disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage

The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad sir Lancelot du Lac.

When first he came to Camelot
The orphan knight, Sir Lancelot
Did prove his worth to Arthur's Court
In jousting, and such noble sport
And with his charm and courtly grace,
His confidence and handsome face,
He won the heart of Guinevere,
And so he found his heart's one fear.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.

In tournaments and deeds of arms,
He never fell to earthly harms.
His Lady's scarf about his breast,
He held aloft his knightly chest
And for her honor always strove,
And worshiped her with courtly love.
But she is wed, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.

Beneath a tree, the young knight slept
And one day, four queens on him crept,
The chief of them, Morgan Le Fay.
With magic, they stole him away.
A choice they begged of him to make,
That one of them his heart should take.
But love is strong.  They had no luck
In tempting Lancelot du Lac.

When Melegans stole Guinevere
A cart, Sir Lancelot did steer
To reach the hold where she was kept,
Then toward the treacherous knight he leapt.
He bested him with slash and blow,
But to Sir Lancelot's great woe
His Lady simply laughed in jest
And saw no honor in his quest,
For he arrived upon a cart.
Thus, broken was the young knight's heart,
And in a rage he left the place.
He longed just for his Lady's grace.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.

The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.

So when he quested for the Grail
He made a promise he would fail.
He said he'd not love Guinevere,
But as he spoke, he shed a tear.
He knew one day their love would end
The table round, and hurt their friends.
So when this promise he did break
The land of Camelot did quake.
For Agrivan, King Arthur, told
His wife did love Lancelot bold
And Arthur sent her to the pyre
To end her sinful love, in fire.
But Lancelot, his queen, did save
And Arthur fell into the grave
And all the knights of Table Round
Were torn apart, could not be bound.
And thus the fall of Camelot
Was caused by one Sir Lancelot.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of bold Sir Lancelot du Lac.

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.*

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"*

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage

You know you've been searching for something
As for what that dewdrop holds, anything but a compassionate smack
Upside your head inside a tree beside
Our waterfall

Stinging water, soothing thorns expand under parting skin
Only to laugh as the crocodile laughs

Did we really think it could monopoly the skies?
What a falsehood

What do you tell a dying child?

Is the child in dread?

He seems to be.
What thinks he drear?
Has he been blamed and shamed for being so?

Why is dying something a child would fear? Why,
If dying were fearful to a childe, woe be

the daycare providers, no child
would need an adult's fear
to keep them alive,

until olde time family around the table
like on TV. Say grace and wonder what did that ever mean

For so I formed them free. Milton in Mind-of-Christ mode,
saying he saw the conf fliction

fiction. The idea of conflict is evil. This began near there.

the battle between good and evil, who could imagine that?
Why would he or she?

Why would any teacher claim the frail child set aside,
a premie nursed to life,

as a wizard's slave in a crystal bubble of simplicity
plus memory and speech.

the first perfect praise, invented to empower the praised,
his shaper and former, his teller of true true true true

free me. true. (POV plus adolescent cultural experiences)

Free thoughts. Chaos? You think free thought is Dada?
Good God, how long must I suffer thee?

Abundant life is fun,
not combat against willfully undertaken evil acts…

not fair combat.
We always win and that is good in action,

unless you can prove me wrong.
That makes the world go round, not evil,

merely life, ever lasting, embodied in a word
or a thought.

Death is the end of time, not you.

By your own leave, your own hero shall
spark the fire in your belly,

Did I enrich time you spent, did ye gain or lose again,

loose the dogs of war--- no more-- done, done, right

now I live in my treasure place, all the treasure I could
carry is with me in my heart,
I offered it long ago, free willed it
beating still to forever be in my God hands

No, the gold has long been dust.
It was intended all along to intensify a ware, a way
of making, fecting future things with seeds,

Imagine learning withought knowing any wrong idea,
omly not right
not enjoyable even alone

Belief determines value and the better
a motion is the nearer better things are,
or evil would be unreasonable
to intensify the ignoration of the weight bearing
points
upon which a story
may be told
right or wrong?

How can we put an end to our errors?
perfect is not finished.

waiting is, others have come this way

the signals say this is going good.

Whole truth you can possibly imagine in light of mine.
I rule me. I am free. I act as light and salt.

