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Psalm to Earth

I love your rich times,
moments stolen from parched yesterdays,
and stern disciplined tomorrows.
I live your warm scent times of leisure
through future’s dark crimes
and climbs
up egocentric ladders.

I miss our deep earth tones,
light prisms of dew drop in color,
our speech for free reign
before we missed racing DNA rhymes
shouting thinthin shared bones
of resonant echoing polystructures.

I know our love tones
our paradise place for free form
flying empathic spacetime
where Earth’s reasons have rhymes,
and three space dimensions
equal one bilateral NOW time.

I love your vast humor
compassion for fools
fearing only to become
ego-deflated fools together,
your red flows rich manna,
free golden embryonic elixir
of regenesis,
thru fools,
not their crowns

I often am reminded
we are far more alike than different,
we all enter and exit
through co-arising ecosystemic host windows
of angry opportunity and fearful risk,
and Tao’s wu wei between.

Yet, I wonder,
as I gaze out at bicameral co-laterally dynamic trees,
organically planted structures,
how far more alike than different
are RNA within racing DNA regenerating
further polyculturing younger branches
and ecoconscious root systems
of healthy ecotherapeutic Time.

The seeds of polycultural eco-revolutionary cooperatives
already embryonically implied
in monocultural ego-dominant enculturation
of nature’s polypathic regenerating diapraxis,
fractal-functions of zero-zen
Time as BiCamerally Balanced Tao,
Universally MultiIntegrative Self-Perpetuation
through MidWay Tipping Point WinWin
CoOperative PolyCultural Optimization.

I love your rich zero-times,
moments stolen from parched dissonant yesterdays,
and climate learning tomorrows.

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Spring Rain Memories

On these warmer spring nights
we rock in our front porch swing
hearing rain gurgle through satiated soil,
dialects of liquid reflection
speaking about our day,
past days,’
future days of love,
surrendering to dark spring rain intimacy,
but a passing car
spraying wet exhausting whines of power
reminds me you are no longer here.

We speak through smiles
of how we would be
when we ruled our worlds
with less mediocrity,
yet sad you are not here
to hear
what we remember
in my head,
my body warm
against this spring wet breeze.

We hear our breaths
praising stars hidden beyond dark rain night
but resonantly singing soprano arias
while we breathe in to sing back and out together,
but you are not here,
within this future memory of us,
failure to appear
now as here with me
to feel your love
more than an echo in my porch swing mind.

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What You Take

What we take
without asking first,
thanking second,
what is rightfully our property,
our valuables,
our commodities and loves.

Yet we also take
what we are too ashamed to ask for,
then thank
for receiving selfless hand to open hand,
or hate for selfish lack of yes,
or resent negotiating maybes
or strings attached
further growing far more than your rightful share
of shame.

Shame,
engaging high risk acquisition choices
rather than trusting Earth’s grace,
cooperative evolution of relationships
between those who have
and those who want to live healthier,
without shame and guilt
for addictive needs, attractions,
aversions from others’ shame and guilt offerings,
final intimate NO in face of your hungry appetite
for self-regenerative identity,
less shame,
absence of guilt
for having become who you are,
for not having become
as you more lovingly intended
yet.

When did you start asking first
if I want to make our bed together?
Right after I took your breath away
with I would rather do it myself.
Right before I froze your love
because you don’t do it right.

When we take love without first asking
fertile thanks rebounding back,
we grow shame for guilty needs
squeezing out what healthy love
could otherwise breathe in.

What Ego takes without asking
Eco string attaches
Yang to Yin
Left to Right
to LeftRight EcoConsensousness,
asking Ego’s untimely Death first,
thanking Eco’s revolutionary holonic primal life,
second.

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Holy StandUp Matters

In April of this year I began preparing a new organic gardening patch,
planning to have it ready for next year’s expansion from a too-small garden
in front of my recently acquired Connecticut Cape Cod home.

I have neighbors toward southern exposure and behind,
between the Thames River and my sunset-facing backyard.

