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Silent Night through DayTime Prayers

Before presidents and attorneys got hold of it,
and back before theologians were even a glint in the Golden GodHead’s eye,

Prayer, silent or verbose,
was filled with reminders and gratitude to ourselves
and for and from others,
with pleas for urgent help
from all souls past
and still longed for,
especially those personally remembered
by having shared this home on Earth
in more balanced golden era times
of enchanting imaginations,

And petitions
to future generations
to finish what we,
and all who have passed through before us,
have healthy started,

And to forgive us for what we have neglected to rightly left unfinish,
failed to deeply hear and see resonance,
heart and mind resilience,
feel and think restoratively
this difference between healthy resilient prayerful life
and pathological resistance
to sacred multiculturing educational re-membering
theo/ecological resources of silent EarthTribe souls.

For experiential ecologists,
and for communion theologists,
those who see cooperative nature’s climate outside
reflecting organic spirit’s health v. mortal pathology inside,
Prayer often leads from suffering impatient words and warnings
toward restoring just non-violent silence.

Life as prayer provokes a transubstantiating bridge
between past and future regenerators
for growing compassionately interdependent Left/Right Brain Egos

To travel back through origins of healthy DNA time
and forward toward omega tipping points to co-arise branching wealth
securing resilient global resonance
restoring justice
regathering Earth’s ecstatic silent communion
within AllSouls before,

Breaking through theological silence, glass ceilings,
boundaries for and against solidarity of ecstatic futures,
polycultural wealth of health outcomes,
resiliently sustainable.

Such prayer changes interdependent things, systems
transubstantiate yin-cooperative and yang-competitive relationships.

Living prayer stretches ZeroSouls
experiencing ZenZone co-empathy–
easier in communal ego/eco-dynamic
empowering ecstatic silence
of a FullMoon winter solstice night.

 

 

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Rudolf the Ginger ReignDeer

Rudolf is mysteriously born in a manger
with a flaming red nose,
and eyes,
and ears,
and hair,
everywhere.

Gingers are rare
among his DeerTribe
as is his empathic capacity to know he is going where,
how to get there,
and about how long it could take
regardless of direction
or increasingly massive winter storms
as Earth’s dark final Solstice
ominously approaches collapse,

The opposite of Rapture
for all evangelists
and good news prophets
with politically correct monotheistic
retributive justice revenge passions
of a patriotic white nationalist
bitter wind nature.

Up until now,
Santa has relied on his GPS
especially for crossing polluted and rising oceans
and massively expanding deserts
where no people could live and prosper.

But, as the North Pole continues to melt
and winter night storms cover most of the northern hemisphere
Santa’s GPS joins the landfill,
unreliable for crossing ocean-size blizzards
and continental sand storms.

He consults his ReignDeer
in the Transportation Department.

After considerable non-violent discernment,
and a lot of back and forth with the Health and Safety Political Department
and the Communication and Marketing Correctness Department,
they recommend Rudolf to Santa
To see if he might be able to help guide his sleigh
of healthy gifts
despite Rudolf’s apparent deviant health issues
and his probable wealth of empathic internal voices
and his presumed challenges of politically incorrect humility.

Frankly, Rudolf is a bit queer,
especially when the sun lights up his nose
to the vibrant color of a red-hot coal.

So Santa asks Rudolf
if he might lead the way through growing storms of violent winds,
freezing ice and blinding sand.

Not by myself, he replies.
This is too much weight to bear
with flying sacred grace,
But if we might find
and teach
and listen to others with these same gingerish gifts,
then we might develop a leadership team
to fly far more than sufficient health resilience
for winter storm night skies
and shaking roofs.

Santa also asks Rudolf if he has any questions,
So Rudolf inquires about health and safety insurance
sufficient to cover Santa’s global transportation risks
and communion gifting opportunities.

Santa thinks this an unusual question
from young and apparently robust Rudolf,
but also a wise one
far beyond his ginger years.

Rudolf wonders if these health issues
came from his maternal grandmother
who may have been a violently violated ginger
but he had known her only after she turned silver
sparkling as a star

Twinkling warnings
of this post-millennial final Solstice,
when political aspirations for global healthy happiness
trails and travel
shrink to survival opportunities
activating more modest aging hope
to at least avoid catastrophic climate storms
of unsurpassed violence,
politically incorrect chaos,
tidal streams bereft of faith
in everyday sacred gifts.