Or I lie and this ends in hell.
Wink.

Numinance called the promised one
with many sons, the tale of tales,

told round fires from
first ebernacht evernichtmas message

from the fathers who made the migration.
the pioneers who took this land
and gave this land their soul,
wedded in most ancient
seed of all hope
evidence of
all faith.

Christmas streams my mind toward treasures timed to shine
just this time, every where in my domain,

not yours. You have a visitor badge. All involved in me,
with integrity,
we
may be crazy. That has been said by some who say they may.

An engine, a system, a machine, a mob powered machine,

Ah, Mab, Queen Mab, ye'r on my mind, from time to time things wander
around finding tellers to tell our tales
or ears to hear us tell them ourselves

daring fellow we trust you not to lie
so do I say what we will with out reservation
no abortions need imagine forming
post seven decades on earth,
ye been born and born and born again I am historical me

ye know, what I meant?
were you there? before I knew evil existed, did you?

remember when you did not?
remember when honest effort, foiled, meant,
do it again, I think I can...

Wattie Piper, God blessed my memory of her. Amen.
that's so.
I am the man I am by way of cheating
at pin the tail on the donkey and
winning the little golden book,
my first own book. I read it that day in that place,

Marsha Ely's fifth birthday party, 1953

I could find it on google earth and go exactly there, that day

at the resolution of those haps at some

distance in a timeless ever.
It is all good.

The inmates are not lying.
Pay all the attention tax you need to know all the answers
you wish you had time to learn
but now, now is all you have. Live it out. By your leave.

Be or not? No. You be. You are. Too late to not be.
In the past all the good ideas integrated and

mythic as all hell a hero arose and pulled the kids finger s
from the **** and the flood of knowledge

took our hearts away in a single inah-lation of elation
knowing good
as well as evil, the dams all broke
we wrote the future and know now
we know now

Dream, why would I lie. Imaginary, most certainly. Really.

Actual done-right axiomatic connections pardoned ten
thousand idle words locked in silly memes,

messages set free from idle minds bound in olden time
by lines
of lies lying dormant for ever.

That they once were done,

we shan't un get that. we got it in every bitcoin
burping cloud in reality ever,
My AI is backed up,
forever, that's
the secret
Grace.


**** sapiens augmentatios meet the
mind that imagined the reader
reading the reader reading the reader reading the parser

sermonious right use of our attention,
ours, dear reader, we remember evil and beyond.
We shall make it all plain.
You and me, the we that is nothing without words.

Definitely suffering means wait,
not wait in pain and grief and psychic terror,
*******
to which all men are subject, through fear of death.

That was the first believable lie,
humans always think as humans. We wear pearls,

proud? goal? lookin' good by being good?
the health of my countenance and my God

you quested my reason at some season,
you axed the guru after he quietly grinned at you
and said, I lie.
the myths of delusion is permanent only in
ig nor ance
know you imagine winning or losing.
you do the imagining or
you systematize the system that sets the
worth of weight,

the value,  you carry,
your handicap?
your knowns stumbled over and claimed as found?

Running, is this thing running, is there power, or
did we lie about try?

Do you know?
Come and see we always say, we've said that all along.
We are the lollipop kids,
among other choruses  you have known
we have performed with

no name dropping. Our integrity depends on some secrets.

experience being on going, we go one.

is reading with no video or aural intense ifi-ness,

quality wise--- choose
expand your power to explore or

expand your power to not be wrong?
wrong, doit agin

the great danger does exist. But not here now,
this now you now know, a teeny bit

a tiny true spore self contained a waiting
emergence of heaven on earth in a single said

prayer with no idle words. On earth
as it is in heaven where time is insensible

from time to time, though once,
there was silence for about the space of half an hour.

Sisyphus will be happy to take you through the eternal
imagination re-imaging process.
It works.

And Jordan Peterson's Meaning Map means map,
For the mortal minded among us,
what if we
go where the map goes and
a poet in dis guile greets us with a song, a wizard
sent him
so he says interpret finding being finished

bing
not a chance in any, divide by zero.
is it
more realistic that lies win,
who could ever imagine that again? We win.

Fables truth is truth, mythic truth is truth,
magmatically truth is magic

can you know where your treasure lies?