Here, next to an old, but still purposeful,
forest green fresh-painted deck
lies a mix of some rich dark soil
and some topsoil with unpromising smears of gravel stones
scraped off a dirt driveway
that turned to mud when wet
before I installed a pressed gravel drive last month.

Anyway,
next to the repurposed green deck
lies my new garden incubation project.

I rescued my deck floor last fall
from the bowels of a thorny bramble mountain,
some woody stalks obscenely pushing between heavy 2×6 planks,
now upper faced with little green stubs
since I rolled my lavish green porch paint.
But, the old railing around three sides was beyond rescue.
No longer with us, I’m sorry to say.

A sun exposed potential spot for a garden
emerged from my bramble mountain on the south side of the slightly raised deck,
about eight yards long on each of three sides.
I laid out my cardboard boxes,
stored in the grotesquely damp basement since I finished unpacking
last fall.
After soaking the cardboard,
I covered it with a combination of compost,
top soil harvested from elsewhere on this property,
and peat moss.
Then I spread four to six inches of leaves over all that.

While I wait for this to transform into healthy nutritional soil,
I have been religiously peeing on the leaves.

At first I only reenacted this baptismal ritual under cover of night,
not so much out of modesty
as motivated by kindness,
as the sight of the elderly pasty white man who just moved in next door
outside exposing his peeing penis
might offend fragile first impressions of a fairly sane person
who might be expected to behave more reliably
with regard to neighborly decorum
and more traditional liturgical events.

More recently I started peeing in a yogurt container by daylight,
huddled up against the back porch door
where at least only my backside could ever become visible
to only the backside neighbor, so to speak,
who seems to be something of an ass.
But then, who isn’t?
Then I take my yogurt cup of warm pee
and toss it out across the leaves blanketing my next-year garden plot.

This ritual feels generous,
like sprinkling my soil with nutritional holy water,
of which I do have some, but far less,
yet perhaps a bit too much,
experience as a seminarian some decades ago.
Ah yes,
memories of peeing with the other would-be angels.

Now I am concerned that I could use a great deal more urine
for my organic farming purposes.
Perhaps I should come out of my yogurt closet,
send out a note to my nearby neighbors:

“Hi. Just want to invite you to come over and pee
on the leaf-covered triangular spot
next to the south side of my deck,
anytime of day or night you wish.
Feel free to include your pets.
Make it a family destination if you wish.
In return for your investment,
I will probably have tomatoes,
potatoes,
cucumbers,
and leeks (no pun intended)
to share,
not this season,
but next.
Maybe some extra peas too.
OK, I’m gonna’ stop now.”

“The neighborhood that pees together,
eats together.
So, come on,
please don’t leave me standing outside,
peeing alone,
preparing for next year’s yummy harvest.”

So I did.
This invitation has not generated the enthusiastic response I was imagining,
with neighborhood families dropping in
to drop off their deposits
for our neighborhood development project.
But,
it did provoke my backyard neighbor
to jam a note into my otherwise vacant mailbox:

“You mentioned,
among your commitments to recycling and repurposing,
that you are an Organ Donor.
I certainly do hope whoever gets those organic parts
has a good harvest no later than next year.
Sooner is better.”

Hmmm….
Now, how could we compost our collective humanure?

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Curiosity Feeds the Cat

Where my love goes
mystery cannot fade.

Yet my curiosity can wilt without your active support,
contagious nourishment,
never-ending flames of wonder
that this love could persist.

How could we possibly not share our lives,
mutually disinvest from mystery
that will not fade dampened?

Yet without active curiosity
mystery fades hoplesse to know more,
even though love’s thirst for internal history
and self-creation stories
becomes too easily quenched
by cooperative post-climatic adjustments,
aging continental planets
earth-quaking our chronically mutual mysteries.

Where my love goes
your history could not fade ,
yet dark fading curiosity of aging eyes and ears
and minds
can blend well-deserved contentment
feeding flame’s remorseless desire to continue this mystery
of love’s deep and blissful curiosity.

