K Balachandran Jan 2015

A blue black cloud, all over me is written JOY
in the script of vapor, dense, moist and meaningful,
I am light, like a feather, the breeze is in love with me for that,
I love his gentle persuasion to waft, move about, explore..
and then--ravaged by wind my love changes direction.

I love freedom more than anything, but forgot limits, hover
now, I am no more attached to the green hills, they are jealous,
far above them am I, untouched by their vainglorious pride,
I am not hard-hearted, parched fields send shivers of lightning
break me in to thousand  smaller pieces, scatter around.

My love for this earth is kindled by the sights unfurling below
all the egrets, cormorants, storks and herons of great magnificence,
those kind hearted friends that fly with me often are in pain
like the farmers, there isn't enough water for anything.

A cloud is a thought, inspired by the love for mother earth
by the ocean I am gifted to the breeze, to tour around,
on many lands fell my shade, found life in all varieties,
now is the time to be kind at heart, melt, fall in torrents.

A cloud when you analyze is a thought full of love for earth,humanbeings
Fah Aug 2013

(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)

Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
(via phatphilosophers)

These are the days that must happen to you.
Walt Whitman, from Leaves Of Grass (via violentwavesofemotion)
(via phatphilosophers)

Canola Flowers Field, China
Canola Flowers Field, China
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)

What would modern technology and social networks look like if they were vintage ads
This is a post gathered Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, Skype, iMac, Nintendo Wii and Sony Playstation as if they were vintage ads.
(via thebronxisburning)

Someone Should Start Laughing
I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: How are you?  I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: What is God? If you think that the Truth can be known From words, If you think that the Sun and the Ocean Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,
O someone should start laughing! Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!- Hafiz
Someone Should Start Laughing

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
How are you?

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
What is God?

If you think that the Truth can be known
From words,

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean
Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,

O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!

- Hafiz
(via cosmic-rebirth)

Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, We Should All Be Feminists
How could I not reblog this?
(Source: bakongo)
1 day ago – 234,004 notes

A wonderful analogy.
What I shall do today.
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1 day ago – 30,054 notes

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1 week ago – 81 notes

SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
(via bluishtigers)
1 week ago – 74 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
1 week ago – 78 notes

My mantra.
My mantra.
(via cosmic-rebirth)
1 week ago – 568 notes

(Source: lnpfeed, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 1,635 notes

Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
(Source: cookiecarnival)
2 weeks ago – 22,305 notes
“The point is not to pay back kindness but to pass it on.”
– Julia Alvarez (via cosmic-rebirth)
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2 weeks ago – 275 notes

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2 weeks ago – 2,799 notes

(Source: rootsrukkus, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 750 notes

(Source: lizzlizzcomics, via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 110,456 notes

ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
(Source: vegan-hippie)
2 weeks ago – 139,177 notes

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2 weeks ago – 4,848 notes

Helminadia Ranford - Guilin,China
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 329 notes

Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
(via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 286 notes
don’t be afraid.
lean into your genius.
let your own brilliance support you.
you are something
we have all been waiting to know.
(via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 339 notes

Amazing Jabuticaba Tree
This is an incredible tree that bears its fruit directly on the main trunks and branches of the plant, lending a distinctive appearance to the fruiting tree. The jabuticaba (Plinia cauliflora) is a fruit-bearing tree native to Minas Gerais and São Paulo in southeastern Brazil. Otherwise known as the Brazilian Grape Tree, the jabuticaba is grown for its purplish-black, white-pulped fruits. They can be eaten raw or be used to make jellies and drinks, including juice and wine.
They are wonderful trees to have and are fairly adaptable to most environments but they grow extremely slow. Jabuticaba flowers are white and grow directly from its trunk, just like its fruit. The tree may flower and fruit only once or twice a year, but when continuously irrigated, it flowers frequently and fresh fruit can be available year round in tropical regions.
Common in Brazilian markets, jabuticabas are largely eaten fresh; their popularity has been likened to that of grapes in the US. Due to its extremely short shelf-life, fresh jabuticaba fruit is very rare in markets outside of areas of cultivation. So if you are ever in Brazil, be sure to try the incredibly tasty fruit called jabuticaba.
source 1, 2
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 1,462 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 118 notes

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2 weeks ago – 130,113 notes

Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
(via samsaranmusing)

Know where you stand.
This is kinda creepy..
(via hungryforworld)

Do not think you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment.
Zen Master Dogen - (1200- 1253) AD (via samsaranmusing)

(via roslynoberholtzerbddd)

Planetary Structural Layer Cakes Designed by Cakecrumbs

Do not resist events that move you out of your comfort zone, especially when your comfort zone was not all that comfortable.
Alan Cohen (via raeraenjma)
(via awaveofbliss)
so apt
so apt
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)

"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."

BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
(via awaveofbliss)

Birth by Alex Grey
Birth by Alex Grey
(via receptive)

(via bluishtigers)

(via awaveofbliss)

There is a time and place for decaf coffee. Never and in the trash.
(via 17yr)
(via hungryforworld)

Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
(via cosmic-rebirth)

Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul,
of the soul.
Rumi, from Who Am I?   (via bluishtigers)
(via bluishtigers)

(via cosmic-rebirth)

(via thebronxisburning)

(via cosmic-rebirth)

La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance
La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance

Mirror City: A Kaleidoscopic Timelapse of Chicago, San Francisco, San Diego, Vegas and L.A. [VIDEO]

(via cosmic-rebirth)

gmb akash documents the 350 kilometre journey from dhaka to sylhet, bangladesh made by those who, unable to afford the price of a ticket or find room to ride inside, risk death by traveling atop and between train cars
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White Tara The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune When I see the signs of untimely death, May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara; And, having destroyed the Lord of Death, May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body. OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
White Tara
The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune

When I see the signs of untimely death,
May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara;
And, having destroyed the Lord of Death,
May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body.

(via dancingdakini)

(via guerrillatech)

Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.
Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.

(via awaveofbliss)

(via cosmic-rebirth)

Internal and external are ultimately one. When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently. Love and compassion arise, and they affect the world.
Eckhart Tolle (via samsaranmusing)
(via suntochukwu)

The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
(via deeperthansoul)

Welcome to Eden
Welcome to Eden

(via bouddra)

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of
meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for
your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled
and closed from fear of further pain!

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without
moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can
dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your
fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic,
or to remember the limitations of being human

It doesn’t interest me if the story you’re telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself;
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty
everyday, and if you can source your life from God’s presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and
still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the
moon, “YES!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair,
weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the

It doesn’t interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else
falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly
like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Oriah Mountain Dreamer, “The Invitation” (via larmoyante)
(via bluishtigers)

By Natural Life
By Natural Life

Livia Marin

Rebirth of a crop circle that was cut by the farmer on 7 July 2013 at Alton Barnes, Wiltshire Re-appears At Hackpen Hill, Nr Broad Hinton, Wiltshire, United Kingdom. Report 15th July 2013.

Rebirth of a crop circle that was cut by the farmer on 7 July 2013 at
Alton Barnes, Wiltshire

Re-appears At Hackpen Hill, Nr Broad Hinton, Wiltshire, United Kingdom. Report 15th July 2013.
iI don’t wanna fix you , I wanna heal you as you heal me Inadvertanly , we do it anyway because we are happy I wanna feel you , as you feel me I wanna know you as I know me I wanna touch you , on metaphysical planes And see the star’s shine out of your ass , as you see mine Fly with me, my love , fly with me to the unkown lands where time hold no power Where the flower is preserved in the desert mist And the animals are small and the trees are big Where penguins live on land and zorros hunt I’ll keep you warm in the winter nights so we can fall asleep at sunrise Or maybe tonight we’ll get to bed before twelve and see sunrise instead And salute the sun with our yogic bodies Lets see the town built on the hillside , precious gems of house stand blue and pink , perhaps we van walk the cobbled streets and stop for a drink in the stand up bar sipping coffee or whisky who knows how far We can travel the lands by plane or by car Lets hold hands and we stare at the galaxies underbelly in a desert where there has never been rain We’ll welcome in the water to the dry drought that’s awashed our planet They say We are emerging from a mini ice age , that is a drought of warmth of love of feeling Some call it the Kali Yunga either way they prohacised this Lace like web is splendid for all to see , all to share Lets build a world for us where we can care Lets make a buissness of our happiness and smile Smile at your smile so you can smile at mine , endless smiles Until I kiss your soft lips as the rains fall and we don’t mind getting wet at all I remember you said you hadn’t met anyone who didn’t mind getting wet like that , or something along those lines and how time flies Our futures collided the day we met , infact we’ve been waiting for this we’ve been building for this , if we had met any sooner any later there wouldn’t have been a chance in hell , we needed each other then more than ever And so we answered the call and prehaphs that can be our greatest contribution our humble contribution to this revolution , the full cycle Our love child I feel like with you , my future could never be dim , traveling whilst sitting still Evoking the unkown in our hip hugs and our last hugs I wonder if anyone else has felt this before? The great wonders we’ve found at the shores of lust and the shores of greed and the shores of plentiful need Will you heal the world with me? We will heal what we can and no more For me , that is plenty
Dearest Victoria ,
you enquired so, we have:
Listing the problems from her front teeth to the back molars, Winston sat with her back to the mirror
She had bad eyesight so couldn’t really see the contours of her face but was comforted by the fact that there was another person in the room ,
Down stairs Q was making cakes ,
the outfit she wore had enough diamonds to drown a drag queen , some ended up in the cake , along with the usual ingredients : pubes , fluff from under the stairs , a pinch of cremation dust from her Pa’s last fake funeral , the end of a shoelace that had begun to fray and very good quality butter Hard to find in these parts, Most the butter was mixed in with genetically modified jaguar pelt,
modified to grow their pelt as butter, the farmers would attach buckets to their bodies and collect as they malted
This was the latest trend, Q despised it , she made cakes for the café up the road , a dingy old shack with only four stools and one type of coffee, sludge
Out in the garden Sarah Whitely grew her carrots, alongside her parsnips and next to that stood an oak tree who rained down her wisdom onto the veg ,
this made sure that everyone in the house was stocked up with their daily doses of Wisdom ,
Otherwise they were sure to get sick without it ,
I believe in your world , you’d call it something a bit like vitamins ,
Only as one ate the carrots their eyesight into other universes would develop
And the parsnips helped them with their imagination,
I like eating mine with thai tea caramel sauce, shipped in from the faraway land of JAUL , there I hear they don’t need to eat anything but pastries and pizza to keep up their health , they live in amongst wise trees with wise people and wise mountains , thus their capacity for wise is already overflowing, they keep it in jars under the stairs and gift their visitors with at least 3 jars before they depart ,
From across the valley I can see the Snarls house, they are friendly enough and pretty decent fellows but quite honestly they must learn to be a little more understanding and a little less demanding ,
they keep on borrowing all of our rolling pins and never give any back , and the ones they do give back are the ones I don’t really mind them having , it’s that silver one with the flecks of gold dust I really want to use, the gold flakes onto the pastry , that
my dear friend, is the secret to a good quiche, gold dust
The market is 19 kl away , john the Baptist is often the first up , so he goes out there on the solar bike ,
his name isn’t really john the Baptist but ever since he had that motorbike accident he , firstly , switched to solar bikes , and secondly decided that he wouldn’t live any more of his precious life being called Barry McWetsulf ,
anyway, so John does all the shopping but seems to almost always forget the washing powder that doesn’t foam , ergh , the foaming ones contain maggot eggs that burrow into your clothes and before you know it , the foam is all maggots and you’ve got to buy a new cloak ,
that’s a pain you know ,
they aren’t easy to come by anymore Since the hobbits passed through and bought all of he stockpiles up ,
no one thought to make any more
We heard they were dead
supply and demand eh?
Who am i? Ah I forgot, I am the local fortune teller ( that’s what is written on my business card ) but I really I trained in mechanics and have a knack for fixing jumbo jets , sadly the last one I fixed did crash into the Indian Ocean ,
killing all passengers but the dog survived, turns out I had left the last piece of the engine at home, I thought we just didn’t need it anymore
but ya live and ya learn old chap!
So dear, you didn’t put a return address on your letter asking who I was and where I live , so I wrote you one anyway , we do have signal boosters here , maybe I’ll catch you on the airwaves?
Your Friend , Trustee , Peaceful Neighbour , World dweller , Life consumer , time creator , music maker , nebula fornicator
Explorations of the unknown , fruits quite delicious.
Little drops of perfume that
explode in fairytale mysticism.
What film are we in now…..or shall we write it ourselves?
Lets dance the salsa in robes and sunglasses.
What is that you say?
All the roads are one now?
Old children? Paradox?
I think so but then   those are the most fun of all
The spaced out interplay inside of intersections
That wind to the mountain floor and up again to volcanic shores
Cloud forests , cloud atlas , clouds messengers of the dawns ,
I hear a storm is coming , didn’t we say this before?
The dawn is already upon us , we think we’re waiting , we’ve been playing for months
Well hidden , well hidden , we don’t got no tracking devices but the markers of time that are the rising of the sun and the falling of the stars from space swirls near and far
Closer than the nearest galaxy but not as far as Sirius B
With wings that fly by night , the tips burn orange , the shades turn a musky blue , dipping into the silver water the enclosed shoulders
Harbor secrets yet,
Until we meet again my fair friend , again is right now
The full stop is redundant as there never is a full stop , you don’t have to try to decipher what I’m insinuating with my punctuation , there is no deeper meaning to it apart from my keyboard broke
But, then I decided that it could mean something more , that is the core
Nothing ever starts with a meaning we just add more! There is no meaning to this life , but there is a quest, no not a test but a quest

Mine I figured is in my smile  , my ability to weave together the nonsense into sense by calling the sense nonsense and serving the ball back over the net to sense who bats it back with a sharp backhand to nonsense who hits way out to the field beyond, hitting meaning on the head, poor meaning , meaning to have a quiet  nap under the plum tree , sorry! Screams nonsense or was it sense?

