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Healing With Ivy

Overly familiar with her defiance
patterns of fetal alcohol confusion,
neuro-systemic habits of resistance,

I, the consummate ecofeminist,
was sure my daughter felt
I was shutting wounded Ivy out
when she wanted me
to enter her toxic on-line
stream of Sponge Bob consciousness

When she came to me,
in self-care mode,
while I was meditating
reading
reflecting
writing
breathing deeply in,
then out

One gasp for hope
at a new pandemic time,
searching for one hour
without unmitigated despair
at this unhealthy contagion time,
one calming day at a time,
one therapeutic glimpse at a week,
one unimaginable month,
one lifetime of a year,

One retiring stage,
one quickly ancient life,
one emerging seamless love
at this time.

In exasperation
with her insistent interruption
in my sacred space,
I exclaimed
“Ivy, I can’t take care of you
if you won’t let me
take care of me!”

To which she replied,
“Can I sit here
quietly
next to you?”

I was skeptical,
cynical about cooperative deep breathing
with screaming screen-time Ivy,
but “You may,
if you can”

And so she did
sit next to me
at the head of my bed
where her paraplegic brother slept
post-seizure,

She leaned her black curled head
against my old white man shoulder
peacefully
breathing side by side

And that is how
we resiliently entered
into this passing
evolving
rising and falling,
erupting and disrupting pandemic
of Earth’s green
and sacred
virally emergent
health care.

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Loving Jose

Yes, Jose,
this is another love letter
from anthroprivileged me
to LeftBrain dominant you
for multicultural us.

I’m still here
sinking into my deep blue camp chair
with feet resting on a weathered
wooden platform
for my monastic tent

Now folded
and masterfully squeezed into its storage bag
like a fat green sausage
with a thick
black fly zipper,
secure,
awaiting it’s next orgasmic coming out
to camp and play.

And you,
warm and glistening
listening you,
are still driving
west toward this transition
Saturday’s bittersweet sunset.

Perhaps already lonely
thinking
of what
and feeling whom
lies ahead
while all else feels left behind

Another week of adventure lost;
another week of memories gained

Yet memories have grown cacophonous
while adventures in knowing
new frontiers
grow old as shrinking Earth
grown bodies

Fading hope to feel
taste
see
hear
smell
touch abundantly enough
for this full life
experiencing love
quenched time

Comparing future now to back there then,
wishing we could have us all
warm and pleasant
in our head,
heart,
bed of intimacy
without embarrassing
premature limits,
boundary issues,
health precautions.

You tried to apologize
for not asking more
about my wounded kids

And I did not think to apologize,
but wonder, now, that I didn’t,
for not asking how you are feeling
and dealing
post prostate cancer

Remissions
feel like uncertain transitions,
undemanding admissions
both healthy opportunities
and diseased risks
lie beyond this day’s journey
toward Albany.

Perhaps you,
like me,
fear
and already feel
loss of intimacy
imagined
yet not touched,
thought
but not appreciably,
healthy needed
but not safely found,
sacred bound
for joy’s immense integrity.

When I walked into our group’s enclosed porch
this past Sunday
for my first check-in circle,
your first facilitation,
I thought of my former boss.

You look and sound
like Bishop Tafoya,
when he was your age
and I was half your age.

I had trouble
shaking this sage off.

It helps
that you sing
with warmth and passion
in fulsome baritone,
as the good Bishop
decidedly did not.

Nor could I imagine him
dancing with a white scarved fan
with integrity
flirtatious machismo
joyfulness
deeply resounding playfulness.

Do you have a type?
I wonder
Are you familiar with mine?

Those romantic,
erupting into erotic,
miracles of preference
we cannot control
or calm our appetites
to accept
AND appreciate,
anticipate
those with us
here and there
in and out of Gayla 44,
after and before
now heading west
away from east.

