Tag Archives: river

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Rose City

I live in a rose-tinted town
bowing mainly to White Western skies
bleached of blue blooded color
but also of dire Eastern dawns
with smoky red skies,
warning farmers and gardeners
taking and giving nutritional cover
under bad-blooded weather
on our way to further apart.

I live in a NorthEastern place
replete with geriatric grace
yet less mindful of holistic medicines
less conscious through holy meditations
less wholesome
with cooperative administrations
of home
and families
and neighborhoods
as wholesome 7-Generation multihoods.

I live in a public space
directed by private embrace
toward trusting love of all four directions
all eight lifetime resurrections

From infant to child,
child to pre-teen,
pubescent to late adolescent,
where U.S. culture seems to be LeftBrain stuck,
between delayed adolescents and too young adults,
young adults toward mature polyculturists
voters listening to WiseElder leaders,
WiseElder leaders
longing to conjoin CoMessiahs
and Bodhisattva Warriors
and PolyCulturing Yogis
and MultiCulturing EarthScientists
and PolyPhonically inclined EarthArtists
and PolyPathic EarthEducators and Mentors.

Researchers and Designers
of full-octaved trust,
if for no positively healthy reason,
to avoid hatreds of anti-trust
and ambivalent angers
seeking secular mistrust
and equivalent fears
finding infinite misery
pathologies.

I live in a rose-scented town
where three polluted rivers conjoin
worshipped by LastNative gamblers
reweaving our vapid ritual bows
within all four fractal revolving dimensions.

I live in a rose-fading town
aging while watching southwestern drought,
at risk of growing coastal
as Northern blizzards of chaos
compete with Southern hurricanes and tornadoes
of flooding tsunamic complexity.

I live in a rose memory town
filled with ghosts of LeftBrain dominant climatic pathology
rising up to restore RightBrain with Left
peace from within,
settling down to withstand
capital punishments
ego-justified retributions
without rose-tinted glasses.

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The Senior Center

The Senior Center was a beehive of active waiting
to die.

Bingo
but not ballroom dancing.

Knitting
but not garden expansions.

Physical therapy
but not yoga
and not chi gong,
much less mindful meditations
sung in four part harmony.

The new guy,
just growing into sixty-five,
asked them
How would we like to be remembered
one hundred years from now?

That doesn’t seem likely,
I know,
but perhaps more likely together
than playing Solitaire
side by side.

I would like to be remembered
as healers of The River
said a somber SeptemberGenerian woman
surrounded by ancient lady friends.

No one needed to ask why.
We all knew
what was coming downriver
for future regenerations
of thirsty toxined minds
with biodiverse bodies.

And so we found younger allies
who owned property along The River,
beginning with the railroad company,
and the Mohegans
and the Pequots,
where a Senior knew a Senior
with a well-placed daughter,
and sometimes a son
of unusual cooperative and long-term focus.

Together we planted firs
and cedars along polluted and denuded banks,
for future generations to manage,
harvest for housing
and furniture
and fiber
and possibly even coffins
waiting for memories of polluted rivers
to die.

That was one hundred years ago
we started
in this regenerative Senior Center,
and still going strong
as each year
a new incoming class
of those who finally reached sixty-five
joined our river healing project,
more recently also producing fruit trees
and berries,
flax
and hemp,
mushrooms
and nuts
and sweetgrass baskets
woven by SeptemberGenerians.

Women and a few surviving men
and some more in-between
smiling together
at the round cedar table in the back,
remembering Elder healers
of our barren land
and naked River.

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Underground Rivers

Underground rivers unsettle thoughts,
feelings on stable ground.

Real estate doesn’t sound as real
with thoughts of hyporheic flow
beneath our feet,
out of sight and sound.

Rivers are meant to have light on top,
transparency.
Underground flow must look more like a furtive capillary
than an upfront tributary,
bringing salvific moisture
down into and across and through
deep ecological roots of fertility.

Hypostatic unions
are contrasts between understory backgrounds
emerging into focal foreground,
like darkness of night’s flowing complexities
from which light emerges each day
then fades again,
like Yang creation stories
emerging from Yin
hypostatic partnering,
hyporheic flow
deep down within ecological consciousness,
subterranean channels
feeding timeless roots
of healthy real estates,
cooperative becoming.

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Tidal Rivers of Identity

This place
New England space
meets inside without
building forest skill character
wild native nakedness merged with puritan souls
enslaved by dark-skinning self-immolating magic
aboriginal roots of satiating suffered bliss,
Yankee hearts with naive freedoms
to imagine golden ages
accessible to each and all
huddling in fertile Enlightenment passion pastures
within nature’s coredemptive surf-songed light.

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Cardinal Dance

Dance with wind’s breezing flow
blowing in as out,
breathing out then in again
hands and feet extremities of life breath’s hard felt flow
swimming rich with culture’s rhythmic flight
dance of natural spirits timing
red cardinal patterns perching
breath flight moments
held upon fragrant lilac parasols
for sunlighting branches
glowing down into deep elder grey rivers
of hard-shelled sappy gravity
growing dancing in and out
thru eyes without flow in
while breathing life’s dance out.

Dancing rhythmic breaths and bloods,
nurture revolving rivers
of Earth’s ecodancing sufis,
lilac trees with winding sap
from earth-souled root systems
dance flowing life’s swirling
collateral content.
Dancing breath embodies wind
breathing Earth’s flee and flow without
sighted flights of echo image
flying red thru dancing lilacs.

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April Loves

She worships her western horizon
toward the river, sparkling, hinting of lightning pasts and futures.

Leonardo is wrong.
This seems unlikely, perhaps judgmental,
harsh,
even so, his God clearly reconstructed in his well-owned glorious image,
universal God of Creative Architecture.

