Contemplation is like fishing.
Often my reason fails me
and I cast out into the waters
hoping I can catch that vital energy
feel its power, its resistance, its strength
that is elusive
but I know is there
and those moments of connection
with that mysterious force
give me energy.
I am alive
so I keep castings into the ocean
knowing the elan is there,
the verve that takes me from my mind
to dance, to move, to swerve
in that moment of now.

Author’s Note: I bow in gratitude to Brian McLaren and Barbara A. Holmes for their wisdom that inspired this poem and kneel in awe and thanksgiving to all the fish I have caught over the years, for the excitement and nourishment – the life they gave me.

If you don't by know as of yet whom
I refer to as __,
you will soon enuf;

It is rare that I can go there so well, even on occasion for the destructive,
5th dimensional gifts running backwards, Houdini by grave doing back-flips,
for along with the Heart's of David Copperfield types wanting to know how,
can we pick up a few of these tricks, in other lifetimes my type picked up many,
places along of course through Kemet's of Egypt, and not so far back but,
is where I had to go on the endless effort of trying to find the magical child,
already gone by first of memories and I thought woot hoot I could juggle,
the woes of humanity or inhumanity as I see know, you know by;

justification of I don't see any more or less innocence or guilt,
round here but if there is such a great need when I saw it,
and figged I cud get through it, it was love for what else,
could there be and I do, be and fill so much very need;

but X'yzz....ah 'um once there was Shakespeare,
an era wrapping up by befalling heads wanting bread,
of whom exclaimed well if those are their terms and conditions,
'Let'em eat cake' ergo and or our newer foundations; but as far as,
I knew it and I wondered and pondered how why wherefore before,
someone who seems projective of who dare be Queen or Princess,
more than aristocratic, the vine of genetics, KISS keep it simple silly,
why war for this nonsensical stuff;

it's not the decadent decedent's,
but off Divine Spirit;

well money power sure can keep well hidden powers and you can,
hmmm get along for a spell but here a spell there a spell with each castle,
Humpty Dumpty oh well;

but now again is the Globe again along with Life,
the stage we are cast upon truly;

it's time for our own era's Renascence;

but last I knew them truly with all gifts 5th dimensional they and their darkly companions,
too now here they are onto years unmentionable, still can't honor it and I guess they,
just want death, not more than one way about it, they will try to out wait and hate;

hahaha,
but by me I've taught them all they know and no matter who they turn against me,
10k in a court room dey'd not dare a step by one in however remember Howard Hughes,
I would say I do always love and though too I am the one and only and best friend indeed,
even though I know I am the enemy, no matter what they say believe think and even feel,
but I love to play nice like thrice no mines about it,
giving all overly good information,
fairer than fair warnings;

they gather darkly more into about their hypnotic spells castings, kinda crazy all dead set against me, when last to save their own ***'s, there were some identity issues and class type things but they were, known as good in the end and yet we have yet again to begin;

'dey don't know themselves not even by here now this lifetime alone,
black art denialists wooing all about with sugary treaty's they bark bark,
but if they bit the wrong cat here to hard their teeth would fall out;

yet and the roots seeded here now for the better part of the show with new,
edit-eers producers rolling arts in, I know, I will, I can, I see these things always,
before they appear and blood bearing beings near on, ain't willing give or take,
some where and the billions of years the dust rocks and trees already are on;

all kinds of well you know, what we've got going round now along with a time,
to come from the woods of our hidings and out from the fear to be gods birth right,
citizens we played a lot of silly games of peeka boo pretend,
ain't heaven ain't here the list is long,
we know all to well

It takes nine weeks for cement to cure
in good weather,  and in bad weather,
years. It needs to be covered lightly
like a sheet over the face with a rebar
skeleton buried inside, the steel ribs
of wings cast into the settling stone.        

