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TransPartisan Anxious Anticipations

What is coming to pass
with my anticipation,
when passed
provokes anxiety
about my loss.

What is coming to pass
with my anxiety,
when passed through
returns toward my grateful anticipation.

Then what is coming to pass
with this anticipation…

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Great Transitions

Great transitions became part of human experience
after we gave up on daily nomad lifestyle,
perhaps too bohemian
to have ever actually existed
out of nutritional nurturing choice

As contrasted with necessity
of drought,
floods,
pestilence,
famine,
chronic wars,
climatic absence of healthy peace.

Great transitions
are choices,
positive more than negatively motivated,
to move from one habitat
in space and/or time
to another
that feels more promising,
worthy of trust,
a potential celebration of interactive beauty,
holistic balance,
resilient health,
aesthetically resonant wealth.

Great transitions
have their inhale stage,
before the moving Team appears,
which includes hard and soft decisions
and indecisions,
memories,
and rude reminders
lacking acquisitive memories
about where did all these properties come from,
external
with their internally complementary feelings
of way too much stuff
in my cluttered life,

Happiness to be bringing warm memories along
and sadness to leave so much cold
and neglectful waste
behind the dumpster

And great transitions
also have their less famous exhale stage
after the moving Team
moves on
to facilitate another household’s preferably Great
but sometimes Traumatic
Transition.

Great transitions
in second stage
open one box at a time
to reload new closets
basements
attics
garages
sheds
shelves
entertainment centers
dress drawers
treasure chests
jewelry boxes
safes
mailboxes
kitchen and bathroom drawers
cabinets
medicine cabinets
CD and DVD racks
soundtracks
shoe racks
pot racks
wine racks
over the door hat racks
behind the door spice racks
tool racks and peg boards
hangers
umbrella stands
coat trees
bird feeders
pantry shelves
under the oven drawers
armoires
desks
hutches
book cases
curtain rods
picture hangers
linen closets
nightstands
pillow cases
guest beds

Great transitions
never die
they just fade in
to what remains of yesterday

Sufficient for this new age
of rebecoming
habituated
co-acclimated
seeking a healthier climate,
a wealthier place
for healing uncooperative
lack of felt resilience

To survive
and hopefully thrive
into our next Great Transition,
inhaling into recycling lungs,
exhaling out into greener
more resonantly resilient
Great Earth Habitat.

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Packing Up

Moving out feels much sadder
than moving in, more gladder–
which is poor grammar
for severance of love’s embodied glamour.

Packing up
feels more like packing in
and down,
cutting ties with my own stage,
this playful working space,
for everyday self
and other witnessing life
love
hate
joy
anger
courage
fear
healing
suffering

Not a fabulously grand stage
but my intimate memories
triggered by damp basement
through dusty attic,
inside resonant
and outside growing resilient,
front yard exhibitions
and back yard more inhibited glimmers
and shivers,
dimmers
and emotive rivers

Moving out
without regard for loss
feels too surgical,
masochistic,
violent,
silent shriek of bad faith
loss,
divestment from personal
political
economic
cultural placement
more sacredly cherished
than secularly calculated
in clock time to move on.

My best therapeutic intent
to know I leave this tiny spot of Earth
at least as healthy
and beautiful
as I have found her
while unpacking
in her abandoned
neglected
bramble thorned sadness
inviting my hope-filled gladness
too few years ago.

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New Year Masquerade

For what manner of beast,
sad creature,
mad monster,
deeply dark angel east,
does everyday accompaniment
seed cold contempt
instead of bleeding warm sacred resonance?

Should beloveds
not expect to grow in sublime stature
not despite, but for humored respite, flirtatious flaws,
fallen fractured nature, merely human
after and before All.

Divine epiphany,
fully-flowered gods and holy-climaxed goddesses
relinquishing anti-divine powers
redundantly secularized,
now old bad not-news,

Flaws adored
because of these robust fractures
of opportunity
to remind Belovers:

Silent patience bleeds compassion
heading toward disgust,
self-shaming,
other-blaming
for missed transcendent mindful bliss

Of anima–
dark animal angel nature

Away from all this daily mundane muck,
life not as love would design us
but Earth’s timeless generations
have invited each of holy us
uniquely to let go of contemptuous patience
with ourselves and other-selves,
ego-beings and eco-becomings

To grab hold of sublimely sacred nature
here in this deep dark in-between place.

