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Evening Rainsong

Alone again
yet evening rain falls
cooling fresh breeze voices
anxious for everything,
angry about nothing.

Nothing to do about rain falling
as sure as gravity
of dripping issues
landing in my lap,
splattering naked children’s sleepy heads
and innocent soft shoulders.

Into each life…
Yes,
yet eventide rains inside voices
wet down dwindling life
of tiring consciousness.

If I could not read or write or speak
who would I sing with in new found leisure?
Scattered lyrical thoughts
of painful rain
for evening’s loss of light,
and dawn’s dew drop evaporations
raising praise for might
of rain rising up yet again
to grace some other’s night.

We each sing with rain dying alone,
a humanic nature feeling trapped
alien emigrant returning home
to Earth where all creations fail and fall
to rise again singing through new voices
and hues,
spectral rhythmic
dances of songs and cries
each our lived together owned,
rising up new throated sounds
disintegrated symphonies
of song sung out
toward tomorrow’s rain clouds
capturing moist radiant waves,
wet sounds of song
well-lived yet bound.

I hear too complex songs for living,
polyphonic evening rains
falling down alone
to rise again belonging songs
evaporating praise,
leaking radiance
gathering together.

Into and through each flowing melody
of rebaptising life
dirged this night alone
yet heard as well-sung rain forever.

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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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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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February Winds

Sunday morning
time for sabbath sacraments.

He steps out into a gusty wind,
some fat splattering sweeps of raindrops
falling across his porch roof
on down through the roaring river valley,
forcing, then ebbing
storm of February wind with rain,
a wondrous primal pair,
he adores.

The birds have started liturgical dance
and songs of ritual and regeneration
without him.
Already flying up in quick dives of floating play
with speaking time,
singing back to Brother Wind
howling on his way.

Calling, chanting cantors, conjoining
swelling sacred song of anti-gravity
for co-arising blissful sweeps of sound,
karmic atmosphere swirling time-rich
sacred rites across his house-bound skin.

Sound of incense sweeps down his river,
north to south with warmer hopes and economic intentions,
reminding it was his time for political baptism.

She incanted from the bathtub
in short gusts of warm blast enculturation,
joining his internal gospel choir,
chirping her oppositional descant
challenging and prophesying and occupying
in full-voiced roar of need
as want
right now,
and seldom bothering a please,
much less a thanks
for caring as best he could
to hear her oppostional rhythms and patterns,
irritating flows of hard-blown breath
with attitude.

Storming and brewing
birds cheering rage in her brain
shouting at co-arising gravity
to blow another way
with her exegetical universe,
her way,
the only way
she can imagine
to function in a reverse and upside down
political world of unheard powerlessness
when inside
she can only find her loud-voiced demands
to turn life around,
spin this slippery wind of Earth
to blow in her right liturgical way.

Baptism completes this wind drenched requiem
of full-life as anti-death survival
to cooperate this week’s regenerate vocational intent
and ecopolitical practice.

She joins her dad
for one last look
through jaundiced eye
at drenching rain that could fly back
from whence it came
if only wiser timed to start this day.

Birds now pray their benedictions
quietly in wind-protected nests
while he listens to swollen postlude protest
against co-gravitating time,
uprooting old rooted systems
decayed for newer octave use
as compost fading into swaying trees
waving back to join upriver’s grace of windblown time,
and forth to rejoin downriver’s centering roots
through February’s purging Earth
decomposing dance.

He closes his door to time’s external grace
to watch a smile warmly cross her chronic face
like a gust of refreshing wind
through a rainy karmic life.

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December Rain

It was the middle of an unusually warm Connecticut December
darkly drizzly deep afternoon.

Drizzly wait,
not long before her hungry needy kids returned from school,
she propped herself against their covered back porch wall,
knees up,
peering out
listening to wonder how her life was the same,
and different,
compared to this river flowing surely and widely
but silently south behind their backyard,
while the river of cars in front
shuttled up and down the state highway’s over-fueled Advent traffic,
punctuated with violent horn blasts,
or perhaps warmly intended “Hello”s, “I’m passing by….”

Passing.
Water toward the south Sound,
carbon-eaters to her back,
across the front yard Advent
of early evening’s commercial family business,
industry,
institutions for competing commodification
flowing stealthily and syncopatedly impatient toward,
and then by-passing away.

By-passing,
messiah’s mass faltering
to sing in her faithful
but worn thin heart and air,
hoping her river loved co-redemptive Sounding ocean
even more than busy motors
surging through more urgent toxic time
invested to completely commodify
this Birthing Wonder’s self-purgative sacred flow
into co-therapeutic nature.

Commodifying home and families
into consumer markets
flowing down her river of mid-December’s discontent
with waiting.

Discontent,
gloaming river fog
spread miraculously radiant by one uninvited yellow street light,
waiting for her family’s bus
to deliver this December night’s transforming birth.

 

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Rain Begetting Lightning

Little fields have big fields
Upon their backs to bite ’em,
And big fields have bigger fields
And so ad infinitum.
(Alan Watts, 1966)

Little systems have open systems
Upon their boundaries to bite ’em,
And open systems have ecological metasystems
And so ad infinitum.

Within systems have withouting systems
Upon our boundaries to right ’em,
And withouting ecosystems beget withining coarising consciousness
And so ad infinitum.
We are raining,
withouting leading withining.

We are thereby paining,
withining leading withouting.

Responsive straining and explaining,
withouting dissonating withining.

We are training
Left-withouting leading Right-withining.

We are lightning
withining confluating withouting
confluating withining…

Little withining raindrops beget big withouting light.

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