Either way , the quest has lead me here , the ultimate quest to make sense out of the nonsense that is my self
Hmmm self , hmmm self, hmm; well it was always going to be self on the highest  shelf  next to the cookie jar,
Oops can’t keep my hands out of the mess that we call blessed or taboo

Lets meander down that avenue for a while and taste the delights of forbidden fruit
Not a melon or a dragon fruit , nor is it a kiwi , infact I shouldn’t think it’s a fruit at all
Far too litteral although they are good for your body
How about for the mind , I feel like my body functions better without the excessive consumption of meat and milk does make me fart
Oops toilet talk , is that rude? I never got that, we all burp and fart and belch and piss and shit and flake off dead skin cells all day long but you never hear anyone complian “ excuse me Jones, but I did just inhale your dead skin cell” well silly moo , you’ve just inhaled jones’s and about everything you can’t see with your very eyes in that last lungfull

So you see, to me why waste time on silly buggers like swear words, change the meaning of them if it offends you so , who said that all the words have to stay the same? Really are we that stagnant ? didn’t some dude shakespere invent a ton of new sayings and no one questioned him! In fact we still use his words now, I’m sure they all thought he was bonkers, but then I guess the queen said it was cool

Hmm , queen bee , not unlike the popular kids at an out lawed place called school , dictating her orders through her minions – my definition of minions : cute slaves

The same story played out over and over well I wonder why , if we only see what others like and refuse to explore the unknown in our own right? Perhaps we just didn’t realize there was an option not on the tick list

Can I write like this
wItH aLl mY lEtTeRs FuNkY , is that not still writing ?
What is that you say? What am I talking about? Am I rambling again?
Back to my main point

I really like tea and I really like smiling and I really like laughing until I cry do you?
Here is a funny story:

The 3rd most watched video on a very highly esteemed newspapers website was a  low quality video of a monkey swimming in a pool , this ranked higher than a man being force fed through the nose – this is the kind of thing us humans are apparently really good at
No, not swmming silly,
But that’s not the funny part , the funny thing is that one time my friend Paul went bowling and he saw a woman wearing a shell suit, she had a monkey polishing her bowling balls and when she hit a strike he would clap, he also wore a matching shell suit , safe to say , it was an odd sight

Well maybe you just had to be there

But I like that , I like the ridiculousness we have created
Bowling allies and chicken and chip shops , buses , gallaries , houses , shoes , ice cream , microscopes , bath mats ,  fake teets for children to suck their fake formula while we steal all the milk from a very much alive conscious mammal who proberbly wanted to give that milk to her baby

Ya’know stuff like that

I like it because it reminds me of what we can create , and the true power each one of us holds, because somebody came up with the idea to make high heels that fuck up your back and someone came up with idea of cars that are nice to take drives in with music , someone came up with a portable music player , someone came up with the idea for a train! And then someone else built it !!!!!

I mean , come on! But the best thing I like to marvel at is nature, because no one really came up with nature , nature just kinda happened
That’s the best mystery of them all  an open ended mystery is like a really good open ended question

cover of a webcomic???
am i actually doing a webcomic???? or will i do a page and then ignore it for three months
yes that is what i will do
it will be about a boy and his dog stuck in a house…ITS ACTUALLY THE HOUSE UP THERE IN THE PICTURE CAN U TELL they are stuck in it and it will be a story about trying to leave the house and maybe monsters and magics and demons will make a special guest appearance
maybe i will draw a frozen banana stand
lots of things could happen
there is a world of possibilities
cover of a webcomic???
am i actually doing a webcomic???? or will i do a page and then ignore it for three months
yes that is what i will do
it will be about a boy and his dog stuck in a house…ITS ACTUALLY THE HOUSE UP THERE IN THE PICTURE CAN U TELL they are stuck in it and it will be a story about trying to leave the house and maybe monsters and magics and demons will make a special guest appearance
maybe i will draw a frozen banana stand
lots of things could happen
there is a world of possibilities
(via phatphilosophers)


Credit goes to that anon from yesterday!

i always do this , hen i begin to write and lament at the fact i didn’t start writing earlier
Credit goes to that anon from yesterday!
i always do this , hen i begin to write and lament at the fact i didn’t start writing earlier
(via cosmic-rebirth)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
Watch the Movie in your Head

I have written before of self observation. That is gaining an awareness of our inner talking and the stream of consciousness and learning how it affects our emotion. It is if we have a movie constantly playing in our head complete with sound track.

This movie…

If all insects on Earth disappeared, within 50 years all life on Earth would end. If all human beings disappeared from the Earth,
within 50 years all forms of life would flourish.
Jonas Salk
(via davidlynchshair)
(via commovente)

Some periods of our growth are so confusing that we don’t even recognize that growth is happening. We may feel hostile or angry or weepy and hysterical, or we may feel depressed. It would never occur to us, unless we stumbled on a book or a person who explained to us, that we were in fact in the process of change, of actually becoming larger, spiritually, than we were before. Whenever we grow, we tend to feel it, as a young seed must feel the weight and inertia of the earth as it seeks to break out of its shell on its way to becoming a plant. Often the feeling is anything but pleasant. But what is most unpleasant is the not knowing what is happening. Those long periods when something inside ourselves seems to be waiting, holding its breath, unsure about what the next step should be, eventually become the periods we wait for, for it is in those periods that we realize that we are being prepared for the next phase of our life and that, in all probability, a new level of the personality is about to be revealed.
Alice Walker (via cosmofilius)
for you.
(via livewellovemuch)
(via bluishtigers)

As adults, we try to develop the character traits that would have rescued our parents.
Alain de Botton  (via marinakayy)
OOF. Reality. Tumblr style.
(via thecinnabum)
Wow. Shit just got real real.
(via jewlesthemagnificent)
(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)


View over Paris | France (by Matthieu Legrand - www.mathieulegrand.fr)
View over Paris | France (by Matthieu Legrand - www.mathieulegrand.fr)
(via hungryforworld)

(via treewellie)

Ice Flowers by ~da-phil
Ice Flowers by ~da-phil
(via hungryforworld)

(via you-are-another-me)

Suess Army Knife
Suess Army Knife

The aware do not die;
The unaware are as though dead already.
Siddhartha Gautama - The Dhammapada: The Sayings of the Buddha (via samsaranmusing)


(via­ cosmic-rebirth)

By haydiroket
By haydiroket

Reblogging this because i love Magritte and because the MOMA is having an exhibition of his work from Sept 28, 2013 - Jan 2014 and I am so excited it’s ridiculous.
Reblogging this because i love Magritte and because the MOMA is having an exhibition of his work from Sept 28, 2013 - Jan 2014 and I am so excited it’s ridiculous.

(via bluishtigers)
fairly certain that my physics textbook snapchats are my greatest achievement in life
(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)

(via thebronxisburning)

Day in the Clouds by Samy Charnine
Day in the Clouds by Samy Charnine
(via cosmic-rebirth)

more art here :)
more art here :)
(via bluishtigers)

(via homahgur)

Four tunes Wheel (by SaengGraham)

Sailing in a dhow at sunset after snorkeling off Mafia island, Tanzania.

Sailing in a dhow at sunset after snorkeling off Mafia island, Tanzania.
The tree’s don’t sleep at night
they photosynthesize , by moonlight.
Leaves drink in the cool wise light
And give off dreams of softly fading starlight

Whispers of secrets , monthly unfurl
A single blossom falls at new moon
Hurtling to the ground, awake before noon
Ever noticed? The very word has the circle
Curled up in the centre , twice to make sure we remember , two full cups , not one.

Geko’s slip off old skins
And the croaking frog adds to the din
As thunder rolls in
Triggering the dogs bark
Guardian of the stark naked couple
Asleep in their parallel worlds
Together under the umbrella of ambient lighting
Not the natural kind either
But a shameless copy of pure sunlight
That emenates when their bodies collide
On the material plane.

Astral visions lead the way to headquarters
The address? Fax? Phone number?
I’m afraid you’ll have to dial again ,
Unless you’ve meditated on the vibration of emancipation
Then you would already know, you are already there
Doors are open , for those who care to try
No lock on this baby ,
Ain’t no safe to play safe
We bask in our humble glory
Under the shores on undulating tides
Rhythmic pulsations
no where to hide
The emanations come from within,
Without , a shadow of a doubt

There is a war coming , infact we’ve already been fighting for decades
Just like the change of winds, nature knows her stuff
Tip the seeds too soon and you’ll end up with a field full of fluff
But just in time and a harvest with enough to reduce every super market shelf to dust
Even though they already stock that kinda stuff
Clean up on Aisle 4, Aisle 3 , Aisle 2 , Aisle 1
Return the purchase , we’ve discovered the shit
In the cake
And we found the frog in the salad,
At least their habitat is intact
Or did you think I was still talking about the shops?

Ok , I’ll change tact
Change of pace.
No , no I will not join the Human Race
Running to where? Why all the running?
From what? To where? From whom , to whom it seems like we run straight to our tombs, without a second glance at perhaps the chance that legs can walk…
Wanna know where I’d rather be?

I want to be on a motorbike heading 70 miles an hour down empty roads
An island paradise , holding the hips of my dearest
To arrive at another home ,
where our friends relax to the forlorne strums of the blues
Tripping on love we depart ,
not without slightly heavy hearts
Peace , friends we’ll see you anon.

Pull into the golden arches , I tell myself ‘I can’t kiss those lips now they’ve touched that burger’
then I remember you’ve been working all day
before you came out to play , I wasn’t up for a dance I was too entranced in my own madness
But. Always the butt , walk up those stairs for me, softly you moan.
I agree in a semi tone. Secrets are meant to be shared,
we quietly told each other of love in the parking lot at 4 am. The pain in your eyes still wakes me up in the middle of thunderstorms.

Awoken to sorrows from the motherland, monsters creep to the door,
peep in the keyhole.
I forget,
your door is activated by credit card numbers that spiral from lips of z-list celebrities.
So we’ll waste away the morning in each other arms,
you watch me as I dress. No underwear no less. Put on your bra properly, suddenly you get kinda frosty.
Not far from where we sat to have a Japanese lunch , pretty close to where I walked to meet you for tea , where you held my feet and handed me a phone I left in your brothers car.
Well that’s where we have breakfast coffee and papaya whilst tourists ogle at the dog guard.
Deaf to our calls , luxuriously taking his time. He didn’t find the secret beach either.
Although the sea was good for a float, and to hear the space journey’s musical manifestation
at every crash of every wave, the magnetic pull playing her crooked beat as she bypasses our feet.
Then, there are two nights with two Amsterdam gals , one smoked lucky strikes and had scars across her wrists , the other photographed trees for a living.
Both blonde , both fair , both with their own flair.

Expect the unexpected , beach raves full of people I don’t really want to be with , so we get tequila shots instead
and stand outside a shop selling knock off clothes when the bar needs to shut.

She took a break to the bathroom , we finally let out the kisses we’d been holding in all night,  
until she got back.

Who said we couldn’t control ourselves? Although to be fair, I could feel you reaching for me wayyy back. gg

Why should we be selfish? Why shouldn’t we? I still went home with you that night, there really was no two ways about it.
I had sex with you, slightly drunken sex, that was by no means gentle, by no means candle lit , by no means rose petals laid out on the bed, infact , if my memory holds true, there were no flowers apart from the ones on my dress.
I’d say you were lucky , but then I cried at home.
So much pent up emotion in that one act.
Enough to propel us in into another night and untold eons beyond, I’m skipping ahead now,
Where we drank red wine on the shoreline , I used the staff bathroom and noticed all the things that could be improved – seemed like work was wearing off on me.
Still, the best part was yet to come, yeah the sex was fun but nothing compared to the games we played. Dress up and salsa ,
mysterious temples
natures tickles leading to giggles at the foolish endevours of two horny humans., smoke a spliff , enough to unwind the mind to a new point of time. A flash of something I’ve never seen before, nor have yet to be graced with again.
I guess that was divine. Well, wouldn’t you say….
It was about time.