Here
where human nature grows most profligate
and naked
and vulnerably courageous

To consider all missing facts
of life most fully considered
and love regardless
as if each sacred absent moment,
each transitioning year,
were our health wealthiest last
and final 20/20 revision

Since we first sacred emerged
into social
and cultural
and eco-political light,
divine and mundane,
sublimely sacred and routinely worthy
of good-humored contempt,

And,
most cutting double-edge of all,
this curiously courageous humane nature
spiritually in-between
already old
and reasonably new

Empires
and masquerading inspirations.

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Wishing Different Ways

As painful as your transparency is,
I appreciate the integrity you have found
To say this parting of shared habituations
has moved from temporary
to permanent
for you;
for us.

I would have preferred a resurrection
from temporary separation
to permanent mutual admiration,
but I trust you, too,
prefer this shared dream
no longer accessible
to wounded hearts.

I have loved you,
I do love you,
but I have hurt you
perhaps with more wounding skill
than my younger compassion found thrill.

For these deep wounds where you,
we,
need trust,
I regret,
apologize,
Would create healing repairs
through better bilateral winning communication,
as possible,
invited,
cooperatively embraced.

For love invested
I have no apology,
no regret,
no worries about less than abundant warm compassion returns,
revolutions,
deep resonance with Earth’s eternally revolving womb,
timeless culture promoting health,
best practiced when
and where
and while we find regenerating passions,
synchronic wealth.

I realize you are not seeking
warm embraces from some Other future lover;
nor am I.

And yet,
should your Right path offer a renewing embrace
I would share your joy in responding “Yes!”

And, should this miracle
descend upon bald and wrinkled me,
or even us
in some future unfinishable life,
I hope you will want no more or less
than a joyous part
of our continuously extending Family
Of warm-felt relationship
association
friendship
kinship,
sacred communion.

That LeftBrain said,
my RightBrain has a farewell duet with Chris Walker:
How Do You Heal A Broken Heart?
(revised and condensed, lightly)

“I can’t believe what I just heard
Could it be true
Are you the guy I thought I knew
The one who promised me true love

Where did it go
Does anybody ever know

How do you heal a broken heart
That feels like it will never beat this much again
Oh no
I just can’t let go

How do you heal a broken heart
That feels like it will never love this much again
Oh no
Tonight I’ll hold what could be right
Tomorrow I’ll pretend to let you go

And were we ever what we seemed
Or were we just fools
Who fell in love
Each with his own dream
And now you say you want to leave
Start a new life today
Those words I thought you’d never say

Tonight I’ll hold what could be right
Tomorrow I’ll pretend to
Wake and put it all behind me
And find that I have finally found

A new life
In my soul
And find that I know how to let you go
You go

How do you heal a broken heart
That feels like it will never love this much again
You go

Tonight I’ll hold what could be right
Tomorrow I’ll pretend to
Wake and put it all behind me
And find I know how to let us go.”

 

 

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Climate Rise Up

As I write this, thousands of people are gathering to listen with each other, to sing, perhaps to dance more than walk in striking solidarity for climate health. I have been thinking of this moment, this event, this day, this strike on this sacred Earth all week.  And, each time this gathering comes to mind, so does Cassandra Batie and Jennifer Decilveo’s 2016 anthem, “Rise Up.”

This variation on Batie and Decilveo’s lyrics I sing in tears of joy and deep sorrow with those who are on their way, drawing near toward the sound and sight of each others’ voices.  I would love to join you in person, but old bones and heart and mind have learned that my climate anxiety flares into manic hope at such events, and then I pay the suicidal ideation price on my way home, feeling alone, hopeless.

I believe for every face and voice seen and heard at a Climate Strike gathering around the world today, there is at least another, and probably several others, with you in swelling heart, in passionate mind, in loving soul, but, like me, have learned that our Great Transition role, however resonant, will best remain resilient as we Rise Up on our front porches and back yards, in our forests and ocean shores, on our rivers and lakes, to sing to Earth’s tired trees, to dance to aching birdsong, to remember when we were young, more hopeful, more proud of what we can yet accomplish within Earth’s sacred solidarity.