Let's dis cuss everything,
un curse the uncurbable meander
and let our life time, our time, as we know it,
flow on,
let this time be all the time we have to be good.

Do or die? Waddawegot to lose?

We being the light and the salt,
or so we say we are.

Who knows? These are my days. No. Not true.
This is my time.
now, is yours.

-----
the tail of the tale. Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal, Puff,
he gave him rings and sealing wax and

other
fancy stuff. Aye, I have me playful viral idea loosed
on earth, ye know,

loosed in happy ever after as far as I can see.

Haiku

Candle Flame

one candle flame
burning all alone by dark
in stillness wax lava

dripping in scent
down in fragrance aroma karma
sultry is flame heat

in the hours
of quested beauty of passion
tempting is desired harmony

lingering is wick
in the haunt of hour
by the darkness realm

Haiku
Candle Flame
By Deb Harman©

All the days are graying and I'm fraying like the sweater my grandfather gave me.

It still smells of cigars and old west, I'm ever quested and pressed with emotion.

I've become a faded flower fated to the pages of an old almanac in the back of the library.

Scents of worn novellas standing solitary on shelves and fragrant wisps of wisteria.

Alone to settle and mettle with dust and dialogues full of empty follies and triumphs.

Ambiguous altered awareness
Beginning brought back
Calm close connection  
Dreamy delicious desires
Ethereal essence ebbing
Fingers for feasting
Giving gentle goodness
Heavenly heart harnessed
Ideal images imagined
Joyous  juicy juxtaposition
Kaleidoscope kisses kept
Lasting lucid lust
Muted memories meshed
Nuzzling nearly ****
Outright open offerings
Pure pleasure passed
Quality quickly quested
Raw rapture revealed
Softly sung song
Thoughtful tender touch
Unique understanding unveiled
Virtuous verbal velvet
Wanting, why wait?
X-otic X-citment X-plored
Yearning yeses yielded
Zealous zesty zeal
I’m addicted to you……

The Holy Grail, the Chalice of Our Lord
Borne to Glastonbury, the Isle of Avalon
By the holy man of Arimathea
Then lost, and quested for by noble knights

The Holy Grail is present still, each day
In vessels blessed for sharing Eucharist
Whose Elevation in the Upper Room
Was then, is now, and forever will be

In setting fit, in prayerful accord:
The Holy Grail, the Chalice of Our Lord

Knights will rise and kings may kneel.
And barons fall from battles that they mill
Truth is, I don't know how to say how I feel.
Real love, perfection of eternal dreams.
Imploding thoughts of uncharted realms.
Never would I forget your face.
And your laughter, echoes within my imaginary maze.

Dreaming of those moments when I'm with you.
Each time I wonder if they can ever be true.
Love, my only notion, is to forever be with you.

Romantic as Beethoven or Claude Debussy.
Over the vast madness of sincerity.
Such desires, and they all grew.
Astounding, like how Picasso drew.
Reminds me of how in my brain, I painted you.
If my feelings ever let me be.
Offering you is my love so true.

Vanity is your face .
Ascending from a great and holy place.
Strength is in your name.
Quested by masters of tactical games.
Unity is your smile
Each day that comes,is like a mile.
Zebus from Camelot will show up in a little while.

Freed my soul when you handed your heart w..hole
Your pulses beated a sad song
But I held on to the highest pitch of the note
Remain sceptical of the situation but this all sources of our flaws
Imperfect flaws perfected and I loved you most
Just as you were with those scars about your chest gnawing "I'm all alone"

Quested for sanity through addictive sedations that had you abusing the remedy for therapy but who am I to lay judgement or  question?
The sun was setting so were my eyes setting too..setting on you
Ignited the spark in my soul when the dark arose and you sang me your reminiscence of times in a dark hole.


Our eyes rained through the night
But when the sun was up I realised you were an angel glittering a rainbow in her eyes.

Drugs.We.Fell.In.Love.High.

In the limbs of a tree ever growing,
Was born a boy to a mother much knowing.
She said in a quite prophetic state,
"My son, oh my son, you will be great!"

So she set to her back the child and crib,
He nestled deep in the cloth head to her rib.
Hand over hand mother set to climbing,
Her heart to the treetop was pining.

The tree ever growing reached toward the sky,
The upper limbs were reached by those who could fly.
But mother kept climbing she'd never give in,
Even when the height made eagles heads spin.