The dust is the glue, it creates itself
and wonders how birth canals can
expand, and in nine months give way
to moving parts, to the sponge of organs
and cries so thick cicadas won’t
burrow there.  Skin is merely

rice paper, not contained by concrete
but leaf etchings—delicate, illegible
scriptures buried in the archives.
Bars of light from the window push
around the floor there, as if they were    
substantial, as if they had weight.

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On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues.
I wondered.
If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand.
There was a breeze.
Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.

Beauty Is As Beauty Does--chapter one

A Chapter by Eclipsing Moon-blood red

Galaxy Stanza



A Poem by Raven Starhawk



Nimbus arms embrace celestial terrain

as it cascades infinity

wielding zephyr's wand

and sipping inferno's nectar



In zenith's hour

epochal monoliths mystify

Goliath arrogance

as it persecutes a nebula
while astral satiety arrests the beast

and galaxy stanzas resume





Beauty is as Beauty Does-

A Story by Eclipsing Moon-blood red



In the dark recesses
of the void, we call our universe a cloud was forming, one devoid of morals or
intent.



The molecules came
together under the thought processes of a malignantly minded old sorcerer,
blended with his hope of a lasting endowment of centuries of learning and spell
castings.



He was searching for a
one to carry on his knowledge and spells of potion and this cloud could carry
out the espying in secret as he wished...under cover of dark and
thought...unless a spirit was descerned by another caster of woven potions.



Today in time was
measured more by centuries and decades as the process took... its
form...questing for the entity as this universe and others had been targeted
for his type of Magic...sorcerers specialized in their trade and like all good
practitioners he had his fireworks shows with energy beams and potion majic mixed
to control and manipulate the certain being he was working with...for power was
the name of his gambit...the access and addition of as well as controlling in
the sphere of a society...let’s just say he got his jollies from using other’s
well- earned energy…What they worked for...he stole and reveled in the process.

It just so happened
that today...his cloud was in the vicinity of a planet known to the Magical
world as Earth...Terra...this being inhabited by beings in many dimensions and
frequencies...it seemed to home in on a child...being birthed as a logical
consideration ..So that; further study was merited

Marking this beings
location in the foothills of a hidden mountain range ...in the Tibetan range and
former birthplace of a religious teacher known as Lord
Buddha...Siddhartha...and a nice long history in the telling of the Monks who
followed him...this time a twist a counter turn of the incarnation was a Female
child …Looking to be imbued with the same set of majical powers...and the
beginning of another time and space of reign as the first...excellent time to
lay claim to the mind and teachings of this ...ONE..Of Beauty.











Her fingers curled into her palms. Beneath her fingertips she felt an electric shock, almost gasped but then the pulse was through her. The diary was etched in her memory; its feel, shape and smell. It was almost as if it was a breathing thing rather than an inanimate object. The cool plastic feel of a pen settled over each relaxing digit and it was as if she was writing the next entry.



Darkness lingered around her eyes as she shifted her weight to one foot. Glancing at the end of the avenue she gave a weak smile to anyone who passed by and dared to look at the two officers and teenagers. Then as the lamp next to them flickered, its bulb ready to give way to shadows, the first officer stood perfectly tall once more and stared with unmoving features.



Owen stammered, looked from Candace to the first officer and then the second. He pushed his glasses up with a shaky forefinger and shuffled closer to the lamp post where it beamed a dully. She tugged at his sleeve and nodded toward the police car. Its spinning lights ceased as the first officer hopped in the driver's seat.



"Come on, Owen," Candace said and was pulling him along toward the back where the second officer was standing with his hand on the handle.



"Are we being arrested," he asked, Candace pushing him into the small caged seat. Staring through a steel mesh, he asked, "What is going on?"