So , am I still talking about the shops?
Or who wore what with kate moss?
No disrespect
she’s adept at her art but i don’t wanna read about boring old farts
Lets hear about the underground collective of conscious minds who are rewinding the clock , who won’t stop ,

Well quite frankly

How long have we sat , year after year to be told the same cock and bull story.. my ears, my ears! MY EARS!!! They yearn for the sweet serenade of the truth

behind the crumbling arcade of rigged lottery tickets and games of black jack where the house always wins.
Fortunately we’ve been coming since we were five , we know the cards without seeing the faces, we hold all the jacks and aces, we’ve got time on our side

So…that’s why they are running , finding places to hide.

We’d only be stealing from the house to give to the houseless…
With the tools the house gifted to us…doesn’t it seem ironic?

I laughed until I cried the day I discovered the universe had a sense of humor. A dark , ironic , sarcastic tone that involves  a major chord. Maybe a G or a D.

just chillin with my multi dimensional twin. u know them ones
just chillin with my multi dimensional twin. u know them ones
IMG3083 (by Saeng-Fah) aka me
3083 (by Saeng-Fah) aka me
(by Saeng-Fah) that’s me
(by Saeng-Fah) that’s me
Last night , after healing my own emotional body. I had been feeling a lump at the back of my throat all day and just somthing i needed to shake once and for all because i reaize , looking back on this path that i’m very far from where i began and i guess , like jiya and i were talking about , there ain’t no turning back now!! so AFTER that huge release of childhood madness
i really couldn’t sleep so i spent the next 3 hours writing and drawing and listening to good music whilst thunder rolled around in the mouth of the sky, lightning forked like  flesh lips striking the clouds with harsh kisses. I awoke this morning from a dream where i escaped the clutches of a prision camp/school with a few friends, we made it to the fields and to stop at a gas station for sandwhiches and there we parted ways, i got on a boat low down , hearing sirens wail around me, i don’t bat an eyelid. i have every right to be here. So i get to the airport/boatport/trainport where there were markets, then outside all these women gathered together , they stood back and their bodies made the perfect shape of the mountains behind them , sun shines and i wake up . Only to find that i’m 5 mins ahead of my alarm , the rain softly falls and sunlight streams in through the window. I have not felt at peace like this for a very long time.
Magic, what  a wonderful way to start the day. I feel like i’ve uncovered a rich piece of my psyche yet to explore!! WONDERFULL!

Alexander Klein Oct 2013


In eras weird with old mythology,
As if asleep the fabled country lay:
Her wave-like hills and faerie forests dense,
Her thorny brambles budding curling claws,
And ivy circling all the woodsey way --
The far swan's cry came soft and woke them not.
Forlorn, that selfsame call upon the gates
Did break; those gates of Britain's long-lost keep.
She too slept fast, the weary weathered stones
Of fairest Caerleon. O pulsing stream,
Thou vein of life in woods a-slumber, Usk!
Alone are you in knowing castle's face,
From years of timeless burbling at her feet.
What tales are told by water over stone?
What lark or wren can sing of sadness come?
Aye, answers are the beach-wet sand, yet hark!
Rejoicings spilled, proud hails, from Caerleon:
They cheered the hoar-frost's melting with the Spring;
The holy Gwyl Fair y Canhwyllau
Had come at last, in foliage of dawn.

Within, their goblets sailed, wassailed, and crashed
Like growling Jove, their boasts and toasts like wine --
They drank it spiced and over-strong. Indeed,
Some stretched exaggerations: 'twas Sir Bors,
That spotless sheet, who tried to contradict.
He quoted purifying texts and spurned
The wine that nature raised and crafted sweet.
Yet "Loosen up!" uproared the host to him.
"The time has come to celebrate," said Kay,
Beloved knight, step-brother to the King,
"Aloft thy wine, below thy gills! Drink! Laugh!
Your stomach is a falsehood-spewing fool,
It must be drowned for you to feel a lord.
I speak a sooth, you need wine's fleeting bliss!
Know thee that man's tomorrows bleed him dry:
A wade through death and depths as sure as pain
That shall tomorrow light your brow. Laugh! Drink!"
Bold cheering spread with Kay's advice, though yet
To no surprise Bors turned aside the drink,
Unblemished bore, so celebrates alone.
Weep not for him, for soon he'll find a cup
More suited to his strange of chaste and grace.
And none to waste: his share was drunk by all.

Engaged in feast Owain ap Urien,
Engaged in tale now Bedwyr and Kay,
And Lancelot made eyes at Gwenevere.
It was a feast of great success and joy
As fitting of the season's robust gleam,
Yet two there were with shallow-rooted smiles.
Prince Mordred one, though ever-somber he:
Accursed spawn with bone in place of heart
And dreaded incantations for his blood;
His brooding perched like crow on him. Alas:
The other joy-bled man had beard aflame,
A bear-skin drape, and crystal eyes, the Lord
He was of Caerleon and Mordred both.
'Twas not the gleam in lover's gaze that vexed
Though it was seen; he had no heart in him
To chain his Queen as if in dungeon steel,
For Arthur lived believing to be fair
Was paramount, to even paramour.
It wreaked its toll, yet caused small grief this day.
Not even serpent son gave cause to mourn
That greater was than missing nephew's spot
Among the feast. His chair was naked bare
Returned though he should be from faerie quest.
At Calan Gaeaf they expected him
When winter storms had racked their shoddy hall,
Yet since, the months had rolled to Gwyl Fair
The milder season come, but not his kin.
The image of his maiméd corpse did taunt
And haunt the agéd mind of Arthur, King,
His phantom nephew slain anon by knight
That of no flesh was made. In year that died
This green-mailed knight arrived a guest and called
Infernal challenge. Trick it seemed to them
And trick it was, for subsequent the blow,
This seaweed knight did lift his severed head
And from dead lips he cried "Well struck! Now come,
Fulfill me of my game. The year to come
Shall see thee in my home, and as agreed
My turn 'twil be to answer with my axe."

So rapt in recollecting, Arthur missed
The growing clamor that beset his hall.
His bastard cleared the grief from him with taunt,
To bring him into grief. "What say thee, Dad,"
Dripped venom from his mouth, "No love for us?
Your hail we called, but disapprove your eyes.
Methinks that far away thou seest a dream
That visits oft the elderly: a place
Thou knewst when in thy prime, with love
Now filled to burst. Yet fear us not, away!
To land of youth far more beloved than we
Whose happiness with thine own heart is twined."
"My fellow, soft!" the King began, distressed,
Yet Lancelot rose to his feet and spake
"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face!
Thou palest hide, thou Mordred, sit thee down!
This sniveling craven knight should be replaced."
A sounding of the table met his speech,
Again was hailed his toast, and Arthur glad,
Though burdened to his breaking point, and sad.

"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face,"
Had spake his bravest champion and friend
With no regard to Blackguard wrapped in stealth.
See how his roughspun fingers coil in hers
And how some sweetened whisper 'scapes her lips?
The beams of color-stainéd light slip down
To play upon their blissful sin almost
As if King Arthur's King approved on high.
Sovereignty is ruthless, Arthur thought,
Well-wishings of my God grow ever-faint.
I must believe in good though I am ill,
Just as I find my countrymen displeased
Though I did calculate my every breath
To see that it did stand with God's own will
To help my common people from their murk.
I fear I am not what I wished to be,
And now my only solace peaceful death.
If up to me, I'd wish it in my bed.

What horn's blare? Hark! King Arthur roused from thought.
Court gatekeeper Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr,
Dressed plain in brown, took down the horn from lips
And loud as elk called to the hall "Have cheer!
Sirs, drink another beer and wreath your brow
With springtime blooms, for lost knight fair is found!"
Old Arthur trusted not his feeble ears,
But came a hush and Lancelot confirmed:
"What ho," he boomed, "our brother has returned!
'Tis grey Gawaine, aye, Gwalchmai! Drink his hail!"
The uproar was enourmous: "Gwalchmai! Cheers!"
Was like to wake the sleeping wilderness
That hung suspended in the myth and mist.


Astonishment had come like breaking wave
Upon the thirsty sands of monarch's face
So long consigned to reap the low-tide's grief.
When Arthur's ursine hand clenched round his cup
And hailed his nephew's presence with a roar
Long lost to hibernation's hoary spell,
The hearts that beat in armor under him
Did swell to find their lord with cheer at last;
The toast they drank so hearty as to give
Sweet Dionysus pause against excess.
Though only two there were who did not drink,
And one of these were Bors, a sadness fell
Once more as tangible as any wrong
That chose to haunt a hall. 'Twas Gwalchmai grey,
The conqueror now home from quest to rest
Who would not lift his eyes to meet the King's.

"Has cheer so fled from you? Your life remains!
What black has inked you in?" the King did ask,
And silence overtook the hall to hear.
How strongly then did Gwalchmai wish to leave,
To blend once more his form to root or branch
Or soaring river. Wind, the songbird's muse,
Had been his fast companion on the road,
For known to him were many things. He was,
They say, some god that stalked the minds of man
In young enchanted places of the world
Though all his magic helped him not at court:
His shyness was a leaf obscured by rain.
Yet even gods of silence know to speak
When words of pain encircle heavy hearts.
He let them fly, birds in the sky, he said
"I failed. My quest was long and arduous,
The seasons changed while I in heather lost,
The moon its phases shed as fen-frogs called,
I floated through the endless cloying mist
That flows, a ghostly sea wrapped round our isle.
The path had nearly drowned me when I found
The chapel green enough to spell my doom.
When entered I, methought "It cannot be!"
So kind and courteous a host met me
That would have been disgrace to call him green.
He feasted me, and warmed my wounded bones,
Yet I betrayed him in the end; I failed.
I stayed his guest, and friend, and swore to him
That for his hospitality I'd share
Each thing I won while underneath his roof.
And all was well -- I'd rest, he'd hunt -- until
His wife played hearts with me. I did refuse,
But by her final trick was tempted and --
So lost all knightly honor and renoun.
Her lusts I spurned three times, but on the third
She offered me that which my heart desired,
Instead of love she begged me take her boon:
A silken girdle sewn with charms, and green,
Deceit I should have seen. She said the spells
Would keep me safe from harm and spare my life...
When on my rugged journey all I'd feared
Was twisting face of death that loomed so near.
I could not help myself, it seemed so tame,
Yet when the time had come I could not share
That gift, or else expose the husband's wife.
Beneath my armor tied when left that place,
My secret wore me down upon the bog.
It seemed the mist grew thicker, wind grew swift,
I now know under spell was I, but then
It seemed some vengence coming to a head.
My tale grows long, and past the point am I.
The Green Knight and my host were one in fraud:
An airy insect's dream. His "wife," a witch,
Had formed him out of acrid moorland soil:
Homunculus to carry out her scheme.
The blow he owed me carried little force,
Though still this scratch is plain upon my nape.
And so you see my folly plain as oak:
For though I kept the life I feared to lose
My lie grows in me like a cancer bloom
That in the span of time shall kill me sure.
I failed; I'm gone; to revelry return."
The silence, vast again, gripped all the knights
And king too dry to cry, who drowned his heart.