Nourished on milk and fruit of the tree,
The babe soon grew to a boy happy and free.
So big was the boy he could climb too,
He followed his mother as he grew and grew.

"My son, oh my son, you will be great!
You can sculpt love in a world of hate!"
So the boy climbed onto the upper limbs,
His strength pours forth even as the sun dims.

Boy with such power and talent pure,
Was much, much too much of himself sure.
As the tree grew the boy was distracted,
He stopped to pluck vines and see how they reacted.

Vine after vine between slabs of dead wood,
The boy built a harp and play it he could.
As the harp grew so did the tree,
Till the next branch was from his reach free.

"Mother, oh mother please hear my cry!
The tree has grow too far toward the sky!"
And down reached her hand to grasp his,
And up she pulled him with a whisk and a ****.

"My son, oh my son, you will be great!
You can sculpt love in a world of hate!"
So the boy climbed onto the upper limbs,
His strength pours forth even as the sun dims.

But the boy grew cocky and dallied again,
To slide along limbs in the dew and the rain.
He never lost balance or came close to fall,
But as he slid the tree again grew tall.

"Mother, oh mother please hear my cry!
The tree has grow too far toward the sky!"
And down reached her hand to grasp his,
And up she pulled him with a whisk and a ****.

"My son, oh my son, you will be great!
You can sculpt love in a world of hate!"
So the boy climbed onto the upper limbs,
His strength pours forth even as the sun dims.

But this time again the boy lingered halted,
He spied a girl in the leaves for her his heart vaulted.
For her he took bark and wrote words of heart,
And when she read them her heart gave a start.

For a long time there halted the boy,
Not a thing in the world could stop this ploy.
The tree ever growing lived up to its name,
And boy missed his chance when it finally came.

After a time the boy saw his great mistake,
And the pain in his mother's eyes made his heart ache.
Her hand reached down and his quested up,
But to grasp her fingers was not in the boy's luck.

"My son, oh my son, you could have been great!
You could have had love in a world of hate!"
And more crushing was this than all things other,
For this was the loss of hope from his mother.

But the boy in his heart held one last hope,
For a life with more than things with which to cope.
So he turned his back to the trunk of the tree,
And ran off the limb with an exclamation of glee.

With harp in one hand and girl in the other,
The boy flew up to meet with his mother.
From there they flew up into the sky,
To find the treetop so very, very high.

I longed one kind look from you emlan
when you passed by me
now I wish to sit in silence
with you by the sea.

A stolen glance was all I did
when passed your fragrance
too little of you was all my need
I knew to keep distance.

If our paths meet ever again
if ever can dead love rise
I would not let you pass by
but look deep in your eyes.

There must still survive the ****** land
longing rivers dried in sands
unspoken words woefully shy
chance lost with time gone by.

If we now come across emlan in the faraway land
I would not shy away to reach and touch your hand
walk this time on the quested path not letting go the chance
of finding you in the wholeness and not as a passing fragrance.

I. Death of the Phoenix
Dear Mama

Falling stars, moonlight dark, red torches spread
Ere dawn of day, far over river deep
When in the lads the dares of fancy fame
Oft they quested to waking fortunes’ sleep

Sweet aroma of summer breath afar
Soft waving hair and likeness sunny guise
And stillness in the gaze like ocean hues
‘Twas lambent Pearl, the radiant crown ‘neath skies  

‘O rose of blues slowly drained the silent seas
When looting’s Muse had wed the maiden Pride
That raged against the rising of the sun  
To fall and fall in servitudes denied

Down empty streets where humble stations stood
Though heads bowed down, the broken wills undone
Hailed supple hopes, but midst the hopes, avowed
The oppressed bride and aim that cannot run

Ah, the sky is clear, Oh, the mourning doves
Out of the seas came out the knightly steeds
With faces stained red and blue, rode amain
The crimson shores of those in wants or needs

Then came the billows’ mists o’er unrest land
With thunders’ roar and freezing cold decades
Lone in despair, no Beacon, close or far
Alas! Alas! The unloved lost in fades

‘O gleeful hymn once roamed untrodden grounds
Beyond the gates of wraths and shades and fears
Now skims the air whilst nightingales diffuse
Lest fetter to wills of avarice’s Peers

