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Randi G Dec 2014
i keep seeing hawks
or maybe it’s really you
swooping down to tell me what’s new
maybe they’re buzzards
and they can tell how i feel
lost without you,
a useless spinning wheel
maybe they’re birds but
maybe they’re planes
and i’m looking for meaning in nothing
in this digital age

AD Mullin Nov 2014
Remove the mask
Strip to essentials
Remove the ballasts

A crossroads
An intersection divine
Don't rue the darkness on a boulevard of light

Lucifer's here
Will the deal go down?
Or are you hedging on up?

Flying in on the back of truth
As an agent of change
Write your own contract

Be just and align
Oblige yourself with Self
'Be like water my friend' (Bruce Lee)

Fill that vessel up
To overflowing
A soul is pedestrian

An overflowing soul leads to changency
An over~soul (Emerson)
Define your cosmology

Uninitiate is a good initiation
You have to strip your house down
To ensure true pitch

Attuning for those forks
A hollow reed
For a river of truth
'I cover what's true and I hide what is real but sometimes I bring out the courage in you.
What am I?' ~ a riddle from a hummingbird
AD Mullin Nov 2014
A one thousand page hymn
Singing from lotus petal pages
Bound on hummingbird wings

Subtle energies
Unfolding, unfurling
Unwinding within

Celestial prophecies
Unrooting in elements
Of oceans of water of air

Gaia and Uranus
Blooming from
Aetheric nests

Subterranean spelunking
Unweaving a gossamer cloak
From plumes of the Red-Tailed Hawk
Written in Encinitas, CA at the Lotus Cafe
AD Mullin Sep 2014
52 Weeks: Whitman

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

52 Weeks: Mullein**

The Red-Tailed hawk swoops by and catches just a glimpse, he tilts his head Dionysian style mouth slightly agape.

I too am a wild thing, I too am untethered,
And I sound animalistic in the dining halls of the tamed.

The final missile thud holds me in a sweet caress,
My likeness rockets earthward … tried and true and tired and truer,
I am coaxed into existence once again.

I maintain my aetheric ties as I know this is the roadmap back to you,
It’s nice to be enmeshed in the living once again even though they drain,
To drain is to live, one gives eternity to be mortal - it’s the only thing that ever made sense.

I won’t depart, I dig in my heels,
And I turn my back on the organized.

I am of the earth because I understand my antecedents … my mother’s mother’s mother …
And because of this knowledge of ante’s I can set prece’s, hopefully precisely.

I hardly know who I am or what I mean (on a good day),
But I am good for you none the less,
As our tastes and sounds and smells and touches intermingle.

And always I wait patiently,
for me for you,
for us.
An adaptation of Whitman's final stanza in Song of Myself

— The End —