"Is there some madness come to roost herein?
Thy folly is ridiculous," said Kay.
"I valued mine own life past honor's flame,
A sin of selfishness, and blame, and wrong.
What of the world, if all would act as such?"
A weeping noise he made, but choked it back
And turned to leave in shame, and might have done
Had not the stout Sir Kay gripped Gwalchmai's arm.
He raised it in the air and shouted thus:
"Percieve our stunning champion stands nigh!
Though of a frail ennobled heart, we know
Thou art absolved. This trinket given free
To aid in quest I wager was for thee.
And as for sacred broken vows, this man --
You said yourself -- was conjured from a bug.
You owe him no alleigance Gwalchmai, sit!
This serious you need to be for wine:
Come sit with brothers now! We drink to thee!"
"Dispel the failure all you can, it stays
As weighty on my brain. It was a sign
To signify the kind of soul I am,
To me it showed my grimy ills and plain
Did tell my shaping, shape, and shape-to-be."
King Arthur to this nephew spake: "My child,
Is there no antidote to questing's woes?
What has become of jousts and silver swords?"
The anguish in the old man's eyes so keen
To those who knew him. Gwalchmai did reply
"Your majesty, there's not a grief can kill
My bird-like love of questing through the trees,
For only questing can redeem my shape."
"Then let us have this quest!" cried Kay beside
Him at the table, deep in drink he swore.
"Come with me, brother-knight, to clear thy mood!
You do you wrong blaspheming at yourself."
The wine was quaffed by Gwalchmai, yet he said
"I first shall stay, I need to rest my ills."
"Your ills are that which keep you ill, good knight.
I bid you come and we shall quest as birds
Who savor springtime berries in the mist."
"I shall not go, I seek my quietude."
"In sunlight you and I must bask. Comply,
Or else I challenge you by burnished blade."
All eyes on Gwalchmai, under pressure cracked
Into a grin and downed his kykeon.
"In stubborness persisting, Kay, you've won,
A river such as I could not keep stead
Against a boulder. When shall we away?
When come the summer blossoms, fair and red?
Or else not til the saps have lost their leaves?
Departure yours to choose, my brother-knight."
Kay beat upon the table and their ears
When called triumphantly "This very day,
This very hour! To help those who need aid
On holy days shall surely fix your heart.
No time to wallow in the swamp that's gone,
We now away, to break our swords with day!"
"You mock me or you heard me not, Sir Kay,
I wish not to away, I wish to rest!"
The fairest Guenevere, like silver bells,
Chimed in "You must forgive your heart's despair,
Or emanations of its guilt will plague
Your mind. I have a lunar garden if
You wish to sit in soothing calm and think."
"My queen is holy," Gwalchmai spoke in grace,
But Kay had cut him off with "Hear her not!
She will ensorce your mind to not explore,
To sit and think and mold with lunacy;
Beneath the sun we'll tred. It's known on quests
I favor Bedwyr, 'tis true, yet you
My fairest Gwalchmai, keep your wits -- and arms --
Two things in need of we shall be.
I mean you no offense, dear Bedwyr,
But I and Gwalchmai share a severed soul
And shall succeed; two sides of selfsame coin.
So come my cousin grey, to right our wrongs
We must away, to break our swords and say
'My heart is glad I did not stay at home!'
Consume your drink! We go," he trumpet-called.
Thus Gwalchmai was convinced, and so was forced
To nod politely to his Queen and stand,
Declaring to the court "I shall away,
This gloomy mood is dried beneath the sun
Though dearly do I wish some lunar grace
To lose myself in mysteries anew.
To bear this flesh is weighty, yet I've found
The strain to be rewarding in its way.
Think nothing of my former woes, they've passed
Like summer storm or wisp of misty cloud."
The hall at large did drink his hail, and then
Did thrice more drink for quest to which they went.
And Mordred scowled and drank the foulest wine
For his monsoon and fog would last his life.

So summoned then Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr
To hearken unto birds, as was his gift.
He said to all, "I shall now call my friends
And see what worthy tales of quests they bring!"
"There may be naught on Gwyl Fair," said Bors,
"A holy day, all wove with peace. Nor Gods
Nor men would stir their strife this day of days."
"We all shall see," the gatekeeper replied.
Beside his King upon the dais came
And played a serenade upon his horn
That rang throughout the keep and lands beyond.
A time did pass with no response recieved --
Slain silent was the raptness of the court --
But then through open pain in stainéd glass
A thrush did bob and weave in melody,
On finger of the Queen he briefly perched
Before he flit away upon the air.
His song so sweet, but then - what fright! No more!
A hawk had entered, just the same, and swooped,
And now the thrush was silent in his claws.
The cabinet of augers all took note
And sketched their calculations into books,
Though none, in this, more wise than Gafaelfawr
To whom the hawk said "Hail, you man of rank
Who speaks the tongue of wing-in-air. Now hark!
'Twas not in hunger slew this thrush, but fear
That what I have to tell might go unheard.
My family, we roost near Cornwall's sea
And late, the noises off the coast grew strange
As if some evil kraken raged at love.
My chicks; my wife and I; we're simple hawks.
We eat and some of us are eaten, yet
Beware the thing that slouched from out the waves.
His shape is something like a boar, but huge,
He dwarfs his kin, and hill, and oak,
This hall is large, yet he'd be stuck inside.
He does not eat what he has killed, instead
He smears the bloodied flesh on stones and trees,
What man could face a fear that bears this face?
If you could hear the rutting squeals he makes!
I swear this sooth by wind and waving plumes:
You men who craft with metal, hark!
Destroy the beast!" And then he flew away
Still calling after him "Destroy the beast!"

The court at large had heard the warbling hawk
But did not know the tongue, so only watched
Glewlwyd's unease upon his face
Until with stiff and rasping voice relayed
The content of the predatory news.
Unease began to show among the knights,
For many there recalled a beast so shaped
And all the blood and guile he took to drown
The first time. Arthur, grim, forbade Sir Kay
And Gwalchmai face these perils by themselves,
But recommended regiment of steel
To bolster ranks against the fearsome boar.
"I know this foe from days of old," he said,
His years of rule etched rough across his face,
"And so do most of you, though many gone
And this monstrosity not even slain."
But Gwalchmai said "'Twas hard indeed to win
Those relics that he bore. Remember I
That Trwyth was the name he chose, and we
Shall best him fair. Though not for trinkets now,
But with the zeal of mother guarding young:
This foe, Twrch Trwyth shall not raze the land
Nor wage a war against some peaceful ilk
While rounded table can become a shield.
Yet spare your other knights, this urgent task
Has fallen on our holy candle day.
You many of my uncle's hall," he cried,
"Who feast upon my uncle's wealth and love,
On this first day of spring, I beg you, rest,
Enjoy the fruits that winter sealed away
And celebrate your fortunes on this day!
This foe I think will pose no threat to we
Who are as razor swords of day and night.
Think yet of blooms and fairest lover's kiss
While I and Kay to wander through the mist."


Upon a bough upon the road, a wren
Pronounced a song that knighted travelers knew
And Gwalchmai whistled in the harmonies.
Four moons they'd seen upon the road,
Tonight to be their fifth, though now 'twas day
So newly formed it wore a bridal veil
Of snaking mists throughout that dreaming land.
The wren and Gwalchmai sang a merry mile
Yet parted when the sun grew high. The shroud
Dispersed somewhat, as if to clear their path,
Yet in its place the forest tangled thick.
Like sometimes dreamers find their sight a mist
So indistinct became the path they trailed,
In verdant triumph of the trees and vines
And moss that spilled like spiderwebs aloft,
That grace of light was blocked; this place was night
For all the days it wove itself in life.
The silence clung to them as tight as moss
That wisped and from the branches hung alive,
Since Gwalchmai had no heart to sing alone
And Kay's voice, though he tried, was like a drum.

They came upon a whirling forest stream
And Gwalchmai's horse did skip across on stones
Yet golden-tonguéd Kay did cry "Halt! Wait!
Across I cannot make so loaded down!
Come, shoulder some provisions, take this lance,
These extra pauldrons blue, and I shall ford."
So silver-tonguéd Gwalchmai had no choice
But bear these items over water's spray.
"You've brought too much," said Gwalchmai when across.
"The pauldrons on you now look passing strong,
I say you shall not need their sister pair."
"Why sir," said Kay, "I lov'd thee for thy brain,
I thought you knew to always be prepared."
"'Tis true indeed, we needs must be prepared
Though that advantage countered by your bulk.
It seems you could not leap a stream, how then
Can you attack Twrch Trwyth, loathsome beast?
A-many king were killed by hunted boar,
And we but knights -- these burdens shall distract
Our lowly flesh and lead us to our doom."
"Some talk for sure! I saw your pack so light
And thought you crafty, with some hidden load,
Yet now I see you've brought but scarce, you fool!
A truth now: if these shoulder-plates did fail,
What song would grace your lips? Would Gwalchmai sing
Of wonders grown to fruit with foresight's rain?"
"I ask you, Kay. If squared against this beast,
Now truly, you and he, what would you do?"
"If Trwyth-boar and I were face to fate?
With all things told I'd wish a strong defense;
His power is enourmous, I recall."
"Indeed my brother, I agree. Your shield
Must raise to block his way or else be gouged
On fearsome razor tusk. What then would you?"
"Ah, then. A deadly choice, two tusks to fear.
A warrior does always favor right --
And too shall giant scab, so I'll block left.
When Trwyth's gore comes seeking for my heart
My shield mayhaps shall crack that ugly snout."
"My dear, my fellow knight, 'tis as I feared!
We must not underestimate Trwyth,
For he is eons old and wise as stone
That sleeps in tumulus among the dead.
Thou art too focused and too loaded down,
So like to me when at the Chapel Green.
My shameful lesson scorched me with its lash
For in my mind my path was narrow, straight,
Yet in an ocean I was drowning there.
In haste to live, I took her girdle charm;
In haste I took the path presented first
With singleminded foolishness. Beware
That you as well fall not to such a trap.
I ask you Kay, if thrust to left with shield
And then discovered error in your thrust --
Discovered Trwyth's tusk upon your right --
What would you then that would not end in death?"
"I said it was a deadly choice, alas!
If with the other tusk he thrust I fear
That I'd be at his mercy. Yet, sir knight,
That thrust would mark your cue, and from the flank
A strike from Gwalchmai topples evil boar!
Do you propose that this should be our plan?"
"Misunderstood was I, and that no plan.
I meant to warn you 'gainst my failings passed,
That we may overcome. Thou knowst my mind?"
"In sooth I know it not" he said, while deep
Within the forest birds began to weep.
"To tell it plain, these riddles trick my ears
And lead me to a lack of understanding.
Yet ask me for my sword, I'll tell thee plain."

The crows grew loud as Gwalchmai said "These lips
My only two, and riddles issue forth.
How else to speak these words I do not know
Except to say, my mind was racing fast
That night in Chapel Green, and I enslaved
With soul asunder, pulled apart by thoughts.
Yet when it all was over, I was clear
For shock had swept my mind of thoughts that swoop
And hunt convictions, gnawing at the flesh
To form a cloud of worry and of hurt
That scars the soul that's rent. Dear Kay,
I say that worry will destroy our drive
Preventing adaptation in the fight.
Agaist a foe so dread, a complex plan
Would load us more than extra pauldrons blue."
"But some idea, some framework you advise?
To challenge blind a folly, sure as if
My shield I'd thrust to neither side to pause
And catch my breath." The birds had ceased their spell
And foggy quietude returned to woods
As trees began to thin and form a plain
That rolled with blossomed grasses, full of wind.
"I'm with you sir, contingencies we'll dream
To better set our expectations, yet
Indeed I ask you: pause and stay your shield
To see which side Twrch Trwyth favors first."
The crows they left behind called after them
From tangled boughs of ancient warden trees.
Grey Gwalchmai whistled in the melodies,
But discord did the black-cloaked birds pronounce.


The sweep of hills in coat of grasses sown
From finer weave than man can seek to learn
Did ripple in the wind and swell, a sea,
Through which their dappled horses waded deep.
Kay blew his hunting horn, let fly its drone,
Yet no reply returned: no human heard.
Beneath the surface of the sea-green grass
Some waves they saw that were the beasts that passed,
Some stalking prey, some hiding, slinking, swift,
And katydids did breach the surface with a leap
So like the leaping fish. "Upon my mind,"
Said Kay, the golden-tonguéd knight, "If we,
Much like these hopping things, would charge at him,
As from a sheltered secret place, my friend!
This plan the one to aid us most. We'll leap
And at the massy boar we'll charge with lance
To run him to his core! What blood he'll shed!
A plan like this says we've already won!"
"This plan has roots I like, yet needs regrowth:
The subtle sneak-attack is beauty true,
I wonder why you counter our surprise
By charging with the thunder of your hooves."
"The speed's the thing: the fastest, deadliest!
I need no more than three and ninety's pace
To spell Twrch Trwyth's end." A bird did perch,
A warbler on the arm of Gwalchmai grey,
And into song erupted. Like a gull
He called for feathered friends that on the knights
Did make their passage through the ocean hills.
"If out of hiding, Kay, you leap and yell,"
Said Gwalchmai in the breeze, "He'll notice you
And counter, block, or dodge to show us doom."
One gull did squawk agreement, so Sir Kay
In spite did sweep him from the horse's flank.
Above their helms, on wings he circled once
Then glid back down and landed in his spot.
Said Kay, "My heavy lance at heavy speed
Could pierce the thickest hide; you felt its weight.
In sooth, I say it holds our greatest hope
And finds the surest route to Arthur's hall --
Regardless of the risks that you foretell."
"And if you miss, then all and life is lost.
Surprise, it seems, would be the greater strength
To draw us home alive when deed is done.
It seems a waste, for one attack, to lose
This mighty hunting notion we have brought."
Kay said "What then do you suggest? Should we,
With bows, all silent stalk our monstrous prey?
If he should spot us thusly armed, a paste
We would become. At last, these birds have flown!
Some nuissances were they, my ears at ease
Now they have gone to seek some other stage."
"Look there upon the further hill. They swoop
And circle round: there's something in the grass."
And so they turned their mounts aside to seek
The mystery beneath the emerald sea.