Santa,
perhaps also of red-nosed ginger Tribe,
feels reassured by Rudolf’s hope
for health-optimizing faith,
both humanely non-sectarian
and divinely balancing ancient patriarchal mists
of wealthiest commercial night vision
with matriarchal transporting trends
toward gifting communal friendships,
strength and flow
for growing climates of political
and economic integrity.

Won’t you guide our sleigh of life tonight?

Yes, Rudolf replies with healthy glee,
especially at this messianic Solstice time
of this, my ancient ginger life.
How could we do less communal wealth
than actively hope for this night
and everyday health
of ginger polypath enlightening gifts?

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April Love

We began our late winter do-over
with a dirty ceramic bowl
during a too-much snowstorm.

Well, no,
obviously that’s not where this rebirth story begins
but neither is a cream-colored
and clean
bowl
where this story ends.

Anyway,
I look at Matilda’s mac and cheese bowl
from the RaggedyAnn frosty night before
while an early morning April Fool’s snow blanket
arises perfectly
peacefully
majestically
and really too wetly
outside our kitchen windows.

I wash his late night
and lunch-time dishes all the time,
with grateful precision.

Not all the time,
but frequently,
poignantly,
yet he washes his dishes
without touching Matilda’s or mine.

Why would our Cooperative WinWin Gamer
not see how inappropriately WinLose
this is?

Never mind about disrespectful
and possibly selfish.
How does this lack of awareness
betray us,
a more or less functional
resilient cooperative health service unit?

What does this mean
and what is his message
through medium
of round crusty artifact?

I do his dishes
because I”m washing dirty dishes
so I don’t have to look at them,
or smell them,
and so they don’t attract pests
when they are not well rinsed
by RaggedyAnn frosty nubian princesses.

Is this because I am a responsible adult
and a parent of hurt children?
And he is not?

And, if so,
then why would our WinWin Gamer
assume it’s OK
to not act like a responsible young adult
and Cooperative Gaming Sibling?

Facilitator,
both teacher and regenerational student
of healthy resilient life-skills.

Is this message ageist,
and/or anti-parental?
Downsides of Peter Panism,
Eastern Innocence
without strong ecocentrically mature roots,
yet.

So I asked him
about why leaving dirty bowls is OK
for him
regardless of who started it.
And we talked cooperatively WinWin
together
about why they aren’t so great for me,
and possibly us.

That helped us
both to see ourselves
and each other
in some ways
newborn clean bowl differently.

It was about then
this magical early spring snowstorm
faded toward partly sunny
and shoulder-warmer.

 

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Winter’s Time 2016

Winter’s time
and the livin’s not easy.
Snow plows humpin’
and my mouth is too dry.

Well, well, well, well, well
your daddy ain’t rich
and your wallet’s not cookin’.
So sleep little baby,
don’t you,
don’t you cry.

[Insert your own scat blues here. You didn’t think I was going to do all the work did you?]

One of these nightly days
We’re gonna’ rise up singin’;
We’re gonna’ spring our wings
and fly to the sky sky, sky!

And on that great gettin’ up mornin’
there ain’t nothin’ gonna’ stop us,
with Mother Earth
an Father Sun
standin’
and spinnin’ bye….

Ba-duh, ba-duh, ba-duh,
Bu-Dah…..

 

Dedicated to all the SADs, especially those working through Advent 2016, trying to keep your winterish cool about TrumpAdministration 2017.

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Holy Nights

Silent Nights for echoing lack of resonant laughter
are not most Holy Nights
as purgation’s self-effacing advent
opens sublime econormous therapy
of Earth Rights and Wrongs
as Our Grow Ups and Downs
and Rounds with Pounds too Wealthy Gross
to responsibly carry
as Earth’s cosmic Let’s Pretend We’re Smarter than CoPresent Plants.

Hours and days and seasons
regenerating bicamerally tipping laughter,
seeding deep-rooted co-respect
and highest co-arising Presence
for those few who actually might be smart enough
to know better.

Smiling with coherent universal rememory
of warm waves,
co-gravitating humor
smooth-sliding across our liquid skins.

Skins in love spread wild
as Full Moon light
shining CoForeGiving Eve
of EcoReGenerating Phase.

Winter evenings for warm-fired laughter
with ourselves
for all others
sitting in winter daze,
eco-hibernation.