Humbled now, this is dedicated to those more visible, to know we are millions already belonging together within this shared Great Transition, Great Turning, Great Reweaving with you; and with gratitude to Cassandra Batie and Jennifer Decilveo for Rise Up, embodied and well-sung hope.

I have been your living Earth;
I will live and die through you.

I will be your blood born sap;
You will live and die with me.

This Great Transition
into owning competitive responsibility
for climates of pathology and health,
inward and outward,
composed of all past energies,
small co-arising transitions
reweavings
regenerations
now contained in Earth’s soil,
Her rebirthing baptismal waters,
Her buoyant air,
Her fertile winds
and purging fires.

Earth’s broken down
and tired
of living love
on this unmerry-go-round,

And I can’t see Her lovers
but I hear life in you
so we gon’ rise Earth up,
Move mountains,
we gon’ walk love out
and heal oceans.

And we’ll rise up,
We’ll rise each Earth’s day,
We’ll rise up,
We’ll rise unafraid,
We’ll rise up
and we’ll love life a thousand times again;

And we’ll rise up
high like Earth’s waves,
We’ll rise up
in spite of life’s ache,
We’ll rise up
and give love a million times again,

For Earth,
For you,
Earth, for you;

When our silence isn’t quiet
and it feels like we’re growing hard to breathe
and we know Earth feels like dying,
Then I promise we’ll raise the Earth to Her feet,
Heal forests,
Bring Earth’s tribes to our feet
and move mountains.

All we need,
All we need is hope
And for faith we have each other,
And for peace we have each other;

And we will rise
we will rise
we will rise
we will rise,

We’ll rise like Earth’s day
We’ll rise up,
We rise unafraid,
We rise up
and we’ll love life a thousand times again,

And we’ll rise up
high like Earth’s waves,
We rise up
in spite of hate’s ache,
We rise up
and Earth does love a million lives again.

For Earth,
We will rise
we will rise

We will rise
for you,
Earth will rise with you.

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Slow-Cooked Conversion Stories

I was raised in one of those white nationalist churches,
passing itself off as a Christian evangelical Bible church,
where “evangelical” meant fundamental
and “fundamental” meant we did not interpret scripture
but accepted it as God’s literal trans-historical Word
of universal white male dominant
Bible thumping supremacy,
transcendently un-changing like…
like…
like nothing I’ve ever seen or heard
or smelled or tasted

Which is why we call not-Him-or-Her “God”
and not “SuperEgo”
or multicultural “Gaia”

Or anything else.
It turns out “God”
is a bit like not saying Valdemore’s name;
As Yahweh
is more about the ambiguously missing vowels
than their YHWH
YYXY
Either/Or-Both/And
bicameral structure.

Anyway, enough about sacred bisensory ecology.
While at People’s Bible Church
I was told, by all the white heterosexual adults
supporting and educating me
that being born again is not a gradual thing,
like growing into a pubescent body,
but instant,
like convenient oatmeal
or inferior mashed potatoes.

If I could not say,
with one hundred percent persuasion,
that I was reborn in Christ
on May 8, 1964
at 2:53 PM
Eastern Savings Time,
Just as I was originally born
on May 8, 1952
at 2:53 A.M.,
much to my mother’s inconvenience–
finished just in time to get home
to our dairy farm
for an unleisurely visit with “The Girls”
during her morning milking parlor gig–
Then the deviant
devilish mark of Satan
still clouds my not so milky white
not straight enough
not truly pure soul.

Such instant and yet resilient grace
felt unlikely to me.

I did not instantly lose hope
for a hot SantaDaddy
sliding down our family chimney
emerging from the family wood-burning furnace,
scorched of unnecessary
and superfluous clothes
to give me all the fruited manly gifts
I have felt so empty without
warm and wet accompaniment,
accomplishment.

Gradually,
over several years of neglecting this Santa myth
as cultural fantasy,
I did not wake up on May 8, 1956,
at 2:53 A.M.
and announce to all those not listening,
“I no longer believe in Santa Claus.”

