Friday, June 24, 2016

The Mountain

Camping by Peaceweavers lake, 6/18/2016, Bath, NY

Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes; Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
                                                                                                                                          --Richard II, WS

We are such things that kings and queens are made of, here with our buoyant democracy; our fiefdoms know no bounds. Wanting and desire rule our days from far and wide. We are all there is, astride a mountain of accumulation. A climate controlled clan, weapons apparent, besmirched with houses on wheels belching petroleum products like there was no issue. Our garbage piles high each day as we hurl ourselves into an infinity that is vastly shrinking. Must have, must have, must have. These petty jealousies, inbred necessities--recycling cannot keep up with it. We spoil ourselves into a new disaster. Those who had not, now must acquire all, not marking what insidious disturbances loam on the ever diminishing horizon. We must get there, we must get there, but what is the destination? A dried up flapjack on the back burner. Such sweetness shall surely bring bad tidings and a bitter end.

On the green mountain, though, past Bath, remembered for ancestral foundations from the common era with a name extending far into history. Peace is woven into trench like circles. Water is pristine and we dress ourselves in rightly possibilities. A fast, you say, a cleanse from the good earth. A time for shedding excess baggage and ravenous appetites. A steaming, you say, strong voices of natives, the aboriginal calling, allow us to submit to the golden sweat, purging the hunger for more and more and more. Underneath our daily waste, the self emerges. A cleaner machine of human proportions, unstained by ownership and other conglomerate urges. Unsullied, we wonder what have we done? In the doing, the leaning towards stressful acts lessens. One stops the cycle, termites on the lands look so brutal. Digestion changes. We want something different. Not always able to stick to the new consciousness, we consider our actions as contributing to the ongoing calamity. In short, we lessen our hold on this strangled earth.

Here there is such loving, almost too dramatic or believable. As time passes and the detoxification repositions other labels, we begin to join the soft heart of the non intrusive way. Distinctly changed, these other passions shift shape. Not so much the pushing and shoving for position but consideration for others. The self stands by the door ashamed of its disregard. Clean blue skies, the stuff under blank asphalt, grows on the spirit. Our choices no longer mindless. We come to a better agreement and reflection persists round a clear head. This ritual connects to early days. We are spawned from beasts, groomed in flight or fight. No matter though, our intellect can follow the cleaned vessel. We are more than rough animal. Our persistence can alter the end of days.

Monday, June 6, 2016

The Deadly

Stark icebergs crisscrossed the birth. No one was looking. Your name did not matter, nor your face. Dollar signs hedged elsewhere avoiding the ignominious. Not knowing the game of pitch and toss, the spirit of performance clung to your eyes. Determined to create, there was nothing to stop you. A boat was requisitioned. The mates played along. A future promised silk slippers and gold leaf. Trembling at the thought of combustion no stone was left unturned. The night forced dark and sparkling monologues across a burning sky. The door keeper, cradle rattler, sensed an escape. Down came large hands of misfortune. Down came threatening words wreaking of displeasure. Like incessant vermin, harsh judgement layered thick upon the nursery pulsating into chilled bones. Dreams froze underneath a turbulent current, out of sight but not out of reach.

Crutches were created to persevere. Strange acts of good and bad pummeled the walls of your life. Can it be or will it be or shall I be that which you want? Trouble stirred in the next room where half drunk adults sneered at upward mobility. Endless hallways pitched in the dark. You sought a sliver of new growth for each deadly demon of disregard, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting. The drownings helped you swim. The punctures mended by noon. Some days were merry and full of joyous expectancy. Venturing so close to the edge that the hot breath of hell beckoned to take the plunge. Still you pushed on, year after year, decade after decade, not knowing why it was thus. Belief wrapped its dread finger inside and out. When the fertile earth could no longer revive, you danced across rooftops running from pursuant trusts.

Here it is known. Stand tall on the new precipice. Look to the next story. The next bounce across the wine swept sea to clear shores of new deceptions. They have heard your voice before you arrived and all seems well. The road you took could not be fathomed so you left it behind for safekeeping with the androids, where feelings were dispensed with as pointless. They have little use for it but there your actions remain encased in bronze investments. Onward to heat, color and light. The ancient understanding, fiercer sorrows. If one remains hungry, the product rings to the joy of satisfaction finally conquered. Ring the bell of brave doings. Looking back is not recommended. Touch ground without reserve.