But, for her, as she watches bruised red wilt into painfully pale lavender,
over black night’s forest line,
cerebrally alone,
sacredly uniting
nature speaks through Gaia’s full-timed EcoLogos Voice,
sometimes in pastel skies and meadows,
sometimes in relentlessly vibrant green,
sometimes Full Moon, New Moon,…
Rain, Wind, sometimes sublime both on her tin roof, whistling through worn-out window frames.

If God were made in her image,
creation would speak in reasoned fertile seasons of shadow dark, and lightning bright,
synapses of climax, echoing down river valleys
rolling out grand majesty of EcoLogos,
perfect rhythms,
rain beating Earth’s thunderous future.

It would have been more revolutionary
and probably therapeutic,
most certainly lovelier, had Leonardo portrayed God as Earth’s logos voice
swirling light as surf,
tidal river waters gleaming wide at dusk,
narrower in dawn’s first light,
a ribbon flowing light emerging to west
reflecting waters greeting eastern sky enlightenment,
Gaia’s morning river logos
translating Sun’s architectural might.

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March Blues River

Rivers of bluesy-greyscale river
flow through her understoried gaze,
sometimes too turbulent,
occasionally too still,
even for her Elder memory stream
with sluggish circulating economy
surrounded by surface-molding
way overly-competitive political
bicameral imbalance and equivocation,
or some days it just feels that way to her,
facing windblown cold effacing light.

Nearing to her share of winter’s oceanic nurture-time,
sea’s streaming into surf’s elation
dilating over gravitas,
tidal flow streams below,
within her Great River of rivers of long-wet time
flowing yet surfing out and up
back and forth
surging heavens and slugging Others,
singing and dancing
eating and absorbing
stressing and struggling,
remembering undertow story
of WaterPlant-ReGeneration
incarnate need to flow back home again
into Earth’s oceanic flow of warm-lit light.

Back to this grey-blues suffering river,
from where this river’s story began
to flow through
her dipolar bifolding BeLovedTime
polyneural balance,
bilaterally waving within March light’s warm
cooperative-bicameral ecoconsciousness,
therapeutic-regenerate enculturing,
eco-mentoring,
frequently windy,
ecosystemic river of life self-identity,
heavy then light,
old then young again,
searching underwater mountains
of lava light’s rich regenerate reward
from whence wet-wave nutrient flow-streams
correlations
co-arising elations
as yummy balanced speed,
regenerating time as warm-love intent
EcoTime derived.

March greyriver blues
jonesing for a warm bright drama volcano,
or maybe just more low-fat granola in plain yogurt,
in front of her more comforting March
noticing nutrient streams
within wood stove’s flaming carbon plates
down below those cooling wet mountains.

Wonders of heat and time
radiate her naked face and hands
creating rivers of flowing memory
as nutrition-delivery intent
drifting grey-blues suffering Elder Rivers.

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River Source

We are each a spring of therapeutic kindness
and pathological unkindness
emerging from and toward a rising river of time,
flowing down deep through universal oceanic absorption,
ebbing back upriver’s EarthBound regeneration
back through time
leaping to confluently touch PresentPresence
if only for a timeless golden moment,
rapturous waterfall of time’s integrity
sweeping back and forth
across Earth’s ecoconscious eyes,
radiantly elational swirling smiling timeless joy
in love with timeless enjoying OtherTimes
CoPresent.

Kindness and unkindness transactions
among collegial parasitic ecotherapists
often unequal in power over potential futures,
produce both generosity and stinginess of empathy,
which responses ecoconsciousness invites
as appropriately proportional
are transactions between mutual water-flow mentors
of gratitude and lack thereof.

River’s Way
invests our human natured
Business as Fluidly Usual,
but Water’s EarthConscious Way
always prefers eco-gravitating
regenerational therapy,
rather than stagnant swamps
seeping monoculture’s stinky toxins,
ebbing lack of love
as healthy nature’s spring.

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Terror Asylum

On another Thames River,
with steady rural New England flow
toward Long Island’s warming Sound
then on and out toward whispering drowned memories
of Atlantis,
slumbering on eastern bank,
surrounded by Pequot Elder spirit grounds,
ruined medicine’s monolithic altars
worshiping insanely labyrinthine proportion,
crumbling mental-physical stately asylum carcasses,
sagging with trembling memories
of cultural inability
to remember empathic presence,
basic nature’s noticing of potentially present voices
speaking through cracked window and door frames,
peeling exterior landscapes,
collapsed roofs with rotten root foundations,
mumbly murmuring memories
of past river fogged-in days
and nights of terrorism,
ruled by despots of exegetical sanity
applauding wild bacchanal voices
jumping into tidal swollen,
then shrunken,
yet steady and wise-stately,
reasonable flow away out
toward wilder presence downstream
outstraining severed screams
of inpolitic madness.

Intended to grow up a school for sanity,
collaterally invested dust and decay emerged a prison
of abuse and neglect,
oppressively irrational exculturation.

Wild voices dismembering
loving presence of person,
too entrapped by past terrors,
chronic, climatic, psychotic prison
for muttering conversations between Ego’s Anger voice
berating left-handed fear of Fear ambivalence,
quivering recrimination reiterating through dungeon drugged nights,
layering medicated mindless attendance
over basic neural noticing,
thereby inducting rot
briefly intuiting tender absence of co-mentored narrow path
toward polypathic enculturation,
hiding in a forest
of cracked and crumbling drives and walkways,
seductive viral toxic infestation
of history weeded over.

On this other Thames
visitors violate serene gloom of despair,
turning our backs to return to safer grounds,
no less trespassing wilderness
but more profane,
slinking down an overcrowded river
of ubiquitous investment
in tumble-down sane urbanity.

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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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