we pick at the healing
tissue and it starts to
bleed just when the
wounds were
beginning to heal

we then go back in time
it starts us on yet another
harrowing journey of 
body spirit & mind

we try so hard to read
between the lines
that blur the harder
we try, blending what
can only be seen
through unfiltered eyes

(scales removed to see
the only Light that can
truly make manifest)

all we can do is smooth
out the edges and
touch-up unclear vision
with our patented
Photoshop Human Sheen

thinking we can reveal
what is holy in the
spiritually null & void
obscene

we have learned to
incorporate what order
we make of chaos into
a well-oiled
smooth-running
Rhetoric Machine

made from blueprints
of someone else’s
self-ordained dream

in many ways many
           of us are
      compromised
   itemized    labeled    
   priced        bought
           and sold
                 or
   waiting in line to be.

  the only escape hatch
         is inside of us

    do not let anyone
   or en-ti-ty buy you

and do not sell yourself

take yourself off the shelf

   quarantine the virus

              tune in to your
        humanity and
  spirituality

          tune out the
   survival of the fittest
       mentality of the
     dog eat dog world.

We are clouds
individual
and collective by nature
changeless-ever-changing
drifting into our eyes
and across our minds

We cannot live in
photos or paintings
inspiring but hanging
dormant like billboards
and traffic signs

Dark clouds awaken
when angry
fire and fury
torrents of rain
hail damaging

Then Zephyr comes
to appease their anger
    ~god’s of the sky~
peace treaties pending

She often drifts in like
an angel
ahead of a storm front
thunder and lightning her silhouette
bringing in less
threatening clouds to
comfort us when storms
leave us angry cold and wet

At times even darker
clouds hang ominously
and high winds are surely threatening war
then out the blue
allies flank our enemy
blowing away
the fiery vaporous Thor

We float into wintertime
into its storyline
Drifting in and out of space
and time through seasons
of wind hail rain or shine
(essence of
our connected
and interconnected minds)

Billowing Cumulonimbus
Dark Nimbostratus
Thin Sirius basking in sunshine
Shapeless grey clouds of snow
Cold drizzle reigns

Funnel clouds
cyclone
monsoon
hurricane
typhoon
bursting through
atmospheric membrane

We can be moody
boasting large volumes
but revealing far-less mass

Passively aggressive
boasting less volume
but revealing a lot of mass

We are clouds
changeless-ever-changing
drifting into our eyes
and across our minds.

All that we are

      Our love  
  
      Our faith
    
      Our joy

These are the skin that covers.
Bones and ligaments to join
and organize structure.
Blood that sustains and nourishes life.

All that we are

      Our hate      

      Our doubt    

      Our grief

Pores to let protective skin breath.
Marrow to create nourishing stream.
Veins to channel crimson flow.

Negative benign yet indispensable
Without which is lump of flesh

      Love working in hate

      Faith in doubt

      Joy in grief

Willing to bleed    
Willing to feel

Ready and willing
To be human without fear

     Our trust

     Our compassion  

     Our virtue

Animation in our motionless bodies.
Cross-fertilization in
super-natural selection.
Elements of dark and beautiful metamorphosis.

Denied too often  

Misunderstood

Food of the gods      

All that we are

Essence of the ever-changing  universe

It is not somewhere over the rainbow
beyond Mother's breath or
in the devices of ancient
or modern hands bereft

we touch it in our pathos
and empathy from
time to time
through a shallow fading
gravel bed
filtering a bitter water table perhaps

whilst the tender leaf of spring feels it
in the autumn of unconditional
acceptance of the inevitable
morning frost
cold relentless rains
and colourful leaves
falling to their death
in beauty

so far removed from our bipedal posturing
and upright positioning at the computer
desk knowing there is no mystery here
no wild cry in the night
only electronic and organic
bleeps and drones and

aw! there… I heard it again

a lost chord
a missing link
that the wild
creatures understand
of what we sometimes feel nearer in our shared limbic
brain seldom penetrated through
our domineering eyes planted firmly in front
of the gray dross from an eternal fire

we spend our given time on
this planet trying to douse when the rest
of creation knows the need for its
purification and leaps willingly into its
all-consuming heart as we
live in fear of the unknown
and of fear itself

keeping us estranged from the cosmic mysterium which provokes us to awaken
to the wondrous eternal
which will
alter our deluded consciousness
to see what has been seen through the
unknown eons to help us take to the fire

we only catch a whiff of in the twilight
of our hopes and selfless dreams
so we will rise through the
dry brown leaves of our once tender
green vision of an ever-changing universe
which whispers louder and louder in our darkness
until we cease our chatter and
learn to listen to the serene silence
of an eternal vibration heightening

morphing less organic much more
ethereal spiritual crawling further and further
from the pulse of the earth
as we shed thickened skin which
once replaced thin soft unprotected flesh
needing protection from extraneous
sources to cover what should have been