The birds were gone, they'd landed in the waves,
But Gwalchmai in his stare did hold the spot
And set their course unerringly to sail
Through crash of green to island in the rough.
There, overgrown, amidst the flowers white,
Abandoned stones and songs: a sacred Well.
No birds in sight yet there a hobbled man,
To errant knights did call "Well met, young sirs,
Dismount and let me tend to you. This Well
Has healed those wounded long, those sadly cursed,
And those whose birth was tainted by a death."
"And who are you," said Kay, "who guards this place?
Thou dost not live among these plains of grass,
Nor from the hall of Arthur, that I know.
Where dwell your ilk, and wherefore are you here?"
"A man of questions, this I know," he rasped
And hacked a cough into his ragged sleeve.
Arthritis gripped his hands, his knuckles oak --
With sickness in his veins he clutched the rope
And tugged upon its lifeless length with strain
That rattled in his chest and wore his bones.
Sir Kay dismounted with a grunt to help,
And soon had drawn the ancient pitcher up.
"I would not trust this water, strange it seems
To drain the ocean underneath the land.
What if we sink, had that thought crossed your mind?
O, they who drink of wells know not their guilt."

The man of oaken knuckles heard him not
And downed the pitcherfull of melted ice.
Before the knights could blink, it seemed he'd shed
His weariness, his age, some weighty cloak
Was lifted from his shoulders and his heart.
The more the old man quaffed the straighter still
His spine did rearrange and form a shape
That spoke of strength and youth. The knights agape:
The miracles they'd seen before were sly,
Some subtlety upon the rim of thought,
As slight as if they'd mattered not at all --
Yet when examined by the brain their light
Exploded with the radiance that births a star.
This sight before them shook them to their greaves
And nearly shook their faith, each wondering
If they were truly men of god before.
"This Well a gift to man much like the sun,"
Then spoke the ancient man with reformed lips,
"For in his need, it helps him shine through all.
My limbs renewed as they have been each day
Since we, awash within these endless seas,
First birthed our way upon the land, from surf.
Some countless years have I, some countless dreams
I've dreamed and killed with fullness of the moon.
From now until tomorrow's brighter sun
I'll wither, flake, and nearly die, and yet
I'll draw elixir from the liquid deep
And drink a dream that neither lives nor dies.
Come Kay! Come Gwalchmai! Drink to me a hail
From water sleeping far below the hills.
Upon your task so grim, this potion sip
And strength your breast will fill, and sight your brow,
And thrust your mighty arms to pierce the beast."
Already Kay had cast the pail back in,
They heard it fall and strike the walls and splash
Far deep below where sunlight wanes and dies.
Yet "Halt!" cried Gwalchmai, "let us take a breath
Before we taste this precious blood of stones.
I fear we sway upon the brink of doom,
As blinded men repeating gloomy past.
One thought towards my plight and you will see
It parallels our own: we must refuse."
"What rot and nonsense," snorted blunt Sir Kay.
"This gift upon our route was placed -- this Well
Provides exactly that which cures our griefs!"
He clutched the rope, his gauntlet gripping firm,
And Gwalchmai too dismounted then to warn:
"Kay, have you ears? This Well is not a gift,
But foul temptation placed thus in our way.
'Twould seem we've naught to lose, yet there's the snare!
I thought the same when I took matron's belt,
But only after did it change to guilt.
We have the power, you and I! My blood,
I promise you we'll slay this beast as planned --
But on our own, and not with help from gods.
To take that gift when gifted as we are
Corrupts the boon until it eats your mind.
I say to you, the power we posess
Shall slay the boar, shall mend the realm, and still
Shall find us home in Arthur's sacred walls."
"What mind is it that scoffs at graceful luck?
A boon becoming sour is not the fault
Of he who gave the gift! How is the taste,
What is the water like in caverns dark?
Am I to never know?" He dropped the rope.
"As you're the one returned from quest, I'll heed,
But such a draught as this would mend my mind.
I know my strength, yet still the face of death
Reflects within my dreams and waking thoughts.
What death, to die. Long-sought, the cure. And yet
Grey Gwalchmai bids me turn aside this cup."
"It is our lot to suffer: we are men.
Were we to hold the power that kills death
No honor could we find though foes we slew
Or righted wrongs the whole day through. In grief
Is glory won; in blood and screams of birth.
Come Kay, the things of honor's worth we seek
Without divine protection meant to aid,
For with it comes a blunting of the soul."

"We thank you well, you agéd man," said Kay,
"My heart that thirsts, your kindness must refuse
For I, it seems, am bound by higher laws
Than those that rule my flesh and blood and bone."
The old man cried "You made your choice," and then
He flew away. He was the birds they'd met,
The warblers from the rolling dunes of sea.
That half-remembered melody grew faint
And died upon the winds. And they were left
Once more adrift, alone upon the waves.
The sun was red, and sank as they set out:
A disc of light entangled in the mists.
Before blue twilight cloaked the land in full
Sir Kay began "I wish to hear this plan,
That safer is than immortality.
With bows we shall be slain, I still protest."
And Gwalchmai turned and smiled, thin-lipped and sly.
"If monstrous foe is marked by poison shafts
In rage he'll charge as boars are wont to do --
We all have flaws that can be overcome.
He'll rush at me, revenge for piercing pain,
Yet arrows with a paralyzing foam
Shall slow his mountain-moving hooves to cease,
And you shall guide your mighty lightning lance
To arc and sunder ribs and heart from beast."
When Kay had grasped the strategy he paused
And turned the image over in his mind
And rode on silent over hills that twist
Forever through the drifting of the mist.


Along the coast they rode, on stony shoals
Their errant hooves blazed trails until the dawn
When clouds were pink and pale in sky asleep.
The crashing waves, eternal thunder, pulsed
And danced their cycles, tongueless, to the moon.
A salt was on the wind. Sir Kay in thought
At last in weak tones spoke "See thee the sea?
See thee its cold embrace? I see the crests
All vanishing behind the foggy veil.
What lies beyond these shores through which we steal?
Do further lands upon the ocean dwell,
Or else our island all alone? In sleep
I wander out upon the spray and crash:
The coldness of her glass upon my soles,
The blindness in the belly of the mist.
Is there an island like our own, out there,
Or is the world divided like the spans
A human knows in life? That is to say
We live as men upon the lands, then die,
And drift beneath dramatic waves in death?
The clouds of hell and heaven hanging low
Some hidden life obscures perhaps, some gem,
Yet fancy is a ghost that plagues the young;
Its velvet lips no longer grace my cheek;
No kiss could drain the pallor of the mists.
That shapeless country swallows all I know,
For there is naught beyond this island's shore
Except the sea, the stars, and wispy veil."
And on they rode in silence through the foam
'Til Gwalchmai in reply did purse his lips
And rouse from them a birdsong of the night
That on their minds in sweetness broke with tide.
His song did soar above the ocean dirge
And lifted too their hearts upon the spray
As long as he did play. The jagged rocks
And dessicated seaweed rags, all rough,
Were scattered on the sands of lonely beach.

The song that soared brought back their hearts to them
And grey-cloaked Gwalchmai said "The seas are rough
And hard to see beyond because of mist.
These shores are strange, the ocean stranger still,
For who can know the form of all unknown?
We see our lives in greater focus, for,
By sooth, we live them thoroughly, or try.
Yet oceans hold a life as sure as we,
And far from us suspend a further shore
Where blossoms tender as our own are grown,
Yet stranger in their traits, and dissonant.
And we may know these blooms, these fish, and yet
The bounds of knowledge never can be crossed --
And pieces of a thing, try as they might,
Can not their sum behold with certainty.
The life we live a journey through the dark,
And only when we live no more can lights
Dispel the shade revealing hidden truth."
The moon was dragged beneath the hungry mist
And certain stars extinguished glowing souls
Until the night was siphoned from the sky
And dawn, in gloom and seagull cries, was born.
"We are to face the beast but soon," said Kay.
Some fright is in my bones and makes me think
On all the mysteries beyond the shroud,
On all the stars with secret tales to tell.
Perhaps I'll meet them as I journey by,
If fearsome foe is lucky with a tusk.
My bones will stay behind, I'm sure. Will I
Remain? Or shall I sail that milky road?
I wish a proper burial beneath...
Or should you burn what's left? I wish I knew.
The future drenched in mist alike; I'm blind."
"As all are blind who try to see ahead:
So many streams that weave within this world
Not one of us can grasp them tight enough
To read from them the things not yet to pass.
This plan we've made, the best we could design,
Yet still we must adapt to keep our lives.
My soul afraid as well -- my blood grows thick!
I like the storm of combat less than you,
Preferring turn-of-chance, or subtlety.
Yet far too great a beast Twrch Trwyth is,
We cannot win with stealthiness alone.
I fear I've brought a doom, I'm sorry Kay,
My nervous hexes make me wonder sore
If we should not have drunk from holy Well.
In anguish to redeem my past I hope
I have not slain us both in honor's name.
No song will help me now. I wander, borne
Upon the coastal gusts, a common gull.
I wish, I wish, I wish, yet am the wind.
No song of birds shall ever help me now:
To be a man means being lost at sea.
Yet even as the waves turn cloak and crash
They bring a touch of chaos as they break
And sometimes break for good, instead of ill.
To truly harmonize with swollen seas
The crest of waves that pass us we must ride
And with our circumstances roll our path.
True plans, those set in stone, can never work
For they ignore the iron whims of fate.
Some good shall come, I swear, or else some ill.
To say this thing puts weakness in my bones,
Yet we must forge ahead and worry not
For things shall come to pass for good or ill,
And we must roll our way along the path
That seems the best to we in heedless haste.
We have no course but try our might on him,
And hope that glory shines on us, and pray,
Yet prayers do naught but voice the soul's desire.
If only fate could heed the pleas of each
Instead of all… I wish she'd care for me.
Alas, my knight, my friend: the world must turn."
"I worry for our souls, will they endure?
Is there a deathless country I'll explore?
I cannot bear the thought of nothing, nil!"
"If I should live and you should die, be sure
Your corpse shall rest beneath the undelved earth.
Yet if you breathe when I do not, be gone,
And bear thy victory to Arthur's hall
And not the rags I leave behind in death.
The skin a snake has shed he does not keep,
For when he's shed he needs his old clothes not.
A stellar skin I'll have when I am gone,
And gusts of wind shall be my shifting hair,
With not a thought to corpse I'd shed with life.
When death arrives, I hope that's how he comes:
A death that I'd enjoy between some spans
Of lonely life." Waves fell upon the shore
And stars did weep while fading from the sky
Delivering the heavy red of dawn
That cloak of dying night could not resist
As permeated through the veil of mist.


The morning sprawled above like evil haze
That hid the sun from them and hid its warmth
And hid the hope that rises with the dawn.
Through weaves of vines and tangled thorns they slipped
As silent as a stalking lion's breath;
Their eyes were mirrors waiting for a face
To give them shape and soul and purpose plain:
The face they stalked was like to find its end.
On conversation, like a raft, they'd sailed
From ivor stones of Caerleon on Usk;
The rafts had borne their minds and words above
Subconscious waters, beast of brain in man,
Yet here inside the silent forest's gloom
Their words had sunk below and drowned their thoughts,
And caught within the blood sport's dimmer tide
Some instinct swept their reasons all aside,
Along with all the easy wit they'd shown
When rounded by their kin and men-at-arms
Within the eggshell walls of Arthur's keep.