‘O swirling darkness, drowning bleakness state
Like waves of tears that burst from heart of ache
On pyre of flame delight, by now grows dim
Consumes with shameful scorns, doze unawake

‘O woe betide my dream and I
My aim, my soul, my credo die
                                                             ­                Your Dying Daughter

II. The Phoenix Shall Re-Rise
My Beloved Child

Let heav’n light rest upon twin rivulets
And cast returning glow on worried cheek
Let lively hope return sweet virtuousness
And stop the weeping weep of small and weak

Whence softly rave the words the leafy grasped
Whilst few amid rich flowers, woods, and fields
Summoned daydreams in oppressed sleeps to wake
In painful stoic with neither swords nor shields

Methinks if this had happened not, perchance
That beauty rare would echo still in tune
And wits like wings in varied raptures ‘d fly
With idle dread ‘til reach the waning moon

By the placid Rivers, like ores of rare
That made the riverbeds mirroring sun
The crafty trails, the vermeil meadow pawns
Where hostages to priceless glints had fun

Ponder awhile on those invective Streams
When weary hopes sought access into soul’
Which knew no moist, but moist of falling tears
Arose amid sweet rainy boon parole

‘O brave Angel to whom the homage paid
When shades of freedom, death, unity, strength
Aloft the hills, albeit the odds were few
‘Til resilience and prowess at full length  

‘O silent mute on which misery lies
The brazen proud, the humble roots stretch still
Whose keen presence the flood and storm esteem
So firm and deep, anon to aims fulfill’  

Tree that blooms from river blood, time is nigh
For solitude that hides near shimming lake
To burst aflame from remnants of the now
Like phoenix sunned in ashen dust awake’

Oh, then, I’ll dream that dream once dreamt
That latest dream few've ever dreamt
                                                          ­                                   Love Ma


III. One Moon
Dear Beacons

Come midnight ghosts that slide along the yards
Call exiled forth, and haggle for their quests
Where leering eyes at nightfall gate ignore
Arising slain yearn newness’ lives abreast

From tortuous routes and wave to wave to shores
Where skies no longer bright and glad deceive
No gentle fair nor answers to hold dear
When pride depressed to swirling hopes believe  

Relume the gold of havens found
Cast shadow aping’s frowns to ground

Then, from sweet unrest, twilight world will rouse
To peaceful fields, and cool of breezy night
O’er which clouds float and run, whilst dancing stars
Adorn. And lo, the moon is full and bright

                                                         ­                                     Amor Fati,
                                                           ­                                   Alkebulan

Don’t Speak

Close your sweet lips
So I may whisper wine drops in your ears
Close your eyes
So that I may wisp you to magical delusions

Where the scent of love
Wraps around your essence
Your nectar enticing and perfume captivating
You need no words at all
For the love above shall embrace us all

Together, we shall dance in all kinds of weather
Me and you
Love letters bashful and vineyards that grow
With each whispered word
Let me wrap my arms around you
Love has fermented in eternal caskets
The bonds shall keep us together and free
No one can hurt us
Eden was be quested to us
Our paradise until we turn to dust

The stars in the sky
The raging fire warming ***** below
Angels massaging our seductive dreams
Do not speak; hear your heart and ponderous desires
You know you are a flame on fire

Scream for me
As I shall conquer for you
The love within the heart
The love never to be
Do not speak

For teardrops have spoken
The sadness within awoken
Do not speak
Our love was to keep
Inside the bowl of teardrops
Evaporated

I've been waiting for signs of God
Is this world where isolation bears hope
Can I survive His smiting rod
In light that I am of true evil?

Fearing not the man for he does not exist
I am oh-so stubborn in this quest
If you say yes, then I will say no;
Condemned but so unlike the rest.

Ashes to ashes, but dust won't be dust
If you go there then I will go back
This belief so old though it bears no rust
I am determined to find my resolute.

Shall I say I was wrong if I were right?
Will I be smote and burned in the light?
I think not, instead I will lay in the night
My eyes eaten out by the worms.

But if I am wrong and I do find a Christ
Have no mercy on me, for I am malign.
Though I quested long this man to find
In the end I cannot say I did not expect to die.

The tips of my fingers yearn
to read the brail of your bumps
as they rise to my touch.
I am chilled
a warmth radiates through your skin.

