07 October 2012

Ascent Into Sky

            Standing at the gaping maw of a dry and desolate wasteland, I pause teetering between past and present. Behind me, the lush verdant landscape perfumed with breezes of cedar and pine, and the soft focus of salty sea air and misty fog. Where my soul was once nourished by the gentle sustenance of dear ones, beloved kith and kin, and my heart was light and carefree as an indolent butterfly in fragrant field of wildflower. A dread now set upon me of knowing what a fool I was to ever leave such a splendor and that awareness set a tonnage upon my feet so that I was weighted immobile in my sullen and dreary reminiscence.

            My companion touched me gently on the shoulder bringing me back to the task before us. I tore myself from that cherished landscape, the way one tears oneself from a warm and comfortable bed to face the cold light of dawn. Now I saw the blinding glare of a hot and caustic sun scorching a withered and barren terrain scattered with stones pale and dead like the bones of pre-historic beasts.

            “I am weary,” I say to my companion.

            He smiles indulgently, and allows me rest in the shade of a withered cottonwood tree. The parched, noxious air smelled of wet dog. We shared a less than refreshing drink from a too-warm canteen.

            Cruel and unforgivable it was to have caved into the circumstance that brought us here, proffering a blind trust in the unforeseen misrepresentations. Yet, knowing full well that little choice was in the offing.

            “It feels as if we’ve been abandoned in hell’s hottest half acre,” I bemoan.

            A momentary hope flares up within me as a dying  fire’s ember ignites a spark to fly, an unreasonable hope that we could just turn back, that my companion might allow himself to be persuaded, that we might spare ourselves the agony of this grief as if it were a bad dream. Yes, why not? Wasn’t it a thousand times more beautiful in the place we’d just left. How under appreciated it seemed to me now! Could he not see that I was more fragile than I’d thought, still clinging to my childlike awe and wonder and deserving of some small measure of happiness back in my cozy cottage, with its window box roses and lilac flower? How I longed to return and cease to play the hero and martyr! I would never complain again if I were allowed to return to that enchanted splendor.

            Already, I was growing faint from the triple-digit heat.

            “We’d better keep moving,” said my companion. “We’re likely to get a heat stroke if we hang around here much longer.”

            He stood and offered me his hand and gave a knowing smile; there was neither contempt nor sympathy in that smile, neither harshness nor compassion. There was nothing but an understanding, nothing but a shared knowledge. His smile said: “I know you. I know your fear and how you feel, and I have by no means forgotten the failed hopes and dreams we shared.” He could reach into my soul and into every rabbity ruse of cowardice and every feigned gratuitous daring to unearth a brighter side of such rugged desolation.

            For three days into this journey the near gale force winds had been blowing non-stop down from the stony mountain, whistling through the mostly abandoned dwellings that dotted the dreary landscape, scooping up sand and small pebble and pelting us with stinging bitterness. We fought against the mighty headwind like intrepid nomads. I hated him and loved him as one condemned loves and hates his executioner. More than anything else I hated and despised his stalwart leadership, his unfailing knowledge and ruthless conservatism and I hated everything in myself that rebelled against his rightness, the wish to be more like him, that unquestioningly followed him.

            My companion was now several yards ahead of me and was moving deeper into the desert and toward the distant mountains that lain ahead of us. His steadfast willingness, a duty bound certainty to reach the mountain before nightfall was the fuel that propelled him. I, on the other hand, was content to linger passively, noticing a scorpion slowly winding his way across the sand, or stooping to grasp and admire a rock with dazzling flecks of gold. The wind in my face forced me to tuck my head down and to lean into the wind with my shoulder.

            By the time we reached the foot of the mountain the crepuscular sunlight had faded and sunk below the horizon painting a flame work of color in the sky. In this faint light the ruddy mountain appeared somewhat less menacing but there was not a moment to spare as we traversed up a creviced ravine into the belly of the mountain to make a shelter for the night. By the time we found a shallow cave where we could fit our sleeping mats, darkness had overtaken us. My companion had the forethought to have gathered enough dry sticks and twigs to set us a small fire.

            Unloading our packs it became immediately apparent to me the fundamental differences in our respective preparations. My companion’s pack was loaded with supplies essential to staving our hunger and for the unforeseen emergencies that are part and parcel of such a journey as this through an unforgiving wilderness. My own was packed with sentimental trinkets, a photo of my children, an heirloom necklace passed to me from my late grandmother, little books and paper and pen. He shared his store of crackers and dried fruit with me and we prepared for sleep.