De-mythification progress
seems to take me
about as long as my left-brain
dominating commodification process
took to grow into queer adolescence,
feeling unsafe,
unwanted,
with a best case possible future
of invisible insignificance,
hidden deeply beneath healthy humility.

Just as it took awhile to comfortably acclimate
to the toothlessness of myth,
It took me all my development years
on into late adolescence
to be sure that I would never safely
or resiliently convert
into a heterosexual.

When we were mutually experimenting grade school boys
during not much sleep overs
I was sure we shared the same destiny–
future heterosexuals,
Mr. Cleavers,
Mr. Smiths
not all too fascinated with Mr. Johnsons.

I didn’t suddenly realize,
“Oops. I failed to convert.”
Maybe I was a late bloomer,
just as some girls get pubes
and teats
and mensies later on
which seemed like more unfair girl pressure
than just sprouting new hair in old moist places
and growing at least somewhat less girlish voices.

Just as there was no May 8, 2:53 P.M.
of any year
when I knew,
“OK, that’s it.
It’s done growing
in both length and width.”
I had no day or night
when I said,
“OK, that’s it.
I choose to be queer”
so I can be the target of hate crimes,
bad jokes,
white Christian heterosexual predators,
bigoted employers,
homophobic police
and teachers
and parents
and siblings,
and preachers

Fully capable of witnessing against me
the exact date, time, and year
they began their life long love affair
with white male Jesus Christ,
straight (presumably) Jewish carpenter’s apprentice,
Son of God and…
and…
God,
who finished creating Earth,
and at least our entire Solar System,
exactly seven days
after He started, on May 8th
at 2:53 A.M.,
year 0000.

I have developed health-considered faith
in win/win progressive processes.
I accept that faith actively hopes in unseen relationships,
unheard communications,
unnoticed actions and reactions.

Still,
I find an always changing
transparent
vulnerable,
courageously curious difference
between left-brain statements of verbal instant faith,
and right/left-brain emerging lifeskill learnings
conversions
healings
redemptively felt economies,
salvific co-relational powers,

And I have trouble believing
that such ubiquitous differences
between slow-grown processive maturation
and imitative instant role-playing
is only accessible to queers,
white, black, brown, red, purple, green, or ultra-violet,
born on May 8, 1952
at 2:53 A.M.
much to the inconvenience
of busy heterosexual
pre-millennial dairy farmers.

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Raising Paradise

Rise up Genesis,
Rise up Exodus
into ReGenesis.

Rise up paradise hope,
Rise up arms and legs
for cooperative faith.

Rise up health,
Rise up compassion
vested wealth.

Rise up Creation,
Rise up habitats
for re-creation.

Rise up solidarity,
Rise up happy endings
for ego-supremacy,
anthro-infamy.

Rise up integrity,
Rise up green
resilient energy,
resonant synergy.

Rise up EarthJustice,
Rise up climates of peace.

Rise up Genesis,
Rise up Exodus
into co-arising ReGenesis.

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Lively Fires

Life burns vigorously
predatively
until retiring,
slowing down to glowering embers
reflecting on all consumed since birth.

Flaming gratitude feels not yet fulfilled,
heatedly completed,
but hanging on for what calming
cooling purpose?
Embalming remnants of fueled meaning
with smug self-satisfaction
and feckless remorse.

Family relationships burn out
turn in toward former flames
risen higher
fueled deeper in memory
than capacity for renewed heat images
now questionable
in life’s resilient potential.

Fires nurture risk and opportunity,
but old fires grow risk of cold and acrid ashes,
fading active hope for new winds
smoking in renewed fuel opportunities.

This strong-fired life
of dried out climate difference,
strong inflaming protest,
oft questioned dignity,
smolders in wrinkling
shrinking maturity
over ripe with risk
of fading opportunity to yet see Earth
with new peaceful eyes,
with impassioned fires of understanding
what this human conflagration was all about.

Smoldering embers
dimly hope for new winds,
new unbillowing eyes
to recall that initial committed moment
of inspiration,
of spark and wind and fueled experience
inviting fires from first spark
til last light spent.

Fire,
like life,
like love,
builds its own waiting sanctuary.

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