eternally naked bare to the elements
not limited to a frail carcass which
will ultimately be left behind as we
transform into our individual eternal temples to
join in worship with the rest of creation
to be the living offering
at the foot of the
eternal voice ineffable
not waiting to be obeyed
in mass procession but

as individual as one spark igniting
a plot of trees newly released as mystery
revealed ever so slightly in the wake of
the burial of earthbound mind steeped in
temporal ancient tradition fermented in
oak casks which were made to remain
and grow in their ****** state

as we hear distant yet distinct whispers of
the origin of our human calling above and beyond
Thoreau's distant drummer’s near silent tremors of the
most ancient rhythms now mostly echoes as we
march to
and follow our own drummer
leading the way back home

as we at times seem to distinctly
hear original rhythm's calling
as we try so earnestly to
respond like a dying sea
longing to once again sway
to the beckoning moon

often keeping in step
with our
own inner drummer who
is always trying to keep
time by asking

"are we prepared to give
in to what we will
inevitably meet in the end?"

my friend came by the other day
as a leaf in the wind he has blown
from street to street
            town to town.

a wanderer he may be
but not at heart--
he longs to be attached
to a tree
                               any tree.

in spring and summer the leaves
     are green and
                              attached.

summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                    prepares for winter.

my friend the dry brown leaf
blows in his perpetual autumn.

we all grow in our own time
and season:

winter dormancy

         spring regeneration

                   summer fulfillment

                             fall  preparing for the
                                                  
          ­  inevitable
season of death.

these seasons of the soul
are the very essence of our existence.

     they teach us

        temper us

        fulfill us.

but there are those who do not see
the purpose of the seasons.
to them winter means only

                             cold

                                       snow

                       desolation.          

spring means only

                    rain

                mud

                            flooding.

summer means

                             beauty to mock
                                the heart in
                                     winter.

i trust in the wisdom of the seasons.
nature teaches us lessons in her cycles.

let the  l
                e
                 a
                  f
fall to the ground.
let it rot into cold

    stark

                        winter

           desolation.

spring will come.

bleak gray will become bright colours
                  of spring.

the beauty will fade once again but will
reappear in winter's own stark beauty
though it may be cold and gray.
then spring will come.

          spring-will-come !!!

They always said
How much the little girl
Was like her daddy in
The way she stood
Walked 
Movements
Gestures
Cute when she was small

But the older she gets
The more she takes on
More serious aspects of
My strengths
My weaknesses.

Proud to see her
Strong personality
Flashbacks of my youth.
Strong-willed
Free in spirit
As a young deer
Kinking up its hind legs
In defiance of constriction.

A free spirit sees
No need for the fences
We build to contain it
To control our so-called
Base instincts.

In her my strengths are
Magnified
but oh
So are my weaknesses
My weaknesses magnified!

Looking at this
Living mirror of myself
Seems to
Magnify
Intensify
A normal father/daughter
Relationship.

I think I see clearly because
I think I know myself so well.
I chastise myself
I condemn my weaknesses
The mistakes I made in my youth.

I look down at me
She looks up to me.

They say she is
So much like her daddy
But she is much more.
Part mama
Part gran
Part grandma
A tapestry of traits
All formed in her
Along with what her social
Environments have
Sown in and reaped of her.

The teenager often sees the
Outward beauty of a
Model or movie star.
Someone is always
Better looking
Someone else always
Has more of something.

I try so hard to help her see
That this is so common
A feeling.
She is above all this
She is not run of the mill.
I know she knows this
Somewhere
Deep inside.

Time has proved
That I see more
Than what meets the eye
But this knowing
Holds possible dangers.
I can see ahead to
Warn her of trouble
But there are troubles
That she must endure.
Over-protection
Every caring parent knows
This pain.

I do not want to fail her
But distance seems to grow
Between us when
I monitor her progress
When I push and ****
To make her less like daddy.
She shouldn’t be like me
I have too many regrets.

In the night hours
I sometimes hear sounds
That I cannot distinguish.
I hear fluttering sounds
That I think are birds
Flying out of the trees
But in reality it is the wind
Blowing high
Through the pines.

I see shadows of strangers
Seeking mischief
Shining bright
Lights at the family tent
In the cold
Half-dream-state
Of the cold night
But reality says it is
The distortion of the campfire
Through the fabric of the tent.

I cannot always distinguish
Certain sights and sounds
At certain times
But time reveals what
They truly are.

But to bite the tongue
When I wish to scold
Out of season.
To stop focusing on our
Likenesses to the point
Where I cannot differentiate
Between what she used to be
And what I used to feel
And the individual soul
That my daughter is.

They always say how
much she is like her daddy.
Maybe daddy needs to change.