            The Milky Way winked at us through the cave opening and the quiet of the starry sky brought a sleepiness over us and we settled down speaking only what words were truly necessary. I passed the night in a restless dream filled sleep fighting off the fears of such an unfamiliar and disconsolate sojourn. I dreamed that a kaleidoscope of bright blue butterflies encircled and covered my head and lifted me into the night sky. I flew higher and higher into the sky and felt as light and carefree as a bird and I was able to see the full scope of the path behind us and before us and just as I came crashing to the ground I came awake.
            I woke to the rustling sounds of my companion packing. The winds had died down in the pre-dawn hours and in its place were large cumulous clouds heavy and dark. A rumble in the distance gave a foreboding to my companion and I. As I quickly packed up my sleeping mat, the pitter pat of raindrops began to fall upon the mountain and the dusty trail.

            “We need to get to higher ground,” he said flatly.

            Quickly we scurried further up the ravine stumbling in our haste. Lightning split the distant sky and a clap of thunder shook the ground. Just then the dark sky cracked open and fat raindrops began to fall. Within moments the path before us was muddied and our footing was made even more irksome. 

            “Stop!” I shouted, so full of fear and frustration that I wondered if this was yet another dream and if it were a dream then I should wake myself with my shouts. “Stop!” I bellowed. “I cannot do this. I cannot go on.”

            My companion stopped and looked at me with an all-knowing glance from his rain soaked face.

            “Would you rather we turn back?” he asked, and before he had finished speaking I knew full well that I could not say the word that I so desperately longed to say. “Yes, say yes, say it,” my whole being begged of me. But logic and responsibility held me fast like a leaden weight.

            “I will. I will, I will!” my companion gave retort to my silence, in his first display of emotion since beginning this journey.

            Knowing how far we had come, the treacherous journey that had brought us this far and the wide abyss of time and distance behind us convinced me that to return was impossible and I said nothing and continued to take up the journey. My companion sensed my silent acquiescence and turned on his heels leaving me to follow behind.

            For over an hour the rain fell in buckets and then just as suddenly as it began it ceased. Rivulets and streams flowed past us carrying the newly fallen rain down the face of the mountain. Tiny purple flowers seemed to awaken in its path. Little puddles of fresh water pooled in the hollows of the rock. We stopped to refill the canteen. Staring into the water’s reflection I could see my face. Gone was the gentle hope and carefree demeanor of a youthful countenance and replaced with the deep lines of loss and longing and dark eyes swollen wet with tears. I hardly recognized it.

            Just then a hummingbird hovered directly in front of me. It seemed to extol a message of endurance in its steady humming. Levitating its iridescent body with the ease of  its flight, it glistened and shone in the sunlight with a dancing metaphor of my own resignation.  “I must continue. I must survive,” was the lesson I took from this holy messenger before it darted away and upward toward a tuft of desert sage wedged within the crevices of the mountain.

            Now the climbing was easier and our pace quickened somewhat. A newfound brightness increased within me and the rocky path smoothed out before us. The blue sky reappeared and with it the mid-day heat. I tried to exert my will more intently as the passage became more passable. At times like this I kept pace more easily  with that of my companion over long stretches. Or perhaps the heat served to slow his efforts. We continued together now in a mutuality of purpose.

            Upward we climbed past Barrel Cactus and Beavertail Cactus and Crucifixion Thorn Bush.  Up the steep and rocky slopes we continued arduously climbing higher and higher with parched lips and glistening, furrowed brows. Along narrow and perilous, tremulous cliffs we continued our ascent until, at last, the zenith was within view. And upon the summit there grew from out of the stony abutment a strange and lonely Desert Willow. Sturdy and squat with many strong branches it reached up unyieldingly between heaven and earth. And among the branches perched a large, black crow. With its shiny black crystal eye looking questioningly at us as though we’d crept into his domain like thieves. And we all conferred with one another in silent acknowledgment until the big black bird began to caw a frightful call. Hardest to bear was its steady gaze into the very depths of our souls. Continuing to caw, caw its harsh call that seemed mock our insignificance. And within that calling I seemed to hear it say ‘you don’t belong here’. All at once I realized the purpose of this perilous journey, the very realization of this purposeless hardship. I don’t belong here. I belong nowhere and yet everywhere. And suddenly the crow with one fluid motion lifted up from the branch and spread his wide black wings and soared heavenward, circled and then disappeared into the burnished sun. And then, just as suddenly, my companion looked into that bright sun and leapt from the summit and into the silent sky.