Moments later they were riding into the night. Soft music was playing over the radio but only at a whisper as the two officers engaged in conversation. They hardly spoke like authority figures and Candace sensed Owen must be in a world of questions but as they sat with silence between them she simply smiled.













next chapter


© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red

Words form in your expression
of fluid emotion and air castings
so essential it's beyond the special
the mere figures of square or circle
your handicraft disturbing the randomness
an existence that calms yet stings
at the channel between the really spectacular
and my most beautiful imaginings

motion mixed with feeling to give breath vibrating meaning
sending my heart dancing to the tune of your waves
before the voice is even there to be heard beating
on the little drums inside my head where love's
stirring my feet into step with your presence
as you transform sentences into spirited rhythm
catchy and sharp so that inside I wince
with the vigorous release from realisation's thorn

that I never want to escape listening to your words
to what your thoughts don't say but start
in a gorgeously threadbare chapter coloured
through the artful lens you focus in and out

carrying and pulling me into amazing places
where the world unravels and dodges me
using the whole dilemma of clinging and races
to keep me gathering your loosely packed energy

I wish to grab you so tightly time ceases to flow
yes!.. over there's a gazelle leaving a gymnasium
as perfect as warm sunshine on crisp fresh snow
and winter's lion seems too slow to prey on autumn

you show me how to spring
straight out into a season
bright with mown meadow's green
so I pounce on you with a passion
which sent us flying and rolling to summer
into the fun of a hidden rabbit burrow
echoing with sudden peals of laughter
so loud that sorrow took fright and flew

while we hopped out to a brighter tomorrow
falling head over heels deep in a warren later
a one way maze built by paws for only two
your kiss the beginning and the end even better

a bobbing tail signals danger.. I follow

Beauty Is As Beauty Does
A Story by Eclipsing Moon-blood red


If enough people are interested I will continue with this series as a Book with chapters this one being renamed ...Beauty Is As Beauty Does-Prologue .





Beauty Is As Beauty Does



A Story by Eclipsing Moon-blood red







If enough people are interested I will continue with this series as a Book with chapters, this one being renamed ...Beauty Is as Beauty Does-Prologue.







In the dark recesses of the void, we call our universe a cloud was forming, one devoid of morals or intent.



The molecules came together under the thought processes of a malignantly minded old sorcerer, blended with his hope of a lasting endowment of centuries of learning and spell castings.



He was searching for a one to carry on his knowledge and spells of potion and this cloud could carry out the espying in secret as he wished...under cover of dark and thought...unless a spirit was descerned by another caster of woven potions.



Today in time was measured more by centuries and decades as the process took... its form...questing for the entity as this universe and others had been targeted for his type of Magic...sorcerers specialized in their trade and like all good practioners he had his fireworks shows with energy beams and potion majic mixed to control and manipulate the certain being he was working with...for power was the name of his gambit...the access and addition of as well as controlling in the sphere of a society...let’s just say he got his jollies from using others well earned energy..What they worked for...he stole and reveled in the process.



It just so happened that today...his cloud was in the vicinity of a planet known to the Magical world as Earth...Terra...this being inhabitied by beings in many dimensions and frequensies...it seemed to home in on a child...being birthed as a logical consideration ..So that; further study was merited



.Marking this beings location in the foothills of a hidden mountain range ...in the Tibetan range and former birthplace of a religious teacher known as Lord Buddha...Siddhartha...and a nice long history in the telling of the Monks who followed him...this time a twist a counter turn of the incarnation was a Female child ..Looking to be imbued with the same set of majical powers...and the beginning of another time and space of reign as the first...excellent time to lay claim to the mind and teachings of this ...ONE..Of Beauty.

Hidden behind a myriad of
guises and castings of a
thousand projected distortions,
he brought himself
     suspended like a pendant
        
          detached
                 &
                    objective.

I bequeathed a
tumult of love,
tumbled down
the scope of
archaic collective conflict
that shook with a spiral quake like
the wakening of my
hallowed   g  a     s           p -
the corridor echoing of the first gallop.