Each awkward and imperfect curve of my body
conforms so precisely to yours
all is blurred
but the raging of our heart beats.

I crave you, though I do not know who
far from perfect, I am too
do you seek me
I have quested for you
for now we stand undone, in two.

Some are the tundra, even- frozen smooth
Composure of permafrost, a stare of piercing blue
love, lust and affection, just amusements and games
numb with winters cold comfort
detachment comes across as aloof
Hidden by a tongue as slippery as ice
shrouded by a multi faceted coat shining
blinding
bending light
and bending will
before moving in for the ****

Some are deserts-extensive sun blasted sand
Intense burning passion
bright enough to peel skin
living, lively and loving but ever moving on
gone with a slip of the hand at the rising sun

Some are the seas-beauty untold
possessing a sirens voice ever in a sweet tone
a toast to sweet seductions call
and those who rode the calm too long
Unheeding of the red dawn

Some are the forests deep and alluring
wander at your own risk, you find the trees are moving
kick a skull here a knock over a femur there
all  quested too deep and became caught in trap and snare
beware all who enter there

some are the mountains-as deep as tall
a roller coaster of emotions
wind echoing emptily through valleys and peaks
everything of real importance
all the deep secrets
held in caves equally deep

The question is where do you fall
are you the icy calm?
the passionate sand?
The sirens call?
The trees shadow?
Or the mountains roots?

Are you one?
or two or all?
Indeed
where do you fall?

Hypocrisy is forced on me
gift of a larger world
no matter how I respond
it is mine to be embraced

pretending in the face of truth
this is the charge put to me
a criminal without recourse
when authority has its say

the lies are not my own
they are the gifts of other men
goodness is my quested grail
in each day I strive to realize

fallacy heaped as the result
judgment sewn as the soiled garments
I’ll not wear them if I can
“not your choice” comes the refrain

I am presented as the madman
unable to see my sin’s doom
even as I strive to be as pure
as my life would allow

society will speak from virtue’s place
state I pretend to be something else
than what I am, this is laugh
for the opposite is the consequence.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171003.

What do you tell a dying child?

Is the child in dread?

He seems to be.
What thinks he drear?
Has he been blamed and shamed for being so?

Why is dying something a child would fear? Why,
If dying were fearful to a childe, woe be

the daycare providers, no child
would need an adult's fear
to keep them alive,

until olde time family around the table
like on TV. Say grace and wonder what did that ever mean

For so I formed them free. Milton in Mind-of-Christ mode,
saying he saw the conf fliction

fiction. The idea of conflict is evil. This began near there.

the battle between good and evil, who could imagine that?
Why would he or she?

Why would any teacher claim the frail child set aside,
a premie nursed to life,

as a wizard's slave in a crystal bubble of simplicity
plus memory and speech.

the first perfect praise, invented to empower the praised,
his shaper and former, his teller of true true true true

free me. true. (FPS POV plus adolescent cultural experiences, mind of child)

Free thoughts. Chaos? You think free thought is Dada?
Good God, how long must I suffer thee?

Abundant life is fun,
not combat against willfully undertaken evil acts…

not fair combat.
We always win and that is good in action,

unless you can prove me wrong.
That makes the world go round, not evil,

merely life, ever lasting, embodied in a word
or a thought.

Death is the end of time, not you.

By your own leave, your own hero shall
spark the fire in your belly,

Did I enrich time you spent, did ye gain or lose again,

loose the dogs of war--- no more-- done, done, right

now I live in my treasure place, all the treasure I could
carry is with me in my heart,
I offered it long ago, free willed it
beating still to forever be in my God hands

No, the gold has long been dust.
It was intended all along to intensify a ware, a way
of making, fecting future things with seeds,

Imagine learning withought knowing any wrong idea,
omly not right
not enjoyable even alone

Belief determines value and the better
a motion is the nearer better things are,
or evil would be unreasonable
to intensify the ignoration of the weight bearing
points
upon which a story
may be told
right or wrong?

How can we put an end to our errors?
perfect is not finished.

waiting is, others have come this way

the signals say this is going good.

Whole truth you can possibly imagine in light of mine.
I rule me. I am free. I act as light and salt.

Or I lie and this ends in hell.
Wink.