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May Fog

This foggy sky
darkly and relentlessly rains
especially for an early May morning.

He is not prepared for darkness
seeping in from new-born leaves,
not yet full grown
into this year’s tree-lacing dress,
soaking in from saturated soil,
slurping into his complexly relaxing empathic soul.

Perhaps this open quality
endears him to those few who could ever know him
enough to watch him,
watching,
noticing,
hoping for less rain inside today,
each day,
all Earth’s Days.

Wet liturgical Mays
dissolve his Taurean ways.

Yet, for him, right now,
such dark openness yawns too large
for even one dreary lonely hour
of self-isolation.

His two medically complex clients have gone,
as usual,
Monday morning until late afternoon.
Today, as he contemplates his decadent ways,
he misses their distracting charms.
Each so different.
YinYin so loudly Trumpian,
post-millennial triumphalist,
but also with some significant undiagnosed bipolar control issues.
Meanwhile Yang,
unable to speak or sign,
so hidden,
yin-shy shadow of rich warm love,
immersed in life’s right-now ripe composting time,
each moment,
graciously emerging from his co-arising past
to spin toward future yang-yin equipoise memories
of time’s karmic grace.

But, right now he must sustain thru dark raining dreams of suicide
without them.
He suffers withdrawal from feeling needed,
unworthy of becoming truly wanted.

Ironic,
a PermaCultural Family EcoTherapist,
actually achieving good polycultural outcomes
with his broken clients,
the one highly de-specialized professional wheelhouse
most needed to accelerate global networking
cooperative outcomes,
challenging each family and all climatic systems
with Yang-encultured dominance,
right here and now in this post-millennial generation
of ecologically balancing great and small,
daily transitions,
yet he feels hopeless,
not knowing where he could ever begin again
so late in this biological incarnation
already showing concerns that “Black Lives Matter”
but maybe not so much old black,
or white,
or even green lives matter
beyond their retiring biofunctional usefulness.

We all help make great compost when we die.
It’s getting in there,
completing the job,
embracing the vocation,
once and for all,
that continues to challenge life as EgoDeath love.

How does one retiring PermaCultural Therapist
best contribute to this time,
this ecosystem,
this community,
this family,
this primal relationship with Earth
and all Her tribal dialects
and languages
and species
and multicultural diversities of life and death cycles
and recycles,
and repurposes?

Probably reading F Scott Fitzgerald’s issues about cultural decay
and ethical integrity of bodies and minds
ingesting and regurgitating Earth’s generous beauty
is rather like sitting under a rain-drenched tarp,
writing stories of suicidal dissipation,
while Earth calls for Revolutionary EcoTherapists
to heal Her as she cries,
this early May morning,
under foggy dripping skies.

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Families That Stay Together

The family that bathes together
stays together
until every mindbody smells better together.

Is that like
biology is ecological timing,
hunting healthy polymorphic synergy?

Perhaps.
If yes, it loses something in abstraction.
If no, you might need to stay in your bath a bit longer,
and extend your polycultural definition of family.

Is that like
baptism from monocultural ego identity
into permacultural EarthTribe individuation
thru rainbow colors of TransParent thru BlackHole
DiPolar CoArising Temporal EcoConscious Presence?

Only when baptism
merges a global extended family
immersing into EarthTribe’s Solidarity Revolution,
haunted by Earth’s nutritional DNA/RNA mutuality memories
of polypathic Ego/Echo BiCameral ReIterative Synergy.

Bathing with our Exterior Landscapes
as we would have Earth Goddess and SunGod
continue TransParently eco-mentoring
our Interior EgoLandscapes.

How about,
all souls bathe together
stay together
until every form of nature’s regenesis
smells and looks
tastes and feels and sings thru prime crystal revolving light,
harmonic dialects of family fragrances,
together?

It sounds pretty enough,
but I still don’t think it smells deep rich composted
quite enough for EarthTribe’s baptism
into Great Transitions of post-climatic full-blending octave fragrances
of time as light’s perfume of regenerative choice.