Lifted the skirted veils of
celestial taffeta,
surrendered to the
feats and enchantments of
The Rider
who arrived on a
rogue wave,
crest and trough and
splendorous swells of
blue and white,
reverberating from
essence centre
like Doppler
outward my firmament fingertips,
cascading around the sphere
in astral star fall,
an overflowing cup of Milky Way
and melting atoms
into grains of sand
between the blended confines of
here and                                there,
escaped to the ever expansive space,
Empyrean emptiness.

the flowers that grow in the dark
standing shyly alone
are the beautiful ones
that will blossom unexpectedly

In a night so black
as ash, fingers of white marble climb
up in circles
along the edge of the bed.
The legs do not only carry body,
but also silver sparks of light where
hands are touching skin
and where the dark is enjoined to a second place.
Life will find new forms here -
Castings pain, sorrow. But also a joy
- molded in the color of copper -
is slowly getting contour.

~

Fortress


Stone by weathered cobble I build,
calloused hands ache in sweet surrender
Mortar’d affection of a coalesced consistency,
mixed and blended, bound by love’s tether

Stacking to heights of protective design
Patterned on roaming hillsides, serpentine wanderings,
Lush green fields crawl, blue sky diversions,
as song birds whistle to the day

And I sweat, my brow now drenched,
muscles pushed to horizonary boundaries,
tattered clothes sway in late afternoon breezes
Still I push on, fitting, finding, filling this need

Something so precious as glistening morning dreams,
crystalline musings, fragile bisque castings
Destined for my world, beyond battlefield dawns,
sifting serene country settings…quite peace

The long day ends, I marvel at my accomplishment
steadfast and suited to defend in sunset flames,
turrets of observative reachings soar above
timber and heavy iron chain…gated sanctuary

Now my love you may rest…
beneath starry heavens and comet renderings,
upon your bed of satin feathered sighs…
For I have built this fortress…around your heart

i just want altars to be erected
at my bleeding feet
want black and maroon candles to bleed over
bones and antlers
and the leaves of gardenias and the roots of mandrakes
i want pomegranates to be split and ripped open
over alabaster castings of my bruised soul
and i want the phases of the moon
and the turning of the tides
to mark the eb and flow
of my faces from
gentle and sweet
to ripping open men with black tipped claws
i want wine to be poured over my mouth
and gold cloth to
pour over me
i want fires built to the stars
and feet dancing in my name so furiously the earth shakes
and the oaks move their arms
i want incense lit from the cracks in skeletons
and mouths to call my name
as hexes are cast and salt rings are drawn
and i want my hips to be praised
as the center of life
and i want men to walk in dark forests
and over black rivers
to count the stones beneath their feet
and to leave fresh bread on the thirteenth stone
to avoid my ravenous rage
but if you would just
love me for a moment
i could forget the rest of this

Call me the butterfly maker,
for I the distracted crafter
often carves irregular squares
from changing planes of vision
into visual planes, flying
as monarchs migrating home.

Call me the snowflake cloud,
for I the cold observer
often molds objective droplets
from forgotten formalities
into memorable figures, coveting
as blankets embracing dirt.

Call me the stone sculptor,
for I the traveling poet
often lifts stone castings
from feeble footprints
into familiar portraits, beckoning
as mothers procuring peace.

~

his ropes are worn but hold the strain;
they’ve seen far worse in wind, in rain.
his deck is bare, his winch is full,
his back and arms ache. yet again;
though soon his catch the hold will fill,
with hissing jaws and snapping claws;
reward of toil with traps of steel.
’neath cloud and sun, to dusk from dawn,
with weathered hand he works and sweats;
to bring to port ’fore sun has set,
there’s hungry mouths to feed at home;
a wife whose face his hands to hold.
in years still young, but days too old,
these seas have aged his weathered soul;
and eyes that peer neath bill-ed hat,
have wept as waves stole all he has;
not once, but twice they claimed his lot,
sunk to its bed like fallen stone;
but skill and luck his love has bought,
her prayers from home have brought him back.
of fable and of myth he’s made,
cup of saltiness with pinch of sin;
with baited traps he lays in wait,
yet knows he is the baited one;
for he’ll ne’er throw in these lines,
or trade his trusted trawler in.
a farmer’s life may suit his love,
but this she sees would be his end;
and so she lives each day in wait,
for his trawler's horn to sound.
this too she knows far too well,
one day his horn will sound no more.
no coffin nor a stone he’ll need;
the sea will bear him to that shore,
his lasting gift to her is them,
each child's face, his own imprint.
the sea his final resting place.
his voice to hear amidst the wind;