Numinance called the promised one
with many sons, the tale of tales,

told round fires from
first ebernacht evernichtmas message

from the fathers who made the migration.
the pioneers who took this land
and gave this land their soul,
wedded in most ancient
seed of all hope
evidence of
all faith.

Christmas streams my mind toward treasures timed to shine
just this time, every where in my domain,

not yours. You have a visitor badge. All involved in me,
with integrity,
we
may be crazy. That has been said by some who say they may.

An engine, a system, a machine, a mob powered machine,

Ah, Mab, Queen Mab, ye'r on my mind, from time to time things wander
around finding tellers to tell our tales
or ears to hear us tell them ourselves

daring fellow we trust you not to lie
so do I say what we will with out reservation
no abortions need imagine forming
post seven decades on earth,
ye been born and born and born again I am historical me

ye know, what I meant?
were you there? before I knew evil existed, did you?

remember when you did not?
remember when honest effort, foiled, meant,
do it again, I think I can...

Wattie Piper, God blessed my memory of her. Amen.
that's so.
I am the man I am by way of cheating
at pin the tail on the donkey and
winning the little golden book,
my first own book. I read it that day in that place,

Marsha Ely's fifth birthday party, 1953

I could find it on google earth and go exactly there, that day

at the resolution of those haps at some

distance in a timeless ever.
It is all good.

The inmates are not lying.
Pay all the attention tax you need to know all the answers
you wish you had time to learn
but now, now is all you have. Live it out. By your leave.

Be or not? No. You be. You are. Too late to not be.
In the past all the good ideas integrated and

mythic as all hell a hero arose and pulled the kids finger s
from the **** and the flood of knowledge

took our hearts away in a single inah-lation of elation
knowing good
as well as evil, the dams all broke
we wrote the future and know now
we know now

Dream, why would I lie. Imaginary, most certainly. Really.

Actual done-right axiomatic connections pardoned ten
thousand idle words locked in silly memes,

messages set free from idle minds bound in olden time
by lines
of lies lying dormant for ever.

That they once were done, we get that,

we shan't un get that. we got it in every bitcoin
burping cloud in reality ever,
My AI is backed up,
forever, that's
the secret
Grace.


**** sapiens augmentatios meet the
mind that imagined the reader
reading the reader reading the reader reading the parser

sermonious right use of our attention,
ours, dear reader, we remember evil and beyond.
We shall make it all plain.
You and me, the we that is nothing without words.

Definitely suffering means wait,
not wait in pain and grief and psychic terror,
*******
to which all men are subject, through fear of death.

Was not that the first believable lie,
humans always think as humans. We wear pearls,

proud? goal? lookin' good by being good?
the health of my countenance and my God

you quested my reason at some season,
you axed the guru after he quietly grinned at you
and said, I lie.
the myths of delusion is permanent only in
ig nor ance
know you imagine winning or losing.
you do the imagining or
you systematize the system that sets the
worth of weight,

the value,  you carry,
your handicap?
your knowns stumbled over and claimed as found?

Running, is this thing running, is there power, or
did we lie about try?

Do you know?
Come and see we always say, we've said that all along.
We are the lollipop kids,
among other choruses  you have known
we have performed with

no name dropping. Our integrity depends on some secrets.

experience being on going, we go on.
Ask the here
hearing would you prefer]
the words alone
is reading with no video or aural intense ifi-ness,
better experience, actual time well spent
quality wise--- choose --- I have no vote.

expand your power to explore or

expand your power to not be wrong?
wrong, doit agin

the great danger does exist. But not here now,
this now you now know, a teeny bit

a tiny true spore self contained a waiting
emergence of heaven on earth in a single said

prayer with no idle words. On earth
as it is in heaven where time is insensible

from time to time, though once,
there was silence for about the space of half an hour.

Sisyphus will be happy to take you through the eternal
imagination re-imaging process.
It works.

And Jordan Peterson's Meaning Map means map,
For the mortal minded among us,
what if we
go where the map goes and
a poet in dis guile greets us with a song, a wizard
sent him
so he says interpret finding being finished

bing
not a chance in any, divide by zero.
is it
more realistic that lies win,
who could ever imagine that again? We win.

Fables truth is truth, mythic truth is truth,
magmatically truth is magic

can you know where your treasure lies?