Now stripped from all the comforts of their hall
Through weary woods on foot they stalked in fear;
Their steeds they'd stowed in safety by the shore
And if these riders never left the woods
Some peasants plain would profit well that day.
Sir Gwalchmai's fingers played upon the string
Of longbow itching for an arrow's touch --
Yet from his slow-slung quiver naught was drawn,
For prey the knights glimpsed not; the forest mute.
Amidst the wilderness were they when snagged
Upon a branch Kay's cloak held fast. The thorns
Had clawed between some fabric's willful folds
And startled Kay enough to break the spell
His hunting brain had cast. "Wait!" he blurted,
Before he hushed himself and cut it loose.
Grey Gwalchmai whispered "Cease your blunders, come."
And Kay was swift behind him, trampling buds.
"I'm sorry," said the golden knight, "I wish
I'd had the foresight not to cry aloud.
These woods are strange and frightening to me,
And nothing like the peaceful woods of Usk."
"Then why do you still speak? We tread the edge
Of keen assasin's blade, and you persist
In babbling like a painted jester's son."
"If not in dire alert I'd challenge thee
For on my honor jesting. In the spring--"
But there was Kay cut off, for both their ears
Began to hear a muffled grunting, wet
And hungry in its lurid rasp. The knights
Swift swept behind some trees and hoped they'd not
Been seen. Grey Gwalchmai chanced a glance beyond,
And boar he saw, but of an average size.
The knights were stunned in silence, breathing fast,
And whispered Kay "He's large, but not by much,
An end you'll strum, I know." But boar did perk
At hearing something in the vines, and yelled --
An ugly trumpet-cry that scarred the wind.
From drooping quiver, Gwalchmai slid one shaft
And strummed it as the bow of violin
Against the poison foam that hung thereon,
And fit the seagull's feather to the string.
Yet time enough was not for him to aim
When calm destroyed by shrieking thunder's clap
From farther in the gorey wood. What cry?
What beast could pierce the heavens with a sound?
The knights against some stones did press their backs
As shredded trees despaired and fell aside
Where trampled errant mountain, hellish boar,
His back above the tree-tops, thorns and vines
Deterred his mighty frame like paper shields.
He made a clearing as he settled down,
His amber eye was full the size of boar
They'd met before. The lesser and the great
Conversed not long in shieking tongue of swine
Before Twrch Trwyth rose and showed his height
And belched aloud in human tongue "Some men?
Some shining knights? Yes… now I smell their sweat.
But what have they to sneak within these lands
That I have mounted, conquered, killed? My will
Within this smitten place is absolute."
His lips were fleshy, black and slick with drool,
His breath a foul disease that plagued the land.
Some tears of fear then from the knights did spill
But Gwalchmai grey, as per the plan, snuck off
To flank the giant boar. He stayed downwind
And cared to rustle not the smallest leaf
Nor waving sprig of fern. Twrch Trwyth called
"Some cowards then? Some belly-crawling knights?
Or are you even hunters? Lost perhaps
And trespassing in my domain unknown.
Think not on how to flee my flaming wrath
For I shall gnaw your bones and gouge your skin,
And douse your hope. So run, but you are mine."
His solar eye rolled all around to see,
But though he grunted, trampled, turned his frame
He could not spy the knights disguised in green.

Sir Kay perspired below his armor's weight
And tightly gripped the rough of moss and bark
As Trwyth's growling shivered in his bones.
His heavy lance was nestled 'neath his neck
And fingers ached as clasped around its grip.
The plan they'd tossed between them on the way
Seemed murky, dim, an algae-covered pond
Congealing think about his gasping face.
He closed his eyes and held them tight in hope
But when he looked again the shrubs still crashed
And oaken trunks still torn apart and flayed
As Trwyth wheeled and furiously sought
The spears that shifted underneath the leaves.
He crawled around the tree, Sir Kay, to peek,
And saw the massive reeling boar in rage,
But not a hint of greyest Gwalchmai showed.
He swallowed. "Why do I return to fear,
As if this battle were my first?" he thought.
"Anxiety enflames my veins as if
Of jelly I was wrought. Must pain arrive
Before my every battle? Seasoned, I,
And truthful under armor, kind, and strong.
My heart, what wounds let spill your precious sap?
Can it be done? Can we succeed in this?
No reason I can find that death should wait
And stall to visit me another day."
Some tears as angels flowed within his eyes
And all the story of his life made sense
In these the final hours he breathed in life.
A flash of youthful training in the yard
With father Ector, and a scrawny boy
Who soon became his liege -- and all the wars
In which he'd been a bloody part. This beast
Was in his vision too, for they had dueled
And Arthur's knights had nobly bested boar
To exile Trwyth under churning tides.
His sheen of sweat began to sting his eyes
And stirred him from his instant dream of death.
And this was why he turned and saw, in flight,
The poison shafts that Gwalchmai grey had loosed.
They seemed to spell some doom with purest arc
In which they flew, and when they struck the flesh
Of mountain-dwarfing boar -- upon his thigh --
The sound was almost heard of damning bell
As one that tolls for men. At once a squeal
Impaled the air and sent the birds from trees;
The caterwaul as shrill as gate to hell
That from its hinges reels with terror's flame.
The trees were churned and trampled, now he knew
Where unseen archer set his hiding spot.
Like thunder underground the earth did shake
As beast began his fearsome shrieking charge.
Between the knights Twrch Trwyth shook the woods
And with his monstrous frame he moved as swift
As summer squall upon the thirsty plains.
And he was nearly there, to Gwalchmai's cloak,
When secret foam made contact with his blood
And paralyzed the leg where arrows stuck.
He made a vicious sprawl and crushed some trees
Beneath his weight which fell like sculpted bronze.
The instant Trwyth fell, in rushed his cub
That knights had seen before, that smaller boar,
And nuzzled at the giant's fallen flank.
Yet mountain that had fallen flailed in wrath
And nearly struck the smaller son, who fled.
Twrch Trwyth roared and kicked his frantic hooves
And bellowed as he tried to right himself
Without the limb that Gwalchmai's foam made lame.
His tusks dug furrows in the ground, he drooled
And choked while screaming curses wet and raw,
And then it was that Kay percieved his chance
And leapt, with lance, from shadowed hiding place
To charge his foe. The giant's eyes were wide
And rolled within his skull, but glimpsed not Kay
While raging to regain his balance lost.
Sir Kay beneath his armor lacked in speed,
Yet in precision made his tactic count:
When he had reached the beast -- unseen from wrath --
He planted rooting foot upon the soil
And thrust his lance between the demon's ribs
With all the might that dwells in faithful hearts.

The lance did pierce the bristled mane of hair
And skin wrapped underneath, and muscles taut,
Yet somehow Trwyth closed his ribs like teeth
And grasped the tip of lance and held it fast,
And wrested it away from from Kay, who shrunk,
But only for the time it dook to draw
His burnished blade. He charged the writhing boar
And carved him up, his hacking wily, fierce,
And though the wounds were weeping blood, no cut
Could penetrate the the toughness of his flesh.
Unspoken boar who rose from ocean depths
Now rose upon his hooves and stood aright
Though knight was feverishly flaying him
In vain attempt to cease his curséd heart.
The buried tusk was fast and slammed Sir Kay
Upon the jagged ground. He grabbed his side,
The gauntlets bloodied on the armored knight,
Exhaustion in his limbs: the aches of age.
He knelt, but struggled to his feet, on guard
Against the thundercloud of demon boar:
Twrch Trwyth shook his tusks and roared of hell
While using three good legs to surge at Kay --
The monstrous boar was heedless of the trees
And ran them down, the prey could only flee
To save himself from being crushed to clay.
He turned his back and rushed through undergrowth
Evading trample of enragéd boar
By running random as the whims of fate.
The crash of trees was deafening, yet still
He heard a novel sound: an arrow's cry
As like the kind in use by hunting men
Who signal from afar. He turned his head
And saw that Trwyth too had heard the sound.
Another arrow screamed at them, and struck
The face of raging boar, below his eye.
He stopped his charge. He sniffed and looked around
With eyes moon-huge and yellow, mad with blood,
He spat and yelled and turned his bulk towards
The screaming taunting arrows' path behind,
Abandoning the helpless Kay who bled
And clutched his side where demon tusk defiled
The plates that formed his armor. On a trunk
He leaned and braced his back and felt his wound.

The eyes Twrch Trwyth bore could see the man
Who stood upon a broken tree and loosed
Another stinging dart that screamed and stuck
Between the bristles on his shoulders' hills.
The legs Twrch Trwyth used were mostly free
From ugly burning venom, he was sure
And building up tremendous speed and rage
Towards the tiny knight in cloak of grey.
The tusks Twrch Trwyth bore were sharply honed,
He lowered them as he approached his prey,
Prepared to smash the trees on which he stood
To driftwood, splinters, powder; all to dust.
That simple archer with his cloak of grey
Rebellious stood against Twrch Trwyth's rush
Atop a leaf-bare tree that he had climbed
By way of leaning trunk that beast had split.
Another bristle stung the foul pig's face
Provoking yet another shrieking squeal
And thunder from his hooves did crack the ground
As speed increased; damn murder spelled in drool
Upon the lips of bloody boar. He was,
They say, some god that stalked the minds of man
In young and dismal places of the world
Though all his power helped him not in duels:
His satiation in the sacrificed
Of forest cults who bled themselves for him.
As god who ruled their rage, his temper grew
Eclipsing all his thought divine while trapped
For ages in his prison 'neath the waves.
His roar was with the lungs of mindless beast,
For all his grace departed when he slew
Distraught in carnage and in love with hate.
And this is how it came to pass that he,
Twrch Trwyth, god of rage of vengeful clans
In holy bloodlust slain. He roared, he charged,
And agile knight of grey did slip aside
To hold the leaning trunk, and fall with it,
Exposing in its fulcrum nether side
Of trunk which carved had been to sharpened point.
It was momentum killed the beast, and kills
Us all. The monster's ribs like teeth again
Did close around the piercing tree, yet cracked
And could not halt enough his deadly charge.
And we who hold our broken hearts and moan
Are ants to him who feels his organ torn,
Exploding virile blood within his chest.
The shriek he wretched was toxic to the ear
And ripped the birds from nests and spoiled milk.
The blood was flowing from his mouth yet still
The fallen god pressed on, devouring lance
With wound until it broke behind his back,
Emerging coated in his sanguine slime.
As far as dying hooves could press he came,
'Til Gwalchmai, fallen, well could smell the breath
That once crushed kings beneath the founding soil.
A dying ocean poured from mouth of dying god,
This ocean too he poured: "I never thought
To meet my end upon this earth. Am I
A traveller bound for damned damnation, or
Will sweet salvation find me? All I've done,
The work that I was brought about to do.
I hope some justice, fair reward to reap,
And curse you, foul grey knight of Arthur's camp:
I hope to never see your ilk again,
I hope you meet your end upon this earth
And all you love shall come to ill and death.
As long as I am dead, you too shall be.
This knight I curse, my pain has barbed his heart,
And so I die." And so he died, the god,
Twrch Trwyth of the bloodied forest cults
Who rent the land in rage. His soul, at peace,
Ascended from the matter of his flesh,
He rose: from every pore to every cyst,
His spirit joined the endless veil of mist.


When Kay was found among the roots and leaves
He'd stained the earth with heavy blood that oozed
From gash along his side. His plate was off,
His pauldrons too, he'd stripped them down
Allowing wound to bleed. "We must away,"
Said Gwalchmai, dragging Kay to shaking feet.
"Some shelter we can find, some place to rest
And eat, and heal ourselves. We've done it, Kay!
The beast is dead! The monster boar lies slain!"
But only dull approving nod gave Kay,
So dazed from loss of strength. He faintly walked
While Gwalchmai struggled sore to hold him up,
And bind the ragged rip that wept his blood,
And on and on the miles to forest's end.
Through haze of pain Sir Kay did weakly smile,
"Perhaps this is a dream from fevered wound
Across my side, yet what do I recall?
Some Well we found, some magic hidden stream?
I wish that this were true, for I've a thirst."
His head did limply nod 'gainst guilty knight,
Grey Gwalchmai bore Sir Kay, and felt his pain,
But Kay had passed from consciousness to sleep,
And damning thoughts, like ghosts, drained Gwalchmai's mind
As through the tangled nest of vines he strode
While setting sun gave way to twilight gloom.

A noise behind, some rustle in the leaves
Alerted grey-cloaked knight to draw his sword
And lay unconscious Kay to rest in peace
Among a bed of bluebells, in the shade.
The guilty Gwalchmai waved his brand about
And called "Seek not this foe! I am a knight
In sore despair, and all with hate shall meet
This blade that drinks of hearts." From shadowed leaves
The rustle was pronounced and shape there came:
The youngling boar, still of a size with men,
Stepped through the vines and snarled, dripping drool.
A grace came over silver knight aloof
And into stance he slipped like falling leaf.
His steel was poised, his arms were steel, his mind
The undercurrents of a mountain stream.
His voice was subtler still when then he spoke
Behind his mask of concentration. "I…
Am sorry. Trwyth was a beast of lust
That threatened peace in woods that stretch between
These endless seas of mist. Deserved his death
Perhaps I'd say he did, were I to judge,
But I do not, and meant no harm to you
In either course. If raw your heart and blood,
If raw your veins and all your brains are boiled,
Then seek us out when you are grown with strength
For Justice is our courthouse built upon,
And thus is how we hold King Arthur's court.
Yet learn, I urge you son of forest god,
The ways your father was corrupt, and grow
From out of them to throne of nature's power!
Injustice is a wheel that faster turns
When we reach out to spin its ugly spokes."
They stood, they two, the man and hateful beast,
Surveying pools behind the others' eyes
And slowly, very slow, the vines and thick
Did swallow younger boar beneath their dark.
A sigh expelled the worried winds inside
As Gwalchmai hefted Kay across his back
And dragged him from the silent woods of death.

