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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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Wild Fire Management

I suspect you are right, that we get confused about the messages Earth gives us about what is optimally and sustainably healthy and inclusive of full diversity, including full-diversity of our anthro-centric neural systems, and degrees and oscillating waves of comparative mind-body health v. pathology.

When we measure the health of our political and economic forest, it would seem confusing and misguided to compare lifespans of the average organism within one forest to those of another, and thereby determine anything germane to comparative diverse “health-robustness” optimization of inter-species cooperative relationships . Although it might be interesting to compare the lifespans of the median organism–but maybe that’s what you meant, because the outcome measures are of trees, which should be about right in terms of the comparative internal diversity of Earth systems, but would be entirely wrong with regard to average lifespan of the entire incarnate biosystem within an ecosystem. We are essentially measuring the robustness of our temporal-Elders with median levels of regenetic-diversity balance in their endosymbiotic information processing and embryonic storage systems.

I think in Permaculture Design we learned that the old dead trees are best cut down and burned for fuel to heat our homes, allowing more room for a nearby medium tree to flourish, grow more robust, or perhaps even two or three trees to share this newly accessible ring of photosynthetic fuel.

What the forest seems to be saying to our “burn management” school of forest management, is to include age diversity in our measure of biosystemic diversity as a positive, and to assess each individual gift of the forest for its highest and best use, rather than trying to micromanage from on high. Facilitating trees of all ages  and digestive-breathing diversity of interrelationships is complex, requires considerable listening and discernment, and sitting together, showing up and showing to each other what we need to survive together.

The real measure of robust sustainable health is probably universally inclusive and unitarian-intended diversely welcoming, inviting political/economic environments. With trees and meditators and therapists we call this Basic Attendance, setting aside nutrient/neural-assumptions of cognitive/affective dissonance/pathology.

I suspect that mental health is mind health, and I suspect that our “mind” is not rationally reduced to a synonym for “brain” or even “head.” I further suspect that the combination of economic ecological health and political-private relational anthro-centric health are, for each of us, and for all of us. as cooperative co-mentors of health (because that’s what DNA is positively designed to do, that is DNA/RNA’s vocation, if you will, regeneratively sustainable health), the real-time currency of optimized Continuous Quality Improvement currently emerges, co-arises, as cooperative healthy-wealth care and perpetuation toward future healthy regenerators of all species.

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Uncategorized

Being (sh)”It”

It was there

right there

on woodland’s playground

when I first knew

something stirs very wrong.

 

I was blind to balls

hurled at me,

being It is not why I grow my mind and body,

or is it?

 

I am “It!”

or at least half It.

 

It and I play best alone.

He slows down

to notice ocean surf

waving back and forth

an ocean sighing Hi, then low,

creeping in and sucking out.

It both hugs and climbs trees

to the very top

on windy ways

to wave back.

 

Why is It so shy?

Or, am I hiding her-him,

I’m not sure,

some of both

but too androgynous Him

fears no one else notices

surf rolls in and reverses out.

 

It knows bi-natured law

prehensile full-bodied grasp

of organic life’s humorous ambiguity

creative ambivalence

righteous equivalent functions and flows

of yang with yin within,

as without,

below,

as above,

before,

as to come,

long,

as to belong now,

together.

 

It’s so hard to not love

not share

bare

expose cooperatively unbalancing It.

S/he is soo… much fun!

laughs with everyone

generous enough to return this fine favor.

It’s polypathic polyculturing

binomial binary buddha brain

saturates flowering rain

dissects words to heal disharmonic logos

through permacultured alchemy linguistics,

a language It fears to ultimately find

merely eisegetical,

 

It chooses Red Rover

over soccer,

plays teacher with girls

over driving trucks and trains,

thinks compulsively about this problem of evil

while watching Leave it to Beaver,

where Father Knows Best,

over pitching stones and driving tractor.