So much to hide,
to learn,
to unveil,
to set aside
for graceful aging,
and to warmly embrace
for compassioned wisdom
felt together,
rather than silently,
less sacredly,
apart.

The Center’s lunch bell rang
and now has gone

Absorbed by quiet shushing
and rustling
high in evergreens
baking in Mama’s summertime
weekend of commerce
and less commercial passions,
traffic rituals,

Pre-empting ancient natural liturgies
of sea,
flowing water
and strong mountains
inspiring bonfires
bond-fire between rising
and falling phoenix
conjoining
co-investing
multi-generational passions;
daddies and sons,
masters and slaves,
tops and bottoms,
poles and holes,
straights and rounds,
dipolar co-arising

Riding forward home
to what continues repurposing why,
reworking hidden meaning
as yet unredeemed
in sensory Business As Usual

Backward east
returning promises
of safe and healthy
bright happy new dawns
transcending broken hearts,
troubled mind’s
loss of time’s
most cherished values

Love’s integral compassions
resting first
returning last

Already
I miss you
ready to miss us.

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Bottoms Up

Earth’s green/blue healthy healing climate

Some LeftBrain emergent verbal singers
and dancers
felt as resonant Gaian EarthMother health
for rebirth re-connection
reweaving

Reconceived
empowered and bilaterally enlightened
benign winds of ecofeminist
local EarthMatriotic
community domestic
democratic
typically extra-familial fertile polycultural

Regenerative health global-systemic
benignly viral GoldenRule revolutions
inseminating
TrueWealth Win/Win NonViolent EarthCommunications

InBetween Both/And nuanced thought/felt dialogue
for win/win co-emergent
dipolar co-arising choices

Preferably not quite so unawesomely
sacred/sensory Either/Or bipolar
affective anxiety preconceptions
overpowering eco/ego-logically indigenous
green polytheistic cooperative reconceiving
re-birthing
reverse solidarity outside time re-membering
re-connecting
re-ligioning Truth/Beauty Ancient Gaian HealingMercy
We’re All On This Sacred Green/Blue Earth
Interdependent MultiCultural Wisdom

Yang+Yin = 1 Universal PolyNomial Intuitive-Indigenous
NonZero-CoEfficient CoPassionate LeftBrain EcoLogos
for Unitarian Yin/Yang = (-,-) PreConception not
not also Yang/Yin = Original 1/0 Inception-BiNomialThicket

AnthroCentric LeftHemisphere relearning win/win
compassionate Both/And Ego/EarthHealth
restorative justice polycultural reset
reversing retributive monoculturing win/lose dissociation

Reincarnating local inter-healthfaith community’s
most long-term resilient green economic
and ecological
healthy democracy
healthy climate
healthy anthro-public
wealthy all YintegralBeauty/YangTrust
CoPassionate Communing Healthy EarthTribe
protecting
providing for
polyculturally co-investing in
eco-politically green/blue healing
matriotic co-empowering
ecohealth-enlightening
self/other-copassioned lives

Sacredly committed
to at least the next seven regenerations
of a California RedWood Fertile Forest
and a Chinese Bamboo Resiliently Integral
Complexly Cooperative WinWin
Deep MultiCulturally Rooted Thicket.

Note:

Taoism is a Way as Zeroism is an EgoEmpty/EcoResilient political co-empathic experience exercised and practiced most trustingly by healthy left hemisphere thoughts and wealthy right hemisphere sacred EarthWomb reconnections between light and power, sacred enlightenment and green economically and globally localized cooperatively self/other-reorganizing resilient empowerment.  

As Thomas Merton called, “le point vierge….Perhaps I have an obligaion to preserve the stillness, the silence, the poverty, the virginal point of pure nothingness which is at the center of all other loves.”

Still, and more silently, this piece owes its original inception to the I Ching, The Book of Change, especially the fourth icon before/after HeavenLight, EarthPower, BirthThroeThroughThrow, “Inception-Thicket,” as translated by David Hinton.

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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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