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CoRefining Healthy Conversations

Life as active love evolves toward more polycultural communication,
across both species and time,
within Earth’s Solar EcoSystemic Universe.

While this conversation includes human natured communicators,
we suboptimize our ecological balance
if endo-human discourse monopolizes our lifetime learning dialogue.

A life devoid of communicating with Earth’s diverse languages and dialects,
rhythms and patterns of development and decay,
consumption and root systemic production,
cannot optimally support sustained mental and physical health
of humane mindbodies.

Over-investing in our internal human natural and racing anthro-centric communicating systems
may have both caused and resulted in our atrophied RightBrain “yin” enculturation potential,
perhaps more richly rooted in temporal-neural norms
of RNA nature-therapeutic cousins,
bilateral
reverse-hierarchical nutrient fold-flow root-systemic
Elder Tree and Plant Forms with Organically Sustainable DiPolar Balance Function.

When we give thanks and praise
we already often remember to include our namastes and Amens!
for these our more inclusive nutritional conversations,
for Earth’s cooperative economic evolutionary transactions,
for our Open Solar EcoSystem’s sustainable climate Creation Stories,
for interdependent Great Transitions,
for crises CoArising courage to turn down our LeftBrain AnthroAlpha-language enculturation,
to tune back into our wider dialectic capacities
within Earth’s diurnal and perennial,
polycultural dialects,
as read thru (0)-EgoEco Balance
as Yang/Yin Prime Octave Temporal Frequency Harmonic Balance,
as Left/RightBrain BiCameral EcoPolitical Balance of EcoLogical Elders,
speaking DNA fractal-development fold-function open frequencies,
within octave primal 4D equivalent PolyNomial SpaceTime,
Prime-BiLateral CoOperative DiPolar CoArising NonDual ReLovingship
of Earth’s dualdark compost voices
singing Sun’s solar-elational polycultural octave frequencies
thru HumaneEarth’s evolving ecologic-dialectic
fractal-syntaxed,
reiteratively autonomic temporal-neural communication network,
WinWin self enlightenment,
self-perpetuating eco-polypathic.

Perhaps the difference between Positive Psychology mental health
and Earth-perpetuating regenerative evolution
is nothing,
Zeroism self-tautologically dipolar appositional-soul humane-structural defined,
as more cooperative political and economic dialogue networks,
now co-evolving,
Corising CoOperative WinWin Networks
following digital syntax-fractal rhythms
of reverse-nested octave-byte flow patterns
of healthy nutrient-social-political, and, soon,
even more cooperative WinWin economic digital languages
of PolyCultural ReGenesis REVolutions
as resolutions of multi-paradigmatic (0)-autonomic temporal/neural associated dissonance,
appositional dipolar with primal Tao-natured confluence.

Now, if you, like me, have yet to finish your first and last cup of decaffeined
quasi-guilty pleasure,

Allah knows that even ants consider this stuff, taken straight,
without any chaser,
toxic,
what kind of conversation with Earth’s Day am I starting
with this cup of decaf, skimmed milk and refined honey?
Tasty, but probably not self-optimizing mindbody behavior,
stirring up some dissonant caffeine grounds
for further dissonant lack of fluent conversations
if only due to my unceasing need to pee.

anyway, I’m back,
I think,
therefore we are,
this is a lot to take in through our eyes and ears
about our tastes and feels and smells
as Earth’s endosymbiotically evolving conversation
about how to Great Transition
from LeftBrain cultured imbalance,
back to those brief Golden Elixir Moments
in blissful primal EgoMemory,
of knowing love with Earth
as peaceful light and root communication
thru some primally nutritional health system,
possibly dualdark or “notnot” or dipolar yin-rooted
in Earth’s TransParent BlackHole BiLateral CoArising Future-as-Past Memory,
YinYin = WinWin Balancing Universal DiPolar DiaStatic Yang CoOperative ReGenerativity,
0)RiginalMega Point
of Time’s FlowYang with EbbYin-Fractal-Squared
Prime (0) PolyNomial CoArising Function.