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Cocktail Hour

Winter’s early evening breeze
feels and smells the same now,
as when sixteen,
except less promising
because more consoling,
contenting rather than regenerating contentious breath
of future hopes and dreams,
knowing we conspire somehow,
Earth and I,
because I feel richer to love this way,
than to breathe evening’s winter still, alone.

I am less sure this was not my last daylight
in this operatic, yet ridiculously distracted,
lifetime landscape of sensory memory.

When I was sixteen,
my understory was more of a musical-comedy landscape
that would remain forever Peter Pan young, virginal,
well…hopefully not that.

Such confidence of seeing yet another
and another, apparently endless,
pink dawn,
turning yellow,
introducing blue hemisphere,
framed by green Earth’s polycultural grasses
and monocultural asses,
which, at sixteen,
I found more amusing
than patience perdures into sixtyfour.

Winter’s now later evening silence
remembering sixteen and sixtyfour
together
over vodka-laced pomegranate.

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Shoveling I-Cycles

He said he planned to freeze to death.

Did he mean to have his body frozen?
Stored to hatch again later,
leftovers out of time’s deep freezer of waiting.

No, not that.
He responds with undeniable dismissal,
this would not be his investment in future plans.

I hope and believe that I will choose
when to freeze my death.

I remember his hope
stepping out into Connecticut’s perfect nor’eastern,
stern at onslaught,
like pilgrims and nearby islands of granite
states and histories,
but then dragging more gracefully out
into lacey fluff
floating toward quintessential kitschey views
framed from inside
by silent flickering orange light
of coal black constitutional wood stove
New England casual propriety,
radiating dry welcome warmth,
but with appropriate restraint,
while I remember to step
onto my snow covered front porch,
evenly blanketed front to back,
as if devoid of shingled Cape Cod roof.

This would be a good New Connected way too die.
Shoveling snow in paradise
evening’s post-storm quiet,
waiting for far off snow blowers
to finally rest.

Without anger or disappointment.
How could we become a better time and place
to re-enter timeless freedom of empathic light?
Fearless deep enriching flight
into nesting night
of death’s diastatic elational surprise,
floating out as in
to continue WinWin play
as recreating love-life
by day
and regenerating CoLover’s Love of love ourselves
each climaxing full-moon night,
speaking trough nor’easter’ wind
of light redemption
and bright winged mythic co-reception.

If I were of his fearless content mind
to fade in frosty sublime light,
now would be my time
to threshold off
into enculturing adventures
of co-relational Earthen Love,
holding off my WinWin Climax re-transformation
until this night’s threshold,
freezing away from carnating restraint
of graceless angry fear of lively shadows
and losing ego’s permacultured golden age
to flow into disincarnate freedom
full as loving tic elating grace,
recomposing Earth’s Tribal Golden Embryo,
a grand transitional opera
in four snow-bound limbs
of crystal-frosted dancing light
elating pure true resonance.

He planned to freeze his death
to love Earth’s Paradise,
echoing co-radical Presence.

My warmth becomes distracting
to this Bodhisattva Revolution
into cosmic-conscious decomposition
of Gaia’s delicious musical comedy
sung full-timed operatic pretension
until cold brings time’s threshold
storm inviting steadier-state contemplation,
love Beloved freezing Presence,
free at last to climax multicultural Elation.

Funny, now, to remember
his pre-climatic drama,
requiring death
to embrace love’s timelessly available freedom,
when each breath grows sacrament
baptizing love’s diastatic promise,
then purging Passion Stories back out
to feed Earth’s ravenous trees of upside-down wisdom.

It’s all so intensely rich and deep,
frosty,
shoveling snow,
remembering a friend
who chose to freeze his living
to enjoy a dancing Full Moon dying
to become his already present EcoArising Presence.

CoMessiah breathing in Connecticut’s normative normal
natural business
nor’eastern Paradise Transition,
shoveling deeply within
newly laid embryonic blanketing womb
tomb.

I hope our kids won’t worry or ever fear
that we’ve chosen frozen to death out here
over all our over-heated operatic flame
of life in quiet reConnecting home.

He said he planned to freeze to death
to sit with passionate Earth’s Tribe,
co-rising Time’s elating love,
CoPresent.

Even so,
I hope he misses me
as I miss him.

