Uncategorized

Late Fall

Outside views
remind me
Earth already represents
early winter
in my sacred EarthTale

Of internal climate healthy
redevelopment
heart mediated
in dialogue with nonverbal
Right/Left resonant
muse-integrity

Silent
sacred
mindful rest
promised
through winter’s hibernating
nest

Before best health days
of our grandchildren’s wealthiest lives
will struggle
seething still and silent
to not out loud envy
our apartheid cold messages

Time to “Man Up”
to get through my depressed
Yintegral chronic oppressed
trans-indigenous
multicultural potential

To winter through
LeftBrain monoculturing
viral win/lose dominance
over marginalized
“disabled” RightBrain prominence

Of late Fall
sinful PatriCapital daze
in my chronic LeftBrain dominant
entertaining
homiletic hubris

My monotheistic sublime
mid-summer protagonist
of all unspoken monoculturing passion narratives
expecting,
anxiously anticipating
my personal StraightWhite Patriarchal
anthrosupremacist savior

A late Fall god-given
self-righteous entitlement
defensive about dubious undemocratic
healthy transcendent fertility

Taking more than my four square share
of EarthTribe’s freezing ZeroSum
final regenerative inhale
rather than a NonZero
full-harvest gratitude exhale

To co-passion grandchildren’s
regenerate healthy inhale
balancing passionately co-invested
forgiving exhale

Spiraling dynamically out
toward full-spectral
four seasonal healthy wealth
of cross-generational
restoring Earth’s
lifetime emergence,
AnthroSacred

Balancing this compassioning
late Fall mountain moment
co-invested back toward inspiring
spirited spring
of my indigenous
bicameral
original natural/spiritual
EarthJustice bilateral wisdom

This win/lose LateFall day
is Not
THE END (yet)

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Savoring Summer

He steps outside
on love’s front yard
to savor this final summer
of playful intent,

Too soon stuck inside
when he would happily
and more healthily
have worked out
surrounded by garden sex
with sacred gratitude

And forest walks
through fecundity
entered under unshaken silence
of deep summer waiting,
as ominous as an approaching tsunami
terrifyingly known
yet not experienced.

But
not today.
Not here
in this dappled refuge
from jaded burning out
and inside sun
savoring his final summer
of playfully naive intent.

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Summer Saturday

On a Michigan farmer Saturday
in August,
anticipating tomorrow’s evangelical Sabbath,

When late summer vacations
invoked pre-sacred house cleanings
more unusually light,

Heading outside after lunch
into this spectacularly breezy
blue billowing
discontinuously cumulus cloudy
in-between radiant sky blue
infinite wonder

Into this awesomely long leisurely afternoon
becoming one of those special kids
sent out to rediscover solitary play
while Mom clears HER kitchen
to fill our kitchen
with impossible fragrance
of Sunday dinner rhubarb pie
or fresh strawberry shortcake,
whipping vanilla or banana cream
while boiling sweet yellow corn,
baking mac and ancient cheddar cheese
for this evening’s pre-dusk compline dinner.

On this first summer celebrating Saturday
of low humidity
and temperatures predicting September 70s

Out past our red barn
and past its barnyard lily pond
and into golden stubbled hay fields,
sheared sexy contoured face
of my temporarily uncloseted gay imaginings
hoping for YangGod’s sexiest face
smiling in sabbath of return

Continuing on
to private green cool woodland
to nakedly climb a favorite tree
skin to naked bark,
full-bodied embrace
of this fabulous shared EarthLife
transparent
and open
and breezy free with God’s inclusive hope.

Out to play
and pray
this day
and month
and vacation
and re-creation
will never end

Or end,
if time must continue,
in moonlit radiant peace,
night dreams
of asking into perfect Sabbath.

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Summer Hostage

Our small loop of a street
usually quiet
Today receives a loud grooming
with chain saws
and wood chippers
and diesel trucks slicing
and ruining silence
into anti-solitude.

This is my last day off
until summer school begins
in two sultry weeks.

Morning rain passed through
to breezy summer camp sun,
crisp shade tree shadows
moving slightly within lush grass
waiting for my non-motorized mower.

It feels queer…
I feel queer,
at sixes and sevens
at 67,
to trust that I need
not just more solitude
to become healthy again,
but more silence
to become vocally wealthy
again.

To go
or to stay
here
too near a State highway
trafficking toward two casinos
now more native to American economies
than Native Americans to empowerment.

This last bus
not quite upon us
while thoughts wonder
and feelings wander
about shouting sawers
and clanging chipper
banging my longing
back to a rural dirt dust-path
along side a Michigan Centennial Farm
where I knew breezy
silent
summer encampment days
of solitary
fresh freedom.

I wonder why
we can’t go home again,
Yet I can go back to childhood
solitude served up
in sacred silence
unsettling memories
of childhood freedoms lost.

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Life On Top

I long to be the top new-green leaf
on the tallest swaying spring breeze tree
in my florid fragrant late-spring neighborhood.

Not to lord myself
as superior to all my more fundamentally plebeian brethren,
but to celebrate this vast sisterly view
of who we sunlit glowing are
becoming toward summer’s climax together,

Then falling gracefully
in full colored autumn,
when I will have the longest downward flighting float
of all migrations

Becoming, once again,
a sacred part of snow-covered soil
feeding next spring’s tallest new-green leaf
of All transregenerators.

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August Storm

It started the 8th of June
moving away from too familiar
into too alien,
finding no sane oasis between.