For me,
it seems more ego-therapeutic,
and hopefully ecotherapeutic,
to listen to the stars,
the crickets, birds, frogs,
rivers, surf, wind, fire, rain
about this climatic dis-ecological pain we share
than to read the morning paper.

Sometimes I hear more about what my humane Ego truly craves
to see and feel and smell and taste
by listening to music
singing love
sometimes also speaking of love
as food for mutual enrichment,
life’s dialectic open gestalt,
co-evolution,
rather than listening to Presidential non-dialogues,
non-discernment,
competing rather than Both-And cooperative conversating,
rapacious word-weapons
rather than rhapsodies with harmonic,
even operatic,
CoArising Original Design Intent.

And, should mental health
Both-And Positive Psychology
have anything at all to do with steering clear of
LoseLose hierarchical-monoculture-exclusive power structures
of mutual competition,
the each EgoPlayer
must reiteratively choose to speak either Win or Lose
and is prohibited by Ego’s LeftBrain bicamerally self-blinding investments
to BusinessAsUsual repress,
become sad,
suffer from LeftBrain dissonant enculturation loss,
chronic stress unlikely to notice slower Win to CoWin BothAnd options,
regenerationg revolving Eco-RNA/DNA-Centric Solidarity,
political with eco-normic and logically rational LeftRight bicameral balance,
love as synergetic life
in RealTime co-incarnating healthy conversations
on co-vegetating EarthBound matters.

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Politically Correct Wilderness Behaviors

It’s not that I mistrust you,
though sometimes I feel I must distrust
either me or you.

I ambivalently choose both.

So yes, of course, this is about your behaviors
in relationship with mine,
aggressive and impulsive.
Behaviors of addiction
to a child’s malignant sense of humor
and anger as synaptic fear
of loving inalienable powers of freedom
from and to yet further behaviors,
too often aggressive and impulsive,
too seldom shy and demure
as water flowing into deeper gravitas.

Behaviors inspired by Assertiveness Training
on steroids,
mainlining a fix
to fill recent behavioral abstinence,
dreams and fantasies standing in for life,
addiction to action
not counting absent minutes of no behaviors.

Do not remind me
“actions have consequences.”
How is this not a vacuous tautology?
merely repeating response meets stimulus,
nouns regenerate verbs
as subjects pursue objectives.

We do not really need dualistic behaviorists
as much as we crave nondual interpreters of patterns,
feeding those with cooperative intent and, yes, behaviors,
but action, response, as praxis,
walking a cooperative walk
outspeaks talking a competing game of good v. bad behavior.

Hoping for better health next year
while pouring chemicals on our lawns
and down our throats
feels like an ecotherapist observing toxic relationships,
enumerating nutritional transactions,
despising monocultural weedpatch development trends,
counting numbers of deaths v. births through minutes passed,
only to conclude that actions,
like inactions,
have consequences,
and lack thereof.

Behaviors ebb and flow ionic,
nondual bionic,
as communication reiterates iconic truths
of history’s encultured wild addictions
fighting freedoms to develop love,
sometimes more quietly,
freedom from addiction to aggressive impulses
to share this love and fear,
lovely fear,
fearful love,
in life’s conflicted ways,
supported by ecotherapists of active communication
rather than behaviorists of counting
endless predictable cycles
of destimulating response.

It’s not so much I distrust behaviorists as scientists,
though sometimes I mistrust nondual us.

Failure to control global and national mindbody impulses,
resulting in anger-induced responses
and fear-reduced reactions,
is a failure to control climate sustainability
through indulging competitive addictions.
Regeneratively effective healers speak not as mere behaviorists;
co-mentors immerse baptized within this polypath pilgrimage
toward better communicated enlightenment,
sometimes shy and demure,
but always nondual love-management intended,
most certainly always, always kind,
though nature’s kind co-teaching/learning evolution
can feel harsh to swollen Ego’s feet,
walking in habitual circles
toward nowhere good
or true
much less divine.