(c) 2012

29 September 2012

Medicine Wheel

The Medicine Wheel is becoming.
Dreaming indigenous form
Creative directional aid
Blind inner act of power
Gathering stones in the midday sun
I’m sure I look crazy to some
To the few who even notice
I hear their howls of laughter
I feel the biting cynicism
Perhaps I am crazy
I know I am dizzy
If only from desert heat and dehydration
I break from this circle to replenish
Still it calls me back
Seeking those closest to me
In my own backyard
Standing my ground
Searching for meaning and purpose
Assembling a semblance of truth
Some of the rocks sing to me
“Pick me. Pick me. I want to play.”
Some are too stubborn to move
Others hold their angry heat
And burn the palms of my hands
The circle widens
My own search ripples outward
Gathering from the front yard
And the abandoned lot next door
Leaving no stone unturned
A datura flower wilts in the sun
Trumpeting hallucination of tears
Trailing my own footsteps
Mirroring my altered vision
Buried treasure, an old coin or two
A piece of purpled glass
A bit of bleached bone
They’re buried there.

The Medicine Wheel is becoming
Showing the beauty way
To who knows where
No one sees the inward progress
Searching for a way back
A way out and forward
Returning to Self.

(c) 2012 

14 September 2012

My stories are like children to me, I'd rather not let go of them. I'd rather keep them close to the breast, nurturing, refining, bringing out the best in them, and showing them off in their Sunday finery. I just want to protect them from the scrapes and bruises of meeting their own destiny and if I let them go too soon, I may think of something later that I could have done better. I prefer to tuck them in at night secure in the self-satisfied knowing that they'll be there for me in the morning.

But, like me, they're getting older and soon I will have no choice but to let them try their wings and leave the nest of my good intentions. Ready or not... because sometimes we do our best work on Wednesdays.

13 September 2012

10 September 2012

Just things...

Tomorrow is "9-11" an anniversary that everyone is familiar with by now. But one that many are not aware of is that it is also the three year anniversary of my having been "laid off". I won't get into all of the circumstances that led my losing a job that I'd had for 13 and 1/2 years, other than to say my life has not been the same since. I have been ignored and shunned by some of my closest blood relatives and suffered some of the worst indignities of my 50 years on this planet.

One of the most insulting comments that sticks in my craw came from a well-meaning but totally clueless friend of a friend. Upon learning that we were selling many, MANY personal items on eBay just to survive and eat, this person glibly commented that, "It's just things."

For those of you who may not get it it, let me explain. Saying "It's just things" is something one says to oneself when having to endure such ignominies in order to try to be philosophical and circumspect, if one can. But for one to say this to someone else who is going through such an ordeal, when one is not going through a similar ordeal, when one has a home, plus two vacation homes, when one has a movie screening room and large flat screen televisions in nearly every room in these homes, it comes across as a cruel and lacking of all compassion and down right RUDE.

I just share this so that the next time someone says they are going through a life challenging ordeal, sometimes the best thing to do is to just listen and NOT offer empty platitudes in an effort to sound spiritual and metaphysical. It does not help.

03 September 2012


"O, what spirit this ....?
That taketh hold of my tendon’d wrist, arthritic hand
To maketh written prose, in shades borne black and white
The colours of my wretched soul’s, exquisite torment?

SO, is this doubt .... ?
So long without, joy long lost by none, but I, who sees
Labours by which, fruit-bearing toils, and nectar flow in bounty
Though choose to run, through fingered hourglass, into life’s dry creek bed?

THOU, you asketh I .... !
“Share not the wealth of sorrow unto the fold, and let shame unto the river
But taketh solace in the winter of your madness, and folly
Fore change ever blows its wind, upon the desert shores of love!”

ALIVE, she cries .... !
As wind, the very winds of Hell rush through her fair, glowing curls
She pleads to the sky, “God’s forsaken I, and those whom I love!”
A feast of friends, moonlit skies and ancient spirits hear her wail!

ALAS, be told .... !
Here now unfold, these truths of strength and struggle
Against Hell’s wrath, its wind and furnace, we face our treacherous ‘morrow
It will be with, our head’s held high, without self-serving sorrow!"