Beyond the nest of twisting angry trees
They found, in plains that bordered ceaseless shore,
A lonesome farmer's cottage on the hill.
The orange friendly light from windows spilled,
Illuminating pockets of the mist
That shifted white and grey like Gwalchmai's cloak.
His gauntlet wrapped upon the wooden door
Disturbing restful night from those within.
There was a peaceful farmer, and his wife,
And faithful donkey steed who slept with them
Beside the breathing swirling tongues of flame
That barely clung to life. The life in Kay
As faint as glowing embers in the cold
Of early winter. "I must beg your help,"
Said Gwalchmai grey to them. "A knight I am,
Of Arthur's court with knightly friend in need.
Some shelter, food, is all that we require,
I humbly beg you sovereign farmer lords."
A kindly couple roused from sleep they were,
And sheltered knights for nights and days while Kay
Did heal. His consciousness was in and out, he dreamed
Of other lives that people might have lived
And other shores inhabited. Are these
Delusionary thoughts, or prophecies,
He wondered in the pathways of his rest.

While Kay did sleep and farmers farmed their fields
The honest Gwalchmai rode the donkey steed
And after several setting suns, returned
With mounts in tow that they had brought and lost,
With saddlebags of Caerleon intact.
A gift he made of boons he stored within
And labored in the kindly couple's fields
As one of them. And every plant he touched
Was blessed to be perennial and green,
For him the secret god who led our minds
In times when wilderness was all we knew.
And when the moon saw wide with opened lids
Sir Gwalchmai and Sir Kay set out for home.
The fields they passed gave way to plains in bloom,
Splotched red and pink and dewy blonde, the hills
That swelled as ocean waves propelled them home
And kept them not to wander endless seas.
The plains they passed gave way to woods of light,
Aglow with bough and leaf of sleepy green
And sneaky white of moss and lichen ghost,
Unlike the gloomy woods where beast was felled
Where vines had choked the breath of branch and bird.
The woods through which they rode became well-known
The acrobatic trunks grew pale and slight
With strange and twisted summer plants asleep,
And silver leaves did crown the canopy.
The streams ran in to one, as do our hearts,
And mighty river Usk revealed the route
To bring them to the foot of fabled keep...
Where Arthur never truly held his court
Or lived, but in the trails from heart to heart.


He sat upon his throne and drank his wine,
Another dismal holy feast. He was,
They say, some god that stalked the minds of man
In strange and hollow places of the world
Though all his justice helped him not with joy:
His loneliness a barren mother swan.
Some friends from table absent, killed in spite
Or simply lost, or late, no king could tell.
And Mordred, since Gwyl Fair y Canhwyllau,
Had fled to raise black-hearted armies hence,
And if today he'd shown his face, a host
Would flail the king's own blood into his grave.
My son, my son, the agéd monarch thought,
We must dissolve our feud and live as one,
My son, my son, my only son. This feast
Has been undone by absences of kin.

From Gwyl Fair to Calan Mai he'd dreamt
A silver stag had claimed a forest knoll
And raised a silver foal, and made a home.
And hunters from the Darkness Land had come
To feed their tribe and gorge and multiply.
These dreams arrived whenever there was night,
And Arthur knew the hunters were his knights
Who chased the demon boar in different woods.
His tribe, and tribes of men would fill the earth
When all the gods were dead within their minds,
And his the hand that helped to shape this end.
He stroked his regal beard and sighed, and drank,
Bemoaning Calan Mai and murky wine
Though sunlit strands in feasting hall did play
And larks and loons were guests this holy day.
The burden of an honest king as great
As death of love with every judgment made,
And ursine Arthur frayed with weight and age.

The quests he'd set in motion often failed --
He mourned the ones who fell, their faces kept
In jars of memory -- yet on this day,
The holy Calan Mai, his knights returned.
Glewlwyd the gatekeeper let blare his horn,
Some startled birds took flight from tablecloth
To dye the court a host of joyful hues.
"Presenting, Lord, your mighty friends, the two
Who slew the demon boar, and ceased his ways,
And ever after cloaked our realm in peace
From hungry things who wish our table harm!
The order gained was sorely won by these:
Sirs Kay and Gwalchmai chaos killed this day!"
A mood erupted from the hall did raise
All cheers, all cups, all spirits there, and King
From off his throne did rise to greet his knights,
And met them halfway down the hall with cheer
So unrestrained that some had never seen
Their Lord in such a humor. When they met
They all embraced and Arthur said "Sir Kay,
My loving brother, ever conqueror,
My nephew, sly, my oldest friends returned,
With all the fire remaining in my bones
I welcome pair of souls that gods have blessed.
I dreamed this many night while hunted you,
And saw success, and wondered if it true.
And you have brought my heart returned to me
While still it beats and pumps its waning blood
And I am lost, though I am never free."

His knights returned him to the throne and kneeled,
And with the shining Clarent, sword of peace,
King Arthur blessed them both. The other blade,
The brand far-feared, Caledfwich, was lost
Beneath the lake, returned to Vivianne.
The King had mourned when it was gone, yet now
Its sister sword did twice the work, and shed
No drops of blood. The holy steel seemed kind
When lit upon their pauldrons, cleansing them
Of ills they'd met upon the road. And there
Was Guenivere to meet them as they rose.
In slender arms embraced them both with love
And gave her queenly thanks for bringing peace.
And at the Dream Queen's side, of course, was him,
Invincible in tournaments and fierce
With honor and with lance. He welcomed Kay,
And Gwalchmai, brothers with their brotherhood
United once again. These three are bound
In honor, and in lance, thought Arthur, King,
And are they bound as well to Gwenivere?
Unhappily he wondered to himself,
The cleft within his heart did always sting.
To shake the notions from his head and force
A joyous mood, he begged them tell their tale.

So Kay began: "We left when spring was new,
And forest woke from melting bed of snow,
We forded ancient streams grown rough and wide
And passed from woods that wrap our odal lands.
Upon the plains, a flock of friendly birds
Heard Gwalchmai's song, and came to meet with us.
Befriended we these birds that song inspired,
They led us to their treasure in the hills:
It was a Sacred Well, forgotten, bare,
Laid out as if the gods had said 'This draft
Sustain your weary fleshy limbs my son,'
But noble Gwalchmai thought refusal best,
And we set out without the vital cure
That might have purged our worldly ills and sins."
"Your story here runs false, Sir Kay. The Well,"
Said Gwalchmai grey, "was meant to tempt our souls.
A gift so great laid plain aroused my doubt
And thus I said we should not drink of it.
Recall, my King, thou knights, my former tale
And how acceptance of a mighty gift
Illuminated all my vulgar sins.
I saw a parallel, and that was all."
"If I may tell the story as I like,
We left that holy place that gods had sent
And wandered off to further crashing shore
Where forest with a stench of death we found.
Glewlwyd had spoken true, the blood
And bodies smeared the bark and jagged stones.
A monster Trwyth was when face to face.
Above the trees he stood, and Caerleon
He could have cracked with single iron hoof.
His blood began to burn when scent he caught
Of men that stumbled through his gorey nest,
But Gwalchmai had devised a cunning plan
To flay the beast 'til insides were without:
My might and shield distracted fearsome foe
While Gwalchmai set his trap and loosed his bow
And poison shafts did pierce the flesh of boar
And brought him low -- a titan fallen flat.
I carved his flesh and pricked his rage and thus
Recieved the grevious wound that kept us hence.
Though healed am I, regained in faculties,
A curse I may have sworn 'gainst brother here."
The court replied in laughter, Gwalchmai said
"And here you stand, delivering the tale.
I rather you had cursed me there and lived
To see this day, than blackened noble soul.
My role within the story now at hand,
A sooth I must relate: I set no trap.
Coincidence that fallen trees aligned
For me to sharpen trunk and have a lance.
My part was small, Twrch Trwyth forced himself
Upon the spear that pierced his breast and heart.
He cursed us on his final dying breath,
Yet hex was merely dissipating hate
That breezes caught, and into all dissolved.
We ended him," grey Gwalchmai finished soft.

And Arthur stroked his beard and said to them
"Twrch Trwyth gone, his kind is now annulled?"
All Kay could do was raise his sword in air
To mirror final thrust against a foe,
Asserting demon's death to all the court.
They cheered, and Arthur grew a knowing frown,
Yet Gwalchmai understood. "My liege, a child.
The fearsome beast was with his frightened young.
While Kay was out from loss of blood, we met,
The youngling boar and I. I thought it wrong
To slay a creature cold before 'twas grown,
So words were all we had, I let it go;
If ever spirits leave the world, we know
There is another nature god to grow."
And peace had crept upon King Arthur's eyes,
And underneath his beard a smile appeared
That lightened all his court. The birds gave cheer,
As did the knights and ladies, beasts and plants,
The stones that made the castle, mountain bones,
And all the land asleep in ancient myths
That coiled about the island in the mists.

Holly Salvatore Aug 2013

Mine are grapefruit halves
Easing the transition into awake
Perfect juicy handfuls
But I know girls with cantalopes
Seems to me you'd need a map
To navigate those
And hands like
Melonballers just to make an impression
Raspberry, Blackberry, Cherry nipples
A fruit salad of peaches
And mangoes and apples
It's a world made for peelers
And paring knives
I world where a sweet tooth
Can thrive

We plant our women in orchards
Cultivate them in careful
Organized rows
With expert farmers and the latest fertilizers
Leading them on
Into ripeness
Harvested at just the right time
So that no man ever need know hunger

DJ Thomas May 2010

We each have a voice and life, it is how we use them not how we might!  

Stop glaciers melting
Huge population movements
Death of progeny

The small reductions in carbon emissions being targeted for 2020 or 2050 - are thought to little to late to slow global warming.  The melting polar ice and glaciers together with our changing weather patterns are now fact. The resulting loss of river systems and rising sea levels will mean the desertification or flooding of agricultural lands and famine, then the migration of populations - starting with the skilled and rich seeking safety, to escalate into the terror of armed bands
warring over water, food, women and land.

By 20 20
Lets hope for twenty twenty
A 20 20

There is now the thought that the huge physical change wrought by global warming can be charted by the escalation in earthquake and volcanic activity.  And that this may eventually trigger huge eruptions in the American and Asian continents,
destroying civilisations to create a planetary volcanic winter.

Again fire and cold
The cycle repeats itself
Destroying nature

Was there a civilisation in deep history before the flood, prior to and during the last ice-age?
This has been researched and written about in great detail during the last twenty years
and many now believe it already proven by scientific review of documents and
thousands of archaeological finds, also by scientists having used the exactness
in the astronomical alignments of ancient monuments
to recalculate there greater age

Dead sold souls herd us
Lost mindless finger puppets
Vapid witless words

Sadly, the majority put their reliance and faith in
the actions of lawyer-ed politicians, most of whom evidence
a fixation on their own welfare,  selfish self-glorification needs
and an unwillingness to rock-the-boat once in power

Politicians thwart
Party politics deafen
Propaganda’s herd

Putting off all radical action required until after the next election.  
Many have gifted away the necessary legal control and power to take national radical action
to a political or trade grouping of nations - in effect retaining only national rights
to go to war, put up taxes, borrow and spend monies.

Please no rhetoric
Complete local transition
Forget politics

We each have a voice and life, it is how we use them not how we might!

Living we give voice
So one voice might yet be heard
All being, believe!

We are left holding our eco-inheritance and children’s future in the palm of our hand.
Please let our love and imagination drive us each forward to make change.

Biosphere a greenhouse 
Target the impossible
Please gift some life soon?

So, we each of us have hard personal choices to make, which will encompass both positive and negative
benefits in terms of our time, lifestyle, health and wealth.  I chose to base my choices solely on how it
might benefit the eco-system and the lives of our children.

My choices are grouped under five headings: transport, food, home, lifestyle and further action. They are:

Transport: Rail; Bus; Coach; Bike;
(I pass woods in bud - a Red Kite hunting twisting, unhurried moments).  
To give up ownership of electric / motor vehicles
and to avoid air travel where possible.

Highly vaporous.
Emissions farting -
barrelling vipers

Food: To eat meat/fish only once a week at most;
(Slaughteramas greed - industrial carcase-ed meals. Sheep full of cancer)
To study fast methods of vegetarian cooking; buy local organic foodstuffs;
visit local farmers markets and farm shops; grow my own when possible
and help friends establish vegetable/herb gardens.
To not ever feed, cleave and eat!

Fat shopaholics,
a deadly consumerism.
Cancers meat to eat

Home:   A cottage sized for me, friends and neighbours,
overlooking a wooded valley and trout stream.
Like me a little untidy and basic

Crossing the shallows
trout fingerling feed at dawn
White dots steep hill path

Dusk - eight painted queue
river paired mare and foal
Foliage lined dark black

Well positioned to capture the morning sun, airy and light.  
Yet insulated to stay cool or warm. With easy access to mountain bike trails
and long distance bus routes, plus several end-of-line train stations
in energetic cycling distance over the mountains

A differing beat
Quickly fading doubled steps -
pulling separate

Life Style:* A thinking poet mountain biker, living organic
not part of the great noisious noxious ribbons of hurtling tired.