~

*post script.

an imagined crabber and lobsterman; with mouths to feed and a love he needs back home, owing much to prayer and good fortune, though even this has it limits as the sea's rigors daily tempt fate.  these lines mused from my own castings of traps and nets... of harvesting the sea’s bounty for a mere weekend, with my lover near at hand.  

https://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/05/magazine/a-speck-in-the-sea.html

pss.  i am many months away and life has changed; these changes are still a work in progress.  my goals too have been rearranged... death and hardship have that effect on us, though sometimes change that feels alarming actually takes us to a place of salvation; this being my constant hope!  i make no promises that i am back, only that for now i am here, and have missed you and the sacredness of these walls.

Well. We eat cake well from the Well.
Farmilar castings weld, fastens together
Winfalls gather from the wind
Wheat chaffless from our daily grind
Without husk and worrisome bustle
Bound together with we,
our wherewithal, the water
Wielding weirding ways
We make cake
We eat well from our Well.

Untruth churns in depths of elden castings
Falsehood turns the pacings, everlasting
Duplicity in everything avasting

Misinformation station
Take a ticket, wait, debate,
Assail, avail in love of liar's nation

Circuitous circumvention
Of mindful morsels of intention
Swept beneath the rug
No worth be mentioned

As suffering and death explain
The qualms and qualities
Of life beget to life in vain
Entrenched in their dualities

Thine incision thought deranged
Transcribed in abnormality
The pointed lance, in hands estranged
Whence masking actuality

So stir the *** of melting
For it may cool and thence congeal
It seems we're strung about and welting
Punished in penchant to feel

so when in my dreams you rise with splendid phallus,
you say be my finest ***** just give yourself so..
i run my tongue along your shaft looking into
eyes that begging and mouths that moaning fast-us!

union lover..take all this loneliness and crush
my aching heart..with gentle ****** in teasing..oh,
now,push it through my ******* head do push it through..!
eradicate me and this lone shell this hushed curse..

outside in the little tree in the dawn castings
two blithe birds are the first of a new day idyll
there they stretching and yawn in the peace and grey hush..

because there will always be this here universe
because we will always love and be this here wild
because always through this here endless time that is..(amen)

she meanders like a fire
into darkness and over the silence
around cascading waterfalls
she pools at the bottom of your heart
then she’s gone again
as quick as she arrived
she flees from her own form
softer than a rain storm
shallower than a puddle
her magic remains active
in the thunder’s hunger
for another thousand years of slumber
i strum the guitar
sit up by the fire
and speak words of broken music
solvents could never
dissolve these misplaced feelings
servants shine our shoes
against the backdrop of the news
swarms of silent reveries
humanities dismemberment
our agreements forgotten and gone rotten
like cattle in the slaughterhouse
our trust is rusted like copper left out in the rain
melted into liquid castings
i embark on the outgoing tides
side with the devil and you are bound to fall
so even after all the ups and downs
and years of underground living
we return to the fire of the sun as a new material
a type of clay ready to be burnt
a piece of wood that is quick to smoke
stoked by love’s hands
standing out or in
i shall never know
the loudness of the echo
the mountains or the rainbow’s demolition
strategies broken by time’s indecision
situations mistaken
as if they were not awakened yet
i am getting wet
standing in the rain
and snakes are dancing on the lawn