     ~ words and image by Lew Campbell (c) 2012

10 August 2012

Stuck in the Sand Pit (a continuing saga)

Where I live is a small community of modest homes in the desert just outside of Palm Springs ‘neath the San Jacinto Mountain range and overlooking the San Gorgonio Pass Wind Farm. At the far end of my sandy back yard stands a six foot cement wall which encloses a massively failed, exclusive gated community called “The Cove” consisting of approximately 50-75 “custom” homes and an equally failed golf course, which now amounts to 18 holes of continuous sand pits and which is home to a parliament of Burrowing Owls.

(photos taken on previous visit)

This morning I took a walk down the street to the south-western entrance of this gated community to see the owls as they give me some comedic pleasure in watching them defend their nesting area that consists primarily of broken cement slabs, rebar and the remains of the unfinished sewer drainage system of The Cove and the graveled broken paths of the defunct golf course. However, as I approached this morning I noticed the addition of a chain link fence having been erected around the broken gated entrance that prohibited me from entering this quiet posted "No Trespassing" area. I am sure that the fence erectors felt obligated to defend the perimeter based on such considerations as vandals having ravaged the abandoned construction project for anything they can turn over for a quick buck. And I am sure they felt it within their prudent diligence to stave off potential liability lawsuits that would have inevitably been filed should one of those vandals hurt themselves out there amongst the ruins.  But it pissed me off, not only because it derailed my morning walk but also because of the fact that more money is being spent to protect what amounts to, in my opinion, pure vandalism of the natural environment by greedy developers who had the foolish audacity to build a golf course community in the desert in one of the hottest, driest and windiest parts of the state and then walking away from it because it failed to turn a profit.  And now it sits in ruins awaiting, I assume, the next economic upswing.

(golf cart path on the back nine)

 (Desert Water Authority sewer cap)

 (Sprinkler head - for waterin' ...the DESERT!)

 (Water Meters)

 (Space Waste? No, waste of space.)

 (Vandalized Rainbird watering system)

(Urban waste)

I would estimate that only about 15–20 % of the custom homes are currently occupied. Even fewer are occupied full-time, as most are 2nd (or 3rd) “vacation” homes, such as in the case of our current landlords. 

The circumstances surrounding our involvement began when we were presented with the seemingly generous once-in-lifetime offer of living in one of these exclusive homes and becoming the caretaker of this gated community with the task of showing the homes to potential investors. We were told of living rent-free with a potential income of $2000/month for the caretaker role. (The circumstances leading to our even considering such deal fell on the heals of two plus years of unemployment and our own subsequent dire financial downturn.) But the deal fell through when yet another multi-million dollar investor backed out at the last minute, at which point we were consigned to live in a much more modest home also owned by the landlord/real-estate “investor” outside of the six-foot walls and having no prospects of gainful employment. Which is where I find myself today having moved five hundred miles to a place sight unseen. And which begs the question, 'Who is the bigger fool'?

 "Welkome 2 DA 'HOOD - W.S." (W.S. = WestSide)

(Crazy f*&$#@^ Money!)

 Wizened owl is not impressed by your foolhardy waste of money.

"I will dance a jig on your failed dreams and your fences won't keep me from flying."

04 July 2012

SoulCollage ® ~ Quetzalcoatl

I am the One who is Quetzalcoatl.
I am the Feathered Serpent, Toltec ruler, shamanic helper and Lord of the Aztec dawn.
I am the One God of the Sky.

I give you resistance to the winds of misfortune.
I give you sustaining maize, holy books and the sacred calendar.
I give you my heart as the Morning Star, a link between Heaven and Earth.

I want you to bring me offerings of birds and butterflies and to sacrifice only your ego.

You will remember when your own inner transformation brings higher wisdom to the collective consciousness.

When time and timelessness are meaningfully conjoined and the cycle of days begin and end as the serpent swallows its tail, you will remember.

You will remember when the God of Heaven returns to its rightful temple within the human heart.

29 June 2012

Part-Time Job Search ~Brian McGackin

Wake up, log on, you're life's a mess:
you're on Craigslist hitting refresh.
It is boring you to death,
this part-time job search.

Though all your savings have been spent,
you know your 'rents won't help with rent.
Feeling it'll never end,
your part-time job search.

You're an adult now so don't you think it's cruel?
Forced to take jobs you had back in high school.
JCPenny by day, Chili's by night;
working overtime just to get by.

If I'm with friends and I see you
at Best Buy for an interview
I'll pretend you're shopping, too,
it's not a part-time job search.

You'd do undercover security at the mall,
or work a country club polishing golf balls.
You would take some data entry if you could,
but they won't hire you; your resume's too good.

I've got something I must tell,
you're not alone in low-wage hell.
I've been doing it as well,
a part-time job search.