Vibrant greens relentlessly fade
to wilting mono-academic drought.
Brown patches emerge with dulled loss of inspiration
of what might have been a family
an ecological home
a contenting pasture for aging bones,
hinky synapses flaring thorny tornadoes
of over-heating defeat.

Boxes realign themselves
incomprehensibly hiding any heathy value
in their move
from what could have been here
if not left there
where fading memories survive
my loss of regenerate presence.

Bags batter
bursting malignant neglect.
Chairs no longer fit
for seating hot self-abusive tempers
of displaced despair, dismay, dissonance.
Dust defecates deafening destiny.

A house that should be homeless
grows incipiently grateful for our habitual care;
downsizes redemptive purgation
into shrinking simplicity of violence
to invisible,
yet screaming silent strangling sensory strings
still slipping
sparkling vents glaring
glacially through stagnant July.

Then,
early August morning spills thick black.
Tall elder treetops sway above,
straining radical rooting systems below
with hope yet fear of cathartic free-flight wildness,
drama of release from double-bondage ambivalence
from petulant
radiant
hot diastolic July.

Lightning rolls in thunderous waving walls
competing back against falling drops of grace.
Transition storms through purging soul
stuck in discontenting worthless purgatory
in space without place
house without home
quasi-faith without hope
place with cavernous time
yin mindful without yang passion.

Earth and Sky roar co-arising dark wet flashy passion.
Wild yeast superlatively shredding domesticated designing culture’s skin,
bleaching dark co-passions through dry-cracked exegeting crevices.

“Abatement is not removal!”
Political abatement is not ecological removal
wild Wicked cackles demented co-investing delight.
“If great transitions were regenetic
then messianic nomads would rule our universalities,
pilgrims would landscape Promised Land RealTime Estates
with co-arising eco-karmic bilateral nutritious confidence.”

The storm abates,
drought removed.
Thunder claps and sighs farewell.
Brief time
now
to soar as evening’s rainbow
before fair decomposing haze horizon
rolls over light’s last disarraying gasp.
As night promises peace,
Thunder cracks and shakes one last remembering.
Yin’s serenity is not always Yang’s sanity.

Promise smiles integral syncopathic teardrops
on this hot tin roof.

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Tree Flying

Watching each moment,
as high as bone and flesh weight allow,
in my low-limbed high-rise chestnut tree,
immersed in meadow sea of bird-flight creation,
I hope to hear our past
folding back to inform empathic feeling.
A memory,
a smile with bemusing frown.

I become benign prey
of watcher’s warm, yet sometimes too distant stale, intent.
Grace absorbs
through warm skin sky
up and out into warmer guts of flying synergy.

These are my claim on graced Elders
watching in my direction
only when I remember to notice them
waving, oscillating, spinning in and through and by me.
Informing my inner space and flow,
settling my Earthly tenacious rooted infrastructure.

Elixir of warm August humid breezes
breathing watchers in;
breathing echo watched insides reversed out
to feed these weaving sultry leaves.

If I notice empathic trust
then I am gratefully watched.
When I am grateful for in-between prehension
then I am gracefully watching ecotherapeutic us,
together,
tree and me,
riding just-us under tallest canopy of waving leafy branches,
floating Elder trees,
flying breeze
forever.

We are weaving won
waving out
surfing slowly back toward wind-stormed sun.

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Tao Calendar

Where did we come from?

asked winter, of gratitude.

Who and what are we becoming and belonging?

asked spring, of hope.

Where are we going?

asked summer, of faith.

How did we get here, again?

asks fall, with incarnating grace,

winnowing harvest’s climatic outcomes,

regenerative, redeem-and-balance, economic mind.

 

Each life,

and all life,

is a coincidental ReGenesis Project.

How are yours coming along?

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Tao’s Raining Mountain

A mountain of information is our species

some currently incarnating

some reincarnating

some diskarmating

decaying

over-diastolic

dia-sated with trim-tabbing

exterior and above

fat-filled dissonance;

interior within elder wisdom,

peace about justice and love’s sustained future.

 

This mountain is coincidental

culturally reweaving information string

of each Self

a humaned “Me!”

 

More mountain reflective,

more eisegetical,

less Orthodox,

yet not insanely heretic,

we communicate our formation,

our in-formed tribal

culture’s naturally sensionic cooperative identity.

What we say is what we are

until  renewing strains

push out resonant full-stringed songs.

 

We are Earth’s Information Tribe

part of Native Nature Nation.

Human natural shamans

enculturing our information string

retelling our inclusive story,

magnetic waves of lavish bi-linear

erupting springish youth

to saturate each sensory surface

with compost

growing enculturative strings

of dancing poetry

recycling down and egging in

toward Mountain’s yinnish river core

raining up reversed temporal flow.

 

Form fractally flows up

emerging out from Time Mountain’s (0) Core

positively confluent streams of

egg-meet-sperm frequencies

form meets functioned dia-bi-metered

norming radiant empowered

North re-binomial ellipse

dawn’s graceful lava

implicately placed for spacetime’s positive pleasuring

nutritious composting wealth

of sequined information,

North radiantly autonomic frequency default.

 

We weave our mountain

within a volcanic range

stringing back to stardust

and forth toward well-flowed

Earth genetic story.

 

Home on the range

where binomials roam

North toward Yang summer’s fullness

and South toward Yin winter’s hybergetic wake advent-ure

to spring again as lavish spacetime’s Tao rain.

 

Mountain’s skies are just-cloudy at night.

 

 

 

 

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