Pressured paced life -
impossible  commitments.
Organic living

Further Action: *I intend to give up meat not because of the terrible cruelty involved in ten billion or more animals
being slaughtered every year to feed the human race, but due to
: 1)  animal farming being a major factor in the burning of 50 million year old rainforests at a rate of one and half acres per second to generate huge volumes of greenhouse gases, destroying the richest habitats on Earth and a principal source of oxygen; and 2)  that these billions of farmed animals
are themselves a major source of greenhouse gases

Burning rainforests
Feeding to cleave open and eat
Subsistence farming

With ongoing intensive fishing, the world's fisheries already in crisis and climate change,
it could be that we will run out of wild-caught seafood much earlier than 2030!

Conserve energy -
and natural resources
Don’t waste foolishly

Each of us might have a different view of what globalisation is,
for some this word encapsulates the dangers of our global fast food culture, omnipresent brands,
popular culture, changing diets and the growing use of packaged processed foods

Freedom to act sought
Globalisation's curses
Octopus suckers!

For many it is the illegal international trade in endangered species of flora and fauna,  
second only in value to the $350 billion a year global drug trafficking trade that now services
perhaps more than 50 million regular users of heroin, cocaine and synthetic drugs

The label 'globalization' can cover the: spread and integration of different cultures;  
industry moving to low per capita income countries; sweatshops supplying this seasons branded goods
to retail outlets worldwide;  complex international interleaved financial trading instruments being developed
by banks and financial institutions to trade worldwide, create profits and pay huge bonuses, without risk to themselves

Globalisation -
orchestrated profiteers,
betting our losses

Many see globalisation as being the beneficial spread of free trade, liberty, democracy and capitalism,
involving the efficient allocation of resources and capital through the spread of technology.
Unelected international bodies and institutions such the World Bank actively promulgate globalisation,
a '‘world government’ promoting close economic ties between nations

Our sad indoctrination

The anti-globalisation movements dislike the corporate and political nature of globalisation,
protesting the resultant harm done to the biosphere, a more rapid and extensive deterioration of the environment
and the unintended but very real consequences of globalisation: the erosion of traditional culture
resulting in social disintegration; a breakdown of democracy; the spread of new diseases;
changes in diet; increasing poverty.

I view globalisation and it's propagation as leading to the final destruction
of the world's cultures and civilisations by locked us into a
dogmatic world political doctrine secured through
trade and political alliances of states, institutions
and corporations that remain hell bent on
imposing this world governance. Such
that individual countries governments
cannot consider making substantive
radical change to avert the planet
being pushed into a natural cycle
that will end the human race

Caged in Fools World
The people hear heroic call  
Each one a hero

The peoples and cultures of the world need perhaps just one western country to
break the legal chains of globalisation and adopt a radical economic regeneration program
designed to make the total transition to a dynamic culture of localised
clean communities centred on the individual not competition  

Only one tool
National taxation for -
economic change.

Here I begin discussing how global, regional and national economies might
be based on the growth of small organic local economies.
not the repeated foolishness involved in chasing lower cost base manufacture -
each time at great cost to the economy it has migrated from!
Then a further culture becoming totally reliant
on the transport of foodstuffs and goods -
I can here you saying:

"Oh shit this guy is -
talking about change, changing -
the world we live in!"

Yes, I am and do we have a choice?  But such change will be organic and involve business
in the restructuring and regeneration of economies till we share green economies.  
In small part his is already happening slowly!

Unlock taxation,  
survivals powerful tool.  
Needed now for change!

This is why we need to consider doing something that many of today's
plutocrats, economists, bureaucrats and politicians, would dismiss out of hand or
discuss endlessly in terms of perfectly competitive markets, perverse economic incentives etc

Major solution
National taxation change
Human extinction


This haiku sequenced eco-haibun is an ongoing project being penned day-by-day by many that care and take action. Your reactions are all welcome, thank you*

Take back control now.  
Cease all squabbling, achieve act - decisively!

Globalisation's, global control cut away.
Diversity sought

Promote well being.  Act with imagination -
for ecology!

Creating employment -
with local utilities, local food and transport

Incentivise tax,  to create local benefits.
Gain prosperity

Income taxation -  value added tax, aged -
dangerous mistake

Local licensing.  Lead don't follow excuses.
Saviour taxation

Imaginative - energy, food and transport -
local licensing

An alternative - energetic strategy,
greening business

Organic foodstuffs - out compete processed food.
Life promoting health

Healthy government - a healthy population. 
Zero income tax!

Locally taxed - by distance it travelled -
and category

Products bar coded.  Point of agreed production -
and category

Local added tax, by distance it travelled -
and category

Local energy, initiatives supplant.  
Replacing at risk

User energy, capture and storage.  
Eco-dwelling plan

Local water works,  supplanting initiative.
Replace the at risk

User water need.  Capturing and storing half.
Securing supply

Communications, local initiatives.
Protecting our needs

Local healthy food, life saving initiative.
Planting guaranteed

Sort unemployment, local work available.
Agriculture base

Radical transport - initiatives needed.
Change made possible

Season’s colours blur - in ageing contemplation
chilling warm breezes

Ganges dried mud - dust
Armed hungry thirsty tide
Generations despair,  lost

Our politicians -
squabble condemn progeny.
Flee panic and die


Day by Day

This haiku sequenced eco-haibun needs prose and additional haiku added day by day.  Contributing comment and reactions considered for inclusion...

copyright©DJThomas@inbox.com 2010

The barn is burning
The race-track is over
Farmers run out w/
buckets of water
The horse flesh is burning
They’re kicking the stalls
(panic in a horse’s eye
That can spread & fill
an entire sky.)

The clouds flow by
& tell a story

about the lightning bolt & the mast
on the steeple

Some people have a hard time
describing sailors to the

The decks are starving
Time to throw the cargo over

Now down & the high-sailing
fluttering of smiles on the air
w/its cool night time disturbance

Tropic corridor
Tropic Treasure

What got us this far to this
mild equator

Now we need something
& someone new
when all else fails
we can whip the horse’s eyes
& make them cry
& sleep

France is 1st, Nogales round-up
Cross over the border-
land of eternal adolescence
quality of despair unmatched
anywhere on the perimeter
Message from the outskirts
calling us home
This is the private space of a
new order. We need saviors
To help us survive the journey.
Now who will come
Now hear this
We have started the crossing
Who knows? it may end badly

The actors are assembled;
immediately they become
I, for one, am in ecstasy
Can I convince you to smile?

No wise men now.
Each on his own
grab your daughter & run

“Oh God, she cried
I never knew what
it meant to be real
I thought all this was a joke,
I never let the horror, or
the sweetness & the dignity
penetrate my brain”

“Let me up to see
the window. Dark Riders
pass in the sunset
coming home from
raiding parties.
The taverns will be
full of laughter, wine,
& later dancing, later
dangerous knife throws.

Antonio will be there
& that whore, Blue Lady
playing cards w/silver
decks & smiling at the night,
& full glasses held aloft
& spilled to the moon.
I’m sad, so full of sadness”

She’s selling news in the market
Time in the hall
The girls of the factory
Rolling cigars
They haven’t invented musak yet
So I read to them
a horror story from the Gothic age
a gruesome romance
From the LA

I have a vision of America
Seen from the air
28,000 ft. & going fast

A one-armed man in a Texas
parking labyrinth
A burnt tree like a giant primeval bird
in an empty lot in Fresno
Miles & miles of hotel corridors
& elevators, filled w/ citizens

Motel Money Murder Madness
Change the mood from glad to sadness

play the ghost song baby

a young woman, bound silently, on
a hostpital table, obviously pregnant,
is gutted & rifled of her empire

objects of oblivion

Drugs sex drunkenness battle
return to the water-world
Mother of man
Monstrous sleep-waking gentle swarming
atomic world
Anomic in social life

how can we hate or love or judge
in the sea-swarm world of atoms
All one, one All
How can we play or not play
How can we put one foot before us
or revolutionize or write

Does the house burn? So be it.
The World, a film which men devise.
Smoke drifts thru these chambers
Murders occur in a bedroom.
Mummers chant, birds hush & coo.
Will this do?
Take Two.

each day is a drive thru history



Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.

Damn the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.

If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.

If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.

It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.

Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.

It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,

Kansas City,
St. Louis,
New Orleans,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.


A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest perversion?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also tourist attractions
for a café society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.
Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.

Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi Valley
all mapped by him.
Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest from where?

It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.

The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

He had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:
Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.


There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymens inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named Lech
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
Lech believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.
Samuel believes in tradition.

A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.


Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.

Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.

Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.

But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

are never frozen in Chicago.

The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.

Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.

I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.

and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok
where child
slave labor
spin it into
gold lamay.

I think its hardy.

the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.


Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.

Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
for lying about a blowjob.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.
Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!



Out my window
the sun has risen.
According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
and how
they mastered
the extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”
He hands me one of Chicago.

I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”

A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
into my internalness.

I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.

For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
long underwear,
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.

Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.

Concentric circles
surround the city.

After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.

It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.

All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.

The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
and more.

Always more.

Much much more
in Chicago.


spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everyman expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.

They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

“You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.

What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
farms I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
in his voice?

What is
his intention?

Is it a warning
of a broken affair?

A pending pink slip?

Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty?
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is.

This seditious talk!


The Loop’s El
still course through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
all layers,
on which
is built,
then dies.

To be
returned again
to the lower
where it can
take root
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

the nation,
its people
with its

A blessing,

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a bum rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.

The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
row houses,
and you’ll hear the Blues.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.

Their cloths
are covered
in salt.

She pleads
for a break,
for a new start.

Poor and
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.

Her blond hair
and facial features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.

I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.

Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.

Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.

As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry

The family
begins to
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music Selection:

Muddy Waters
I'm Ready

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
Joe Cole Jun 2014

On this day 70 years ago they stormed across the sand
Boys of many nations to remove the tyrants hand
Heros all those boys so young who shed their blood for us
In that bloody fight for freedom

Across the sand they struggled neath a hail of shot and shell
Never glancing backwards as around them comrades fell
Fear was in their eyes, terror in their hearts
Many never made it and twas on foreign sand they died

Yes they died to give us the freedom that we have got this day
They died to free the world, for us they made the play
Boys from ever walk of life crossed the beaches there
Office clerks and farmers and the ones who cut our hair

Yes they were heroes all who gave their lives for us
But lets not forget the few who made it possible
The girls who made the shells, the men who built the tanks
They were the unsung heroes
They have also have earned our thanks

Without their dedication to the task they had in hand
Many more would have lost their lives on that shell torn blood stained sand
They to can hold their heads up high, they knew they did their bit
In bringing freedom to the masses when they broke the tyrants grip

Afternote... nearly all 4,400 allied soldiers died on those beaches 70 years ago today

I want to see you

more courageous than
marching and waiting
in a line of ants

a daring enigma
a carnivorous plant

a pain raging against
baited seduction
and wage-slaver's plans

courageous as
a swarm of locusts
dashed by angry rakes,

audacious as
farmers eating
dead locusts
in harvest's place

Already over the sea from her old spouse she comes,
the blonde goddess whose frosty wheels bring day.
Why do you hurry, Aurora? Hold off, so may the birds
shed ritual blood each year for Memnon's shade.
Now it's good to lie in my mistress's tender arms;
if ever, now it's good to feel her near.
Now drowsiness is richest, the morning air is cool,
and birds sing shrilly from their tender throats.
Why do you hurry, dreaded by men and dreaded by girls?
Draw back your dewy reins with your crimson hand.
The sailor marks the stars more clearly before you rise,
not raoming aimlessly across the sea;
the traveller, though weary, arises when you come,
and the soldier sets his savage hand to arms;
you're first to see the farmers wield their heavy hoes
and to call slow oxen under the curving yoke;
you rob boys of their sleep and give them over to schools,
where tender hands must bear the savage switch;
and you send reckless fools to pledge themselves in court,
where they take ruinous losses through one word;
the lawyer and the pleader take no delight in you,
for each must rise and wrangle with new torts;
and you ensure that women's chores are never done,
calling the spinner's hands back to her wool.
All this I'd bear; but who would bear that girls must rise
at dawn, unless himself he has no girl?
How many times I've wished Night would not yield to you,
the stars not fade and flee before your face!
How many times I've wished the wind would smash your wheels,
your steeds would stumble on a cloud and fall!
Jealous, why do you hurry? If your son is black,
it's since his mother's heart is that same color.
How I wish Tithonus could still tell tales of you:
no goddess would be more disgraced in heaven.
Since he is endless eons old, you rise and flee
at dawn to the chariot the old man hates,
but if some Cephalus were lying in your arms,
you'd cry out, 'O run slowly, steeds of night! '
Why should this lover pay, if your husband withers with age?
Was I the matchmaker who brought him to you?
Remember how much sleep was given to her loved youth
by Luna - and she's beautiful as you.
The father of gods himself, to see you all the less,
joined two nights into one for his desires.
I'd finished my complaint. You could tell she'd heard: she blushed;
and yet the day rose at its usual time.

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