I get excited when I see
job openings at Dairy Queen;
at least I'll get some free ice cream
from this part-time job search.
Sad to be on a part-time job search
You and me: part-time job search.

17 June 2012

Desert Excursions

A photo-montage from what will likely become my regular walking rounds. 

San Bernardino Mountain Range to the Northwest.

Our neighbors. Doesn't look like we'll be borrowing a cup of sugar any time soon!

Some of the more interesting rock formations I stumbled upon.

Just a little further into the canyon was this interesting wind-blown desert shrine.

Girlfriend needs some zinc oxide lip balm. Stat!

A little pink teddy.

A pair of shoes, for emergency use only.

Even in the vast desert of Southern California, the steadfast Canadian Mounty can be counted on to save a damsel in distress!

An intrepid desert wanderer...

The desert is not for sissies and I am no sissy. But that does not mean the desert is for me. 

The mystical beauty of this ancient desert floor is not lost on one who seeks to find beauty in all likely and unlikely places. 

The desert winds blow in a new discovery with every dawn and every night shifting sands hide as many secrets as stars dot the twilight sky.   

Every day one must reclaim territory, reaffirm presence, otherwise the desert will take over. Whether it's sweeping the sand drifts out of the corners or chasing a critter deeper into his burrow, one must make a stand or become a whimper lost to the howls of whining, sand-whipped winds.

13 June 2012

Marilyn Monroe Statue in Palm Springs, California

Just about a week before we arrived in Palm Springs, Marilyn Monroe made her official debut in Palm Springs. Well, at least, this sculpted replica by artist Seaward Johnson of the famous subway draft scene  from the classic movie The Seven Year Itch. I love Marilyn but, personally, I think it is the ultimate in tacky kitsch but the locals seem quite taken with her. So I had to do what the locals do and snap some pictures of her, all 26 feet of her!

She is kinda cute, I just hope she's wearing a high SPF!

10 June 2012

Life in Palm Springs has proven harder than imagined. And believe me, I never imagined it would be easy. This is the start of a log of (mis)adventures and honest feelings about not just the hardest thing I've ever done but quite possibly the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life.

I will attempt to make a written record of the unmistakable beauty of the place as well as my frustrations in dealing with different personalities of those directly involved in bringing us to the desert.

This saga is just beginning and far from over... (The fat lady hasn't even begun to warm up....)

17 April 2012

21 grams...

How many lives do we live? How many times do we die? They say we all lose 21 grams... at the exact moment of our death. Everyone. And how much fits into 21 grams? How much is lost? When do we lose 21 grams? How much goes with them? How much is gained? How much is gained? Twenty-one grams. The weight of a stack of five nickels. The weight of a hummingbird. A chocolate bar. How much did 21 grams weigh? 

~Paul Rivers

01 April 2012

Facebook Love Affair

Let’s have a Facebook love affair
It’s the latest thing, have you heard?
You’ll friend request, I’ll accept
Then hang on every word

You’ll stalk all of my photos
And my friends list too
Where in the privacy of my home
I can do the same to you

We’ll comment with discretion
Exchange a few fun pokes
You like all my cat pictures
I LOL your stupid jokes

Let’s have a Facebook love affair
We’ll never have to meet
You can make funny comments
On the pictures of my feet

We can have a private convo
To escape the noisy crowd
And tell each other secrets
That we’d never say out loud

I’ll PM you my number
But you’ll probably never call
Instead we’ll just post funny things
Upon each other’s wall

We can share our sexy pictures
The kind that makes one red
And cause one’s thoughts to roam
While sleeping alone in bed

We’ll engage in playful banter
Spiced with bawdy veiled allusion
And cause our friends to shake their heads
In baffling confusion

We’ll have our first disagreement
Over you liking that other girl’s status
And how many jokes can one tell
About the occurrence of flatus

Let’s have a Facebook love affair
Until the bubble bursts
And be the stronger of the two
Who clicks on Unfriend first

(c) 1 April 2012

12 March 2012

The Humming Bird ~ Emily Dickinson

A route of evanescence
With a revolving wheel;
A resonance of emerald,
A rush of cochineal;
And every blossom on the bush
Adjusts its tumbled head,--
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy morning’s ride.

06 March 2012

Letter found...

My dearest One,

I write these words because I must, because I hope for the kindness of your favorable reply.

