a goddess instantly transformed
my self-perception informed that I am
woman, fierce and guttural, no longer
immersed in the deception of a pretty
thing. And no chagrin as I connected
to the earth, my purpose clear: to
mother this new life emerging in a
shocking strife. When life begins
and when it ends, we shatter.
The fragments of our created shell
no longer matter. Right now in this
dance betwixt and between, ears open
I am listening. A silent dog beside me,
both alert to early spring. Mating
red-tailed hawks chwirks and squirrels
kuk. Bluegrosbeak warbles a duet
with a Carolina chickadee’s fee-bee-baby.
How I wish that I could speak these
ancient ways, not cluck or twitter
cackle or jabber, a pure heart
sound offered and received. I am
a foreigner to myself and all my
cousins, listening in mystery
feet on the ground, as all
around me, beings praise and call.

Inspired by: Forget, Chagrin, Perception, Epiphany and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt Animal Sounds. The rules of SOCS are stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. And even though I write fast, Saturday writing is always a source of chagrin as I watch my wandering thoughts spin out of control. Fun times, though. Try it!

 

By All Appearances

All the small uneventful choices
the casual snap as my sons’ voices
raised in play, every second of the day
and I, devoted, watchful mother
(every giggle smothered) straight-
faced behind the camera, integrated
brotherhood, caught the three
(without invisible me) through
every season, yes, but albums filled
spring breaks by oceans, thrilled
today we page through what appears
a tribute to pure love and joy,
(wait, here I am with the boys!)
even the tears seem to say
no one reneged, the cast,
seamless, flows. We chose
to share photos between our homes.
It looks like no one was ever alone
and wishing in the dark a family goal
unbroken, nuclear and whole.

Inspired by: Renege, Integrated, Spring, Devote and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt making small, uneventful choices.

Image from 1993 on Cape Canaveral National Seashore in Florida.

To Be Clear

To be clear, I am far from stating that the material world does not exist.  Rather, I propose that what we think of as the real world is a holographic consciousness construct that–in all ways at all times–is subject to modification by our consciousness (or unconsciousness) of it.~Potentiate Your DNA, p. 70, Sol Luckman.

To be clear, I corroborate
starry-studded hope. The great
scheme permits a shift
deteriorates these rubber
stamps that once defined
a quirky campaign purely
designed to control us,
shut our inspiration down
before it’s found.
Wait.
That’s opaque.
Words lead
astray. Our hearts
know truth when we can
sit aground, intuit,
follow every trigger
to its source as a matter
of course. Everything changes.
The bigger gift appears
inside the rift
of our exchanges.
Mumbo-jumbo yet again.
Bafflegab gobbledygook.
In essence, I applaud your juju
all the power flowing through you
transmutes the lies
and obfuscations
into clear sight, wordless
roots of transformation.

Inspired by:  Permit, Rubber, HopeShut, CorroborateCampaign, Scheme, Quirk. and Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt to start my post with the first three words of the first full sentence of the book closest to me when I sit down to write.  (That sentence is the quote at the beginning.)  I was overambitious today, trying to use all of the past two days prompt words in this stream of consciousness post.  Braving my inner critic to hit publish even though it does appear to be mumbo jumbo.  Creativity needs to be released.  So be it.

 

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!)