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vircapio gale Sep 2012
wakefulness demands a certain clearness when asleep . . .
it doesn't come as planned
"tat tvam asi"
LaBerge says to me in dream of me
"this world you are, withstanding even torments thou art never seen."
and that's enough to suffer aching, opaque psyche summit, forward
heart to rise an interspecies knell when danceless fades the bee in droves...
aimless whales who singing deep in love are cut from evolution's murky chain...
fungal blight of hibernaculum, in deafened sonar sending sudden drop of death;
to horror fragment melt, the ocean swill from ancient caps to sunken polar paw
diverse in massacre of tropic forest fertile mists, lives dispersed
and balance tipped from blindness not unlike the sterile statue's, there
                                                          i­n dusty courthouse corner, shadow-lined with infamy...
what imagined cartoon causal Captain Planet              
                            villainy to blare across oneiromantic globe? and (dreaming?) civil strife,                  
       eradication's alter triumph pose to measure blame in inner life?
of empiric meditation's top, in *******
churning out abuse in deeper,
                                                         ­   younger hidden traffics yet to terrorize the net...                                  
                                             the scraping of the sky had punctured through                                
                         ­                                      from metaphor to fact
                                       the sooty barbs
                            in radiance rebound    
and irony affected 'green'
                  folds crisis and solution into one                            we hope
                like what we say we are, becoming change                      in wartime summer fling    
we                                                        
say we can in world of 'me'                                      
in guilt-assuaging verve
                                  the heifer-gift to village fief
    but then to rest against organic pillow-conscience gray                                                             ­       
                                                               soundly snoring smokestacks fill from ground to sky
still for sly investment windfall   fog  billow, shake...                             
transcontinental scape of dream imbued anew:
i am the genie of my ownmost inner lamp
in dreamtime-being spacious constellational of reach distilled
in contemplation's tratak zoom mInute
   with jet black finger trace
    i net                                                              ­                                        from out the inter-earthen air                
                                             ­                                              the lump on lump of coal
                massaging from                                                             ­      as if an ivory atmospheric                  
lift                   of      weight  
                           the sculpture of our past condensed in elephantine ******
                                                 miasmic fossil shower-haze of sporogenic fear,
mneumonic nail-tusk night of carbon-spirit back into its hold -- originary dark,
Dark light from burning black                                                 once again contained                                                      in elemental subterrain                                                       ­                                                       
         ­                                        --now it underlies the ground inside for triple shielding outshine
--outer-- light to cool us breathing once again . , ,    
false convenience in abeyance in a human time!                                
i am right now of inward self my soul supernal carbon imprint copy                             
for accounting every speciesistic mind to open wide enough and quell the "all-too human plagues--                                                                           ­       cheering all penultimates, in beams reflecting ante-truth          
                                                 down halls of mirror-minds that lightly discourse
on the ingress of a centaur saving power
channeling the leylines of inception,
ecstatic dreamworld of apotheosic glee:
parting the eidetic clouds,
commune an avatar intentionality . . .
ensorcelling the foodstuffs of the world to feed a dozen million refugees,
insectile diet pride attends in homes of affluence,
the abstract mass of media, become eupeptic cud of understanding bats and even bees--
for biospheres a Goodall stewardship arrives
(her perfect chimp call too resounds across the earth!)
and dwindled frogs their former ponds (unknown, destroyed without a sound)
return to chirping vibrant green symphonic swooning life
the glacial march of tears to halt . . .
all ecosystems rife withall
the panegyric of marshlands globally reborn  
along with shining waters, algaeic sun alive at play
in double-helix breath of dolphin families' bubble art
a sudden resurrect from ****** harvest cove arise cascading joyous leap
on final absence of the metal herding knock of trapping pods
no longer hacked in waves of pink, mere preparations for a restaurant sink--
they are free to swim the depth of worldheart dreaming unknown dream entire real again
marine apsaras dip in spectra (flicker eyelid) rays, reintroduce the dawn
her fine apparel calling forth transhuman destinies
unsplicing brilliant minds from ****** task of splicing GMOs
recycled randomness accepting death before we die
mycelium in runs of spilling-- all undone --
migrational attuned our resource use
and CSAs to thrive in eco-city scapes
no solopsistic somniac pretends
--the dream imbued in final hue
a momentary lapse, creationary flux--
the bombs defused in flick of wrist
indentured and enslaved, imprisoned innocents, oppressed and even self-deprived released
through selfhood's metaviral claim
ground of each dependent intertwining
whatness will to be
a place in which to hum in tune or out of tune
to heal and in a another dream aside from this perhaps with me partake
in true oneiric panoply of conflict held
--with permeating rigpa geogaze--
colliding ideologies transmuted into trust
in panharmonium of varied vision
and what the ever present boons of real, imagined symbol-real
create awake












.
The ancient town of Glastonbury stands proud
known for its famous Tor.
And leylines that converge in fertile earth
surrounded by human history.
Mystical, today commercialised they flock
soaking up power and to rock.