Because I am torn between my intense desire to see you, talk to you, share with you and the terrible dread that the only way I should ever be able to properly say hello is to make love to you;

Because I could run to you with child-like, wide-eyed wonder only to have you punish me with apathy;

Because to simply imagine the sheer brilliance of your presence causes me to stammer nervously;

Because the mere touch of you could strike a lightning bolt of current through me that I should be riven from the deep, dark well of all prior existence.

You have no idea how terrified I am of you. I am more scared of you than I am of a toothache, or heartache, or bankruptcy, or rats.

Because you have so many differing sides and shapes to you:
Lover. Fighter. Poet. Crow. Hawk. Bear. Wolf.

How can I possibly change my own shape to follow yours?

And yet, if you were to turn into a dragon I believe I would come to love scales and claws and become desirous of kisses that singe.

Be merciful as I become acquainted with your mercurial transformations and take pity on me should I get burned.

As it is with courage that I abandon myself in trust to your chivalric nature for I am a blind fool stumbling through a labyrinth. Take my hand. Show me the way to your heart.

Patiently yours,


(c) 2012

08 February 2012

Sexy Stories and Prurient Prose

Some friends of mine have put together a wonderful anthology of erotic stories called Nocturnal Desires that I hope you will want to buy. These are seriously talented writers and the stories are hot but not without plot! With half the proceeds going to research for Multiple Sclerosis you can't help but feel good about it. To be read alone or with a friend...

05 February 2012

My Beloved … 
is a harsh and punishing winter wind
Pushing my hot buttons
Testing my love
Testing myself to stay
True to myself
Amidst the howling and growling
I do not run from the mirrors held up
I do not worship the paucity of praise
But humbly sit at those harrowed feet
Intent upon sweet aphorisms falling
From a storm's colossal egress.

(c) 5 February 2012

04 February 2012

Having known love, I will allow all things to come and go – to be as supple as the wind and take everything that comes with great courage. Life is right in any case and my heart is as open as the sky.
~Kama Sutra

27 January 2012

Fly to You

I could fly to you right now
On wings of broken promises
Yet somehow continue to walk
This solitary white path
Bone stripped of flesh
Shrouded as a wraith
Like the flustered dove
Of a soul’s departing
Spellbound pristine naked
Coming before God
To claim this mount and ride
From here to the heavenly
Spheres of the Moon
Leaping into chasms of longing
With blind optimism
And the blood-orange
Dawning awareness
Of a consciously embodied life
Smelting the burning illusion
Of a penitential separation
With the flood of orgasmic waters
To drink from the cup of knowing.

(c) 2012

19 January 2012

Don't Worry ~ Be Happy

I believe that our true happiness is one of the leading indicators of doing “God’s Will”. Which is not to say the “happiness” of being blindly led by selfish, transitory desires (which almost certainly leads to un-happiness). Rather, that contented state of being, which comes from no striving. That is where I find myself most attuned with my own god-presence, my own god-purpose. When I am in that flow things click, even my mistakes become teachers. But this takes practice and deep contemplation at times; contemplation to still the mind enough to find that place of true happiness within and practice with acknowledging but quieting all the other transitory voices.

This thought came about from a discussion on Facebook about morality and the image of God watching over us. First of all, I do not believe in a judgmental god. I do, however, believe in the concept of karma which I believe is a sub-conscious judgment of myself brought about to teach me lessons which ultimately bring me closer to G-O-D. I can also needlessly drive around the block 20 times until eventually I pull into the driveway of my home. It all leads back home, back to me, back to god. The side trips and meanderings are just part of the play, all part of the lessons we learn. And, if God isn’t enjoying the show then I must be doing something outside of His Will / my true purpose / my happiness.


14 January 2012

Poem for Saturday

Dreamy cerulean mists
Awash in moonlight
Between the veils
Between the sheets
Cock pierces the milky dawn
A secret group of two
Building foundations upon chaos
Ripped from syntax of parallax
Voracious visions of me
Consuming you
With mandala eyes
Concealing …
… Revealing …
Healing …
Tying you up
Letting you down
Kinky kismet daring
To sip and sup
These rosy hips
Unsanctimonious vessel
Sacred waters
Left hand of intuition
Take away pain of suffering
Concupiscence and lechery
Taken aback by your affrontary
Sweet mystery
Dark desire
Carbon dating
Ordinary time

An ember glows ‘neath layers of ash
Whispering, “Never is a very long time….”

Saturday, 14 January 2012

(c) 2012

04 January 2012

A Ritual To Read To Each Other ~ William Stafford

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

(image: Dark lovers by sifudragonfly)