 

It feels older and wiser than Him

but they are born twins

or so it seems

but It mysteriously explores incarnating cycles,

watching double-funneling raincloud whirlwinds

wind wending Elder ways

etching whorlwaters in our sea of shared identity,

or is whipping wind following whirling water,

but certainly both?

It abhors stability,

but adores regenerating solidarity.

 

It mentors ecotherapy with trees and me,

shows me boundary issues and branch

functions and frequencies

between August’s Yangish fire

and winter’s quenching white snow and ice,

between autumn’s wind falling regenetic harvest

and spring’s diastolic succulent soil

decomposing nutrients

growing new perennial rings in this life’s tree,

new leaves of grass-fed hope

new polyculture basic, simple-rich compost

new incarnating multisystemic

ecotherapeutic grace,

responsive

resolving

resonant within evil’s missing

non-polynomial dislogical pace,

new flowers and fruit

for Eden’s farm.

 

Did I just call It a fruit

out loud?

Shit happens inside our playground,

while planning more polyculturally redemptive lives.

 

 

 

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Uncategorized

Free Reign

Wild grains of ice

blow, swirl,

wave

form flurried frosty fantastic clouds,

evaporating as they float up

to form a soft steel sky,

bleak backdrop behind

swaying naked trees conducting

dancing

singing

winter’s full-blowing opera.

 

Some approach

briefly wave

bowing

bouncing isolated moments,

white lace water,

incarnate grace of space.

 

Bands and billows

tornado up

sweep down blanket roofs

around

and past,

greet this eternally dramatic day,

then move on

continuing adventive play,

compassioning breath and blood beat.

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Tree Meds

I heard from my tree today.

He and she were both

barely speaking to me

forgetting my root systems

all tangled up with theirs

rather than sharing permaculturing compost

more naturally and economically.

 

I spoke to my tree today

about fading memories of shared nutrients,

breathing together

following our full-colored spectrum

from light through dark,

springing summer and falling winter,

shared days and seasons

riding time’s gravity surf edge

between past practice of warm cold precedent

and future’s predicted intent,

regrowing lovely forests

of mutual forbearance and sustenance,

and synergetic gratitude.

 

Tree therapy

for weak-rooted pathology,

breathing in

while he and she breathe out.

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Burning Bodhisattva Tree

Our Tree of Life burns,

self-immolating inside out,

charred stench of commodifying human flesh,

entrapping memories grown commercial,

messages without information,

histories without cultures.

 

Language primally embracing rooted systems in our racing,

breeding search for compost

not yet fracted and extracted

from angry longing

for simply belonging,

seeding Earth’s surface

to recover shade

from our own souled out burning despair.

 

Screaming voiceless stream of speciating suicide,

passion flight of fire.

 

Hard endings measure soft beginnings,

to turn one last time in hope

for faith to love peace sufficiently

to thrive through flame’s winged purge,

singed yet sung snug,

resting nest of painful longing

to fly one last sacred arc beyond

this softly falling dark horizon.

 

We seem to die

to learn to fly together.

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Uncategorized

Weeping Trees of Life

My tree of life too often weeps

willowing down toward grounded roots

sustaining all this weight of history.

 

Our tree of life grows up and down,

a tree of cultured composting ground

up through tiny reaching tendrils

laced to root-unwinding system growth,

up toward light and air and breeze

and full-bloomed flower of polyculturing praise.

 

My life tree weeps for fear of death

tear-seeds reining in my soul

winking down through fertile ground

where springs bring hope of day.

 

Not all trees are weeping trees.

We tend to grow near watered streams

flooding nutrintegritative souls

awash in tears

informed by years of self-encultured

sadness ignored by upright stretch

of stronger Yangish stuff,

with dryer roots.

 

My tree of life too often weeps

to grow up as an oak

filled willow to reach around this Earth

and dance with roots

gracefully embracing soulfilled

gravitating rhythms

of regenesis.

 

My tree of life too often weeps to grow.

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