As this isolated Somerset town is engaging
colourful characters thrive.
Bringing the past and its history to life
as Pagan and Christian mingles.
Once an island surrounded by marshland
an aura of magic is at hand.

Here there's a sense of timeless wonder!

The Foureyed Poet.
Just a glimpse at an ancient town within the Somerset countryside. Glastonbury! The Foureyed
Poet
TearsOfChronus Jun 2013
Om
The air in the room is cold
metallic chills
sere and frigid as the man,
wearing a skin-tight grey shirt,
might imagine them
he is #83
He counts the chairs
96
He closes his eyes
Colors dissipate,
Leaving him with the chattering of nervous lovers
the shrieks of restless children
he shudders
focuses on his breathing
82 leylines run through him
they fly headfirst into,
and thus depart, the room
his axis radiates
82 stories leading to him and beyond him
lines blur
voices fade
he hears the music of the universe:
silence
he sees the window of reality:
void
his vision rises as his body disappears
HE is gone
there IS nothing
the room is nowhere
breath decays, there is no air
words remit, there is no breath
past and future intertwine
oblivion begets presence
and he sees possibility
he becomes infinite faces
endless stories
an avatar of inclinations
a choir of notions
penumbra to umbra,
from naught to dusk,
from day to dream,
into the river that flows within everything,
he dissolves
there IS nothing
and in nothing, there is peace

"#83!"

I open my eyes.
The air in the room is cold.
My shirt is too tight.
There are 90-something chairs,
82 people,
and I am awake.
Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
In the afternoon of a Sunday evening, all painted
in the dust lingered in sunshafts, a giant
though smaller in person, entered my life.

She spoke in common prosaic, until she didn't.
And when the sunshaft lowered itself as sun did
in the evening horizon; so did her native naivety.

She met once, or more, a man who with hands,
acted as God. And in her life he swelled around
her heart a strangling deluge. Inundation of temptation.
Regret like the pirouette of dust as faltered in dusk.

By now I saw her stature as looming shadow,
and in moonlight I read her leylines.
Runed with the abuse of self and worth a penny more,
than the collection plate gathered at friend's expenses.

I watched a stumble in her walk that never molested her gait.
In her a sprezzatura, and finally, a person deserving of the word.

She woke me with a lantern, once, and pointed to the halo--
the beam encircled as accretion disk, the darkness pulled
and we were the gravity.
And so danced the dust, again.

As of many thoughts, and her my imagination, she had to leave.
A must. A certainty. And I will never be the same.
With each stitch I sew, forevermore, her will shall exist braided within.

Somewhere in the sinews of my chasm breaths beats in pace with love.
Saudade creeps into the same cavern, now darkening;
sonatas with no moon,
shafts with no dust,
art with no art.
Brae Jan 2021
You and I in the garden,
library of bookfoam on
lattice shelves, Dewey Decimal
inflorescence, logic trees on panicles,
delicate pedicel theorems.
You, juvenile, virtue hidden
in fleshy sepals, tantalizingly
callow calyx, milkweed-
suckling, chub-cheeked
and pointlessly adorable.
You, morbidity long floresced
in budding blunder,
baby feet feeling out
fledgling leylines to the mortuary—
which disorder killed your mother?
No matter.
You, lonely dividend,
left first to lawman daddy
and lost, finally, to me.
All this time for thinking, decaying,
the two of us consumptive, cadaverous,
phosphorus-starved and stunted,
fungally necrotic and
****** beyond repair.

The garden path
of your mind is lined in blue,
lovely vinca, probably
because you're a sad sack.
(Don't deny it—I'd be, too,
if my mother died like that.)
My side grows fireweed, fire sticks,
scarlet bee balm, yucca,
San Diego sunflower,
Compact Fire Red.
Ash for fertilizer.
I had a sister, not a mother,
and she burned to death,
and every morning I am burning

to death with her.
betterdays Nov 2017
at night
it manifests
this dream of mine
to write my world
my hopes, my decline
and rise again to fall
it to this pit of words,
to break this wall
that lies betwixt us,
your world...
so different to the one
i inhabit.
these words like songlines,
leylines for you to follow
down into the depths
down past the dressings
into the magma
into......

— The End —