If you don't by know as of yet whom I refer to as X'yzzzzzzzzzleeeping, you will soon enuf; is rare that I can go there so well even on occasion for the destruction; 5th dimensional gifts running backwards Houdini by grave doing back-flips for along with the Heart's of David Copperfield types wanting to know how can we pick up a few of these tricks, in other lifetimes my type pick up many places along of course through Kemet's of Egypt, and not so far back but is where I had to go on the endless effort of trying to find the magical child already gone by first of memories and I thought woot hoot I could juggle the woes oh humanity or inhumanity as I see know you know by justification of I don't see any more or less innocence or guilt round here but if there such a great need I when I saw it and figged I cud get through it it was love for wat else could there be and I do be and fill so much very need; but X'yzz....ah 'um once there was Shakespeare an era wrapping up by befalling heads wanting bread of whom exclaimed well if those are their terms and conditions 'Let'em eat cake' ergo and or our newer foundations; but as far as I knew it and I wondered and pondered how why wherefore before someone who seems projections of who dare be Queen or Princess, more than aristocratic the vine of genetics KISS keep it simple silly why war for this nonsensical stuff; it's not the decadent decedent's but off Divine Spirit; well money power sure can keep well hidden powers and you can hmmm get along for a spell but here a spell there a spell with each castle Humpty Dumpty oh well; but now again is the Globe again along with Life the stage we are cast upon truly; and it's time for our own era's Renascence; but last I knew her truly with all gifts 5th dimensional her and her darkly companion too now here they are onto 22 years and still you can't honor it and I guess they just want spouses dead not more than one way 'bout it they are try to out wait and hate me; hahaha but by me I've taught them all they and know matter who they turn against me 10k in a court room dey'd not dare a step by one however remember Howard Hughes I'd say I always love and  though too I am your one and only and best friend indeed even I know I am your enemy, no matter what you say believe think and even feel, but I love to play nice like thrice no mines about it and give all overly good information and fairer than fair warnings; and they gather darkly more about into their hypnotic spells castings, kinda crazy all dead set against me when last to save their own as'ses the're were some identity issues and class type things but they were known as good in the end and yet we ajve yet again to begin; 'dey don'y know themselves not even by here now this lifetime alone, black art denialists wooing all about with sugary treaty's they bark bark but if they bit hte wrong cat here to hard their teeth would fall out; yet and the roots seeded here now for the better part of the show with new edit-eers producers rolling arts in I know I will I can I see these things always before they appear and blood bearing beings near on ain't willing give or take some where and billions of years the dust rocks and trees already are on; and all kinds of well you know  what we've got going round now along with a time to come from the woods of our hidings and out from the fear to be gods birth right citizen we played a lot of silly games of peeka boo pretend ain't heaven ain't here the list is long we know all to well

They write of rivers and streams

with effortless precision, crystalline clarity,
of hauntings by white frothy flows, and men
who plow and glide upon them, earning
their sustenance and sometimes their death,
verifying their lives with castings that sink
below them, proofs of their peril.

some months of the year, I too live by a bay,
on a isle surrounded by a long river that dissects a
larger long island, from end to end, that empties
into the Atlantic.

this bay, it is the first and last vision imprinted
when I bed, when I rise, picture windowed with
shades that are never lowered, for what would
be the existential purpose of living here, if you didn’t
check the water’s mood first and last, even before
looking skyward to complete an understanding
of the status of nature’s intentions toward you.

These other poets write better than I, artistically,
effortlessly, and one flows with ease within their
word-pictures, flowing upon their rivers, like a
twig carried out to sea, an unticketed passenger
stealing a ride who pays for the journey with life.

to read of their comprehension of water flowing,
is to read of how men breathe, how they wrangle
and wrestle with forces that diminish the human
scale to 5/8” model size, and no glue to keep them
upright.

I ask forgiveness from my bay, for my ineloquence,
my belabored scratchings, to do it justice, show
its honor and grandeur, but it doesn’t acknowledge
my words, for I am skill-lacking, verbiage-challenged,
and inadequate. This why I read the work of others,
poets who walk on, and within, their rivered boundaries
and who speak with skin and pore knowledge their waters.

July 4th 5:33 AM