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Silent Storm Seduction

She laces this dark late winter’s evening
with white manna grace,
flowing flying frosting
folding in and over and around
dark naked tree limbs
dressing up and out
under icey liminal networks
of down and in-flowing rivers,
emptying out onto cold cover
of water’s frozen lace-flaked sea,
hovering over what had been our pedestrian front lawn,
now transformed and mesmerized
with diastatic ice crystals
twinkling in response
to their ice-fire children
following in their post solstice pilgrim path
to die their individuality
within this here-now view.

I smile, perhaps flirtatiously,
with this shy winter’s virgin dream,
a stubborn storm of snow softly settling
quieter than white-noise still quietly,
so so civilly, right,
a silent black and white moving set
framing a wonderful life.

She does not smile back
but I feel her cold embrace
teasing tickling of too-perfect beauty,
hope imagining she could sleep within this heavenly blanket
dreaming down her winter’s rain
of deep composting thirst,
drinking through walls of hibernation
dreaming of spring’s warmest winding offer.

This could go on all night
this reverse stalking
and inside window peeping out
across front and back porches
at Gaia’s grace elational transfiguration,
silent sacred ecodrama major
showing off her magic show
for those with ears to see through silent
first snow of momentous perennial occasion
falling just in time
to brighten renewal day for dreams
of Beloved DiaFramed black with white Communities
through this silent storm of love.

Impossible to ever be the same again.
Unlikely to become unlover.
Such elegant purgation grace!
I would dishonor her
to not sleep within our silent storming space.

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January’s Dark Light

Dear Sacred Son,

I realize this feels like a Win-Lose
New Game Year,
with you as “Loser”
and so it is,
a self-fulfilling prophecy
equally as powerful
as if you could find a way to choose
this as a Win-Win Game
opportunity, with only shorter term risks likely,
with you as CoWinner
and so it would be,
your new year self-fulfilling prophetic resolution.

January strikes each new year with tough love
messages everywhere you see time’s cold harsh claw
fang of Lose-Lose angry threat of fears,
self and other hatred
of political and economic
and personal and familial hypocrisies,
thinking we might ever Win through trying
Love’s narrow path
between Angry memories
and their foreshadowing winterish dark Fear
of freezing death.

Especially true, perhaps,
without Advent advantage of more positively waiting
in elational CoMessianic Expectation
during December,
hosting Winter’s Solstice
Transition from Win-Win new year expectation
into Lose-Lose ego pay-it-forward investment
in eco-health and therapy
by divesting of Ego v. Eco SuperCompetitive Pathology.

Even, if not especially,
in cold freezing heart of January,
it feels good and warm to remember Present EcoPresence,
Interior Landscape as cold, cold Exterior Winter Landscape
of dipolar revolution
toward Summer’s Win-Win regenerative wealth maturation,
whether incarnate or no longer,
either way,
this year is likely to get much better
within six months,
before things start to shake down
for the next round.

Perhaps it helps to imagine your Interior Landscape
as already experiencing July’s warm climaxing Beloved Community,
worshiping together in verdant gardens and fields,
or just sitting in front of any RealTime old-rooted tree
or sublimely octaved unfolded flower,
or imagining the beauty of human bicamerally unfolding
eco-centric balancing temporal-neural nature
and culture
and iconic language patterns and rhythms,
and information and bicameral communication systems,
and history of science and psychology and ecology and evolution,
and then a nap

As warm radiant light
baptizes me in cosmic atmospheric bright
drifting toward another January sunny afternoon,
Interior Landscaping for Win-Win EcoPlay.

Your Always Loving, but also Retiring,

Dad

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Choosing Time to Die

If I can choose my time to die
winter is my first choice
although I can imagine
any season could be good
for releasing ego’s hold
on my yet-individuated eco-consciousness,
should there be such a long-named thing
when I choose my time to die.

I would walk out through my trees
to caress and bid farewell
and thank them for this air we breathe
for their patience with my cut-down ways,
I would breathe my richest breath
into their root systems
as I walk on through these Trees
of Life and Death,
breathing through rich swells
of elation rooted Time.

I would lie down on the snow
under snowflakes blanketing this final nest
gathering owl’s rich medicine
listening to her echoing
WhoAreYou
night-ride voice
twinkling back into this miracle
of snow-flaking stars
twinkling blowing we us kisses through this path
lying down as cold and ego-bold as snow.

Co-falling
co-arising
timeless
Earth-membered
conscious choice of times we live
to give as freely as Earth’s snow.

Why does not not old and cold
equal timeless flowing eco-function diadancing,
snowing inviting invisible stars
of Advent’s rebirth light?

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