What good are a child’s safe hands
with no safe mind?
What benefits emerge from kind and loving hands
tagging along with healthy motivated feet
to sustain ecologically balancing mindbody co-operators,
solidarity of EarthTribe’s EcoMentors,
too busy managing our bugs and parasitic ways
to build political economic empires of surfing sand.

I distrust myself
when reduced to behaviorist judge
of self and others.
I trust us to induce healthy communication of love as life,
robust through healthy wealth.

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The Driving License

Which are your points for living
if we all die into cold leaky stink or ash anyway?
What’s the point of dying
if we could otherwise live continuously?

Heading down the river
on AAA rite of ritual passage.
Six years since last I drove this way
not imagining this homing ritual
to drive again
with automating locamoting license
to ambulate for six more years
of what are my points for living thru
we all die anyway.

Last time I stood in line
to buy my laminated aging image
of ego’s self-chauffeur,
family van driver
complete with wheelchairs
and alternatively designed adult strollers
strolling on toward sixty-four,
I was so sure fifty-eight
must be my last point of dying
to live no more than five more.

I was deadly tired of fighting
every air-born disaster.
My brilliant friends of young adulthood,
generation of young Aquarian post-anger management potential,
all gone.
Whether their hearts still beat for more time
and we yet breathe Earth’s air together,
or whether everless time
to laugh thru our points of dying
into otherwise life’s discontinuous absence.

Alone we stand in that last license line
another anonymous generation
of those who will not rejoin our transmillennial lines,
wondering at this climatic mystery
of ever-vanishing life cycles,
after the last grandparent’s child dies
siblings and cousins look about
furtively at each other,
over our shoulders,
take him, not me;
take me, not her,
waiting our turn to turn into pillars of dying salt.
We’re next.

Or, is there another chapter,
postscript of revolutionary eco-warrior proportion,
EarthTribe SuperLiving Hero?
I wonder as I wait
to review my new ancient-streaming vision,
remembering when my brother turned toward sixty-four
remembering this was our male year
of dying dad standing alone in his last license line.
He did not see sixty-five,
year of full socially retiring commodification
for those uniting states
of freedom’s mythic evolutionary becoming,
reverse cultural face
of mutual enslavement
to cannibalistic ownership of minds
with humane-spirited bodies;
gardeners of social justice health
confused about where we lost our points thru living
as if dying to automating ego-ugly licenses,
carbon footprint excesses wiped on the backs of servitude,
hubris for yet more lines
with already too much space between;
I sleep amazed with wonders of dying points
toward life’s more optimal unfolding,
readers writing more published nutritional words
than writers could ever possibly live wisely enough to read
with deep digestive wisdom.

I see a frail thinner sinner,
this new, still embryonically warm, face of Elder,
farming memories of HIV doctors
and earthy nurses
surprised about my winning age
as oldest survivor on their list
not yet deleted,
pointing to my living
as iconic of divinely graceful dying,
living thru and yet beyond my own AIDS EcoWarrior time,
beneficiary of unfathomable loss
of brilliant firey minds
with anciently plagued bodies,
Positive viral incubators
of Lose-to-Lose biochemistry,
anti-synergetic loss of life
thru ugly dis-eased dying
thru dark self-engagement
unto demise…

Driving back upriver,
against regeneration’s need for fertile tides,
I wonder what I could fade into at seventy.
Would my automated license issue vaporous ghosts?
Or perhaps a host of memories
not imagined when sixty-four
raised so many points for dying
thru living poured out
warm embers lighting faces of love
along my way upriver
toward homes with mysteriously functional,
puzzlingly polycultural, families
surrounded by EarthTribe cousins
living and dying interdependently,
like trees shedding seeds
pointing toward next line’s regenesis.

Which are my points for living,
those times I am dying to repeat?
What is my pointed dying
thru life’s relicensed visits?
Arriving back in EarthTribe’s Home

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