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Mother’s Mother

My mother’s mother and I were very close.
We needed each other
in diversely validating ways.

She needed to know
experience
hear and see and feel and touch
a healthier love of mutual regard
than she felt she achieved
with any of her three daughters.

I needed to feel
I was some loved adult’s most significant event,
most vulnerable and transparent grace
for who I felt and knew I was
yet to gay become
without any need to change
what I could not internally rearrange.

When I was a senior in high school
this grandmother became sick with cancer
and depression,
mortal doubts and fear.

I knew this
not because I had visited her
but because my parents
and aunts
whispered their hopelessness
before repeatedly reminding me,
There is nothing I can do
to help her
or prepare myself
for such great loss,
perhaps less great,
more relief,
for them.

But they were wrong.
Wrong about my grandmother.
Wrong about me.
Wrong about us, together.

I knew her favorite hymns.
I was her favorite voice.
We needed no other instruments,
percussive or lyrical.
We had enough time
to revisit our music lessons,
Lyrics are tools for young friendship
Not weapons against old enemies.

Precious Lord
take my hand,
Lead me on
when I can’t stand.
I am tired,
I am weak,
I am worn.
Through these trials,
Through this storm,
Lead me on
Precious Lord.

And so we sang
and so I danced
and told her favorite story
of beds too hard,
of friends too soft,
and a child who sings just might

Of Earth too hot
and river beds too soft
and motherlands too cold
and us, now growing distant,
yet singing this last time
just right.

 

 

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Playing Without Weapons

She played her mysterious saxophone
as if we could be together alone
in concert halls
and Republican
and Green Democratic balls,
behind
and in front of
magisterial boundary walls.

She brought in a few million dollars
from quiet
more sedate
enraptured listening fans

Before her critics
complained She takes no risks,
no dissonance dare pass her wet vibrating reed.
Hopelessly romantic,
Without a hint of unpredictability.
Too many sustained wooden notes!

She is to saxophone performance
as communion
and compassionate communication
are to tiresomely pedantic religious orthodoxy,
behind
and in front of
multiculturing experiential walls.

About half a billion well-voiced dollars later,
She thought it time to respond
from a patriarchal position of musing strength.

“I invite those who don’t like my ecofeminist natural music
to not listen with such obviously desperate disappointment.
Instead
make your own muse
on your own performing saxophone
or flute,
Your own drum of choice.
Become wildly successful
with your own well-tooled, but unweaponed, message.
Make tons of fan co-invested money.”

“And, when you do,
I am sure I will have a chance to listen mindfully with you.
And, I hope I will become greatly amazed
with spatial wonder
and timeless awe.”

“I will be so happy
to raptly listen
and write your superlative review,
to become your greatest co-empathic fan.”

“Sadly,
until that great gettin-up morning,
I will continue playing my best music alone,
and hope you will now know
my muse and I best hope
to become your John the Baptist,
in faith waiting for your richer Messiah tunes
of even greater
wealthier
healthier rapture.”

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Sometime During the Night

Sometime during the night
I knew what was more right
to sing our songs
with great yang might
and soft yintegrity’s not wrongs.

We could sustain our notes
within this singing circle,
whether loud or soft,
but not too soft
to slowly feel our pitch
veer yinly flat.

Whether bright or dull,
vibrato or flat-line pure linear
waves of yang/yin sounds
to hear
to uniformly match dipolar
co-arising
and multiculturally mixed.

Then, as we listen and sustain,
we are free to retain our interdependent voices
of dissonance and confluence,
of dissent and harmony,
of resistance and peace,
and also free to change
toward growing harmony
or growing disharmony.

And, as we listen for re-alignments
in our ego/eco-voicing stream of time,
we grow free to hear with right-hemispheric wholeness
of our collective chord changes,
fluctuations,
together soft,
now growing louder,
softer,
bolder,
more peaceful
until fading into silent joy,
listening to our echoing after-ring power
of collective yang/yin reweaving memory.

We are no different,
on our better win/win communicating days,
of listening to curiously understand
than actively speaking out and up
for ego/ecological resilience
timelessly echoing,
both vibrato and flat-line
peacefully ever mountain/valley after.

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What Could We Say?

What will you say
as we sing out of tune?

Will you stand up
and strike out
with me?

What would you do
if the world were insane
as a flat screen TV
proclaiming his need
to be me?

When will we see
with our Earth’s lighter eyes
as we listen for win-win surprise
exclaiming our power
to become bicamerally dexterous we?

What will you sing
when we talk out of tune?

Will you strike out
and stand up
with me?

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Singing Circle

We meet within and without Earth
in singing circles

Round songs
proposing this day’s square cubed marches
in 4/4
not not spatial seasoned time
within and without
singing interdependently ratioed ZeroSoul circles

Webs between life’s right conservative feeling
without emotional intelligent walls
against left’s liberal loving win/win boundaried thoughts

Singing ZeroCircles
meeting within cellular walls
without Earth-bound webs
of interdependently woven information
exforming previously well-sung circles.

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Same Old Song ReDanced

When singing a splendid solo
in a public place
becomes a political act,

When dancing a diva duet
in your mama’s public space
becomes a barely tolerable act
for economic and politically powerful developers,

Then opportunities for communion
have devolved into too uncivil communities
for cooperative eco-social resilience.

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Virgin Spring

We each have that early spring
post-matriarchal
un-hibernating
emerging from EarthMother moment,

An awareness memory
of late winter’s pregnant demands
to cramp and thrust forward
patriarchally over-powering
in full summer’s fertile august strength.

We each have this great green climate moment
of silent anticipation
bringing all our ancients gathered
and returning reborn music
danced in-between winter
and spring’s wild awakening
win winning together
seamlessly

All climates marched before
with all moods augustly septumbering behind
health/wealth bicamerally reiterating after

We each share one Great Matriarchal Transition
early springing out all over memory metaphors
of EarthMother’s first heart-felt song
sung inside late winter’s last hibernating
passive moments of bipolar unconsciousness

Marching into win/lose political
and economic
and personal
and natural/spiritual dipolar climates
and metaphoric moods,
conflicted/restricted voices
heard in slow-jazzed magic soul

As Pisces twins float midway
between healthy swimming heaven
and pathological hell
bi-fractally fifth-dimension
Aquarian EarthClimate ascendent

Emerging pregnant with creative nondual tension
as a regenerating inside/outside new mom moon

Transitional integrity’s annual fullness
reborn win-win EarthPatriotic power
of a liberating Virgo’s
august appolonian/dionysian
yang/yin
east/west LeftDominant
south/north RightRecessive revolutionary prominent
march toward democratic health/wealth
EarthCentric promise
with 2020 reverse-hierarchical ReVision.

Reborn of FatherNorth
and MotherSouth soils
and ancient DNA fractal regenerations

Zero ZenZone bicameral souls
of jazz dance left springing up and out
with gospel soul sung winter force/source right

Marching reborn
Matriarchal/Patriarch restoring justice,

Non-violent communicating embodied co-passions,
Pisces twins swim-dance
with spiritual gospel win/win Virgin muses
east with west
right early spring left late winter
in grateful green anticipation.

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