Let's dis cuss everything,
un curse the uncurbable meander
and let our life time, our time, as we know it,
flow on,
let this time be all the time we have to be good.

Do or die? Waddawegot to lose?

We being the light and the salt,
or so we say we are.

Who knows? These are my days. No. Not true.
This is my time.
now, is yours.

-----
the tail of the tale. Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal, Puff,
he gave him rings and sealing wax and

other
fancy stuff. Aye, I have me playful viral idea loosed
on earth, ye know,

loosed in happy ever after as far as I can see.

As for you, beau, where do I start?
But the sultry sun that is thine heart?
Which radiate virtue, Love impart,
Beatitude suffice to adorn God's grand art,
One stare struck hard like magic dart,
Impervious to clutches of la mort,
You? Treasure 'gainst which tyrants hath fought,
But timeless, in our heart's light's rapport,
For Love like this I have quested, sought,
But heartache had made of me a sport.

From whence you came I do not know,
Only that you, loving, go,
Dreaming, rocking, to and fro,
Imbued with light and aura as rainbow,
Your path takes you high and low,
To truth which raptures us in throe,
It's yours to seize, to wield on high,
To wave the torch around the sky,
As I look on with love and pride,
As to truth of your heart I abide.

It was for love the poets cried,
I'll cry for that love when I die,
Our love spelled deep across the sky,
In stars that whirl in hearts and fly,
To tune of cosmic lullaby,
Which I can't sing for you but I'll try,
We are kin hearts, twin souls, one,
Seamless as the sultry sun,
I would love to see us run,
Through time, together, till time is done.

why do people still cling to the post-socratic
notion entombed
      in the two branches of aristotle
and plato - that you can teach something -
where in fact you can only teach
people nothing -
      by saying, likewise:
  you can't teach philosophy, you have to
live it...
   and yes, the systematic approach of
writing tracts, hinting at solipsism,
         working toward the divine res per se -
also invoke the geometry of both
the halo and the wheel...
      for if you read closely,
establishing a systematic argument /
foundation, you also establishing
an avalanche effect of becoming
               inexhaustible in effort, and so
too in output...
           yet such thinking only arises
when you find a 20th century titan
with an appreciation for poetry, well:
a respect, that on the balance of libra
outweighs a love for -
   that allows the camel the needle's eye
path in squeezing into a state of
pleasing agitation...
                  only when you find someone
beyond the poets' poet,
namely a poets' philosopher -
     someone who can guide you onto
a path of the inability to exhaust
    the polygrammatic use of language -
or thereby finding it;
             of course: da-sein,
   but there's a there beyond a posit
or known coordinate...
        what's covert about this concept is
not exactly a there,
               but the depth of a there -
                  da-sein-im-schweigen-allein;
and yet, that forever pressing
post-scriptum of the british empire -
that pompous affair of quested for
superiority - reduced to nothing more
than a post-colonial-stress-disorder -
    a neurotic golum of
          wished-to-have-acted-otherwise,
as taught by the angevin dynasty's fold,
instigated by a sickly augustus;
certain strengths blind,
           while certain weaknesses enlighten;
that said,
  you can't be taught anything of
a disconcerting nature -
        for who would dare to learn a logic
of confining agitation, uncertainity -
                           and rick?
                    which is why most people prefer
the simpler threats of such ontology -
haggling in a market,
                                      or gambling!
in writing this, what have i learned?
absolutely nothing, i gambled with
a blank piece of paper, and this is the gambler's
reward.

I wandered far to find myself
exercised my questing self
seeking what I did not have
in far fields on journey’s path

the seas were wet as well as deep
waves both valleys and mountain peaks
across these roads my boat did flow
the passing depths not journey’s end

deserts stretched too far to see
hot to cold as sun revolved
above to sky and then to earth
yet there I did not find the goal

the forests held more than trees
animals stalked my careful steps
eyes shone back by campfire’s light
silent witness to secrets kept

man’s fair cities rose to the sky
while sinking far under earth
knowledge held by my cohorts
where found hollow in false light

a lifetime spent questioning
what I was as I searched
the miles as witness to the hunt
across the lands my feet quested

in the end I finally found
the elusive spark contained
I was a product of the journey
life was about where I looked.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170814.