going

going going
home
i'm
going
towards that thing
the place that is no longer
that vipers nest
hornet's laughter
the sticky sweet honey
that trapped me
for too long that
hive
of love and anger and that
pattern
that never should have happened
im going
home
she said
inside of you there is an armchair
where if you sit
you are always safe
she said
you worked your whole life
to have that conversation
last night
he said
dad's gone,
we'll all try to pretend its
ok
there's the new baby
the smell of redwoods
the stained sheets
the leaking roof
poverty and wealth and
that endlessly opening refirgerator
home home
this year i pray
it shall find me
while walking the road
towards freedom

Those apologising fools

Those bloody english
they always are apologising
as if they are embarrassed that they are alive
oh so so sorry
pardon me but
oh i'm sorry
for what?
colonialism?

Meanwhile
I keep saying
i will i will
and then i
dont
and then i
re promise
and i
fall
again

takeaway:
failure.

somewhere there's a
child
who was
never able to
forgive

somewhere there's a
woman
who hasn't forgotten

somewhere there's a
promise
of something that they call
Grace

those fools
who so easily
forget
to laugh at
our human
folly

holding you

hold it.
draw the circle.
draw it wide and round.
draw the circle around the self
and don't let it go
find completion here.
and now.
you will not
actually
explode.
hold it
hold the thought temptation desire
now breath.

and let it go
let it go
the thought will come and
the thought will go

just don't
touch
her.

tinker bells and shifting shapes

too much shape shifting
serves neither
shifter
nor shape.

there was a shape
or at least a shadow
there
on the wall
by my window
a rather tantalyzing
figure
tall and dark
head bowed
eyes looking up.

his nos slipped
towards yeses and his
yeses were conditional
on a world of moving particles
where he fell
bouncing,
moving between them.

it just so happened
his own substance was
fit enough
so that his movements
rippled:
an attractor,
strange enough
on panels and committees and
dinner discussions
of those critical goal-changing games
popular on a finite planet
of nearly endless possibilities
worlds upon worlds
interweaving and contradicting
innovative shadow-systems and
entrepeneurial black criminal holes
lovers and liers and leapers -
anything could occur
except that:
we have only
one.

disgruntled with dishonesty i pace
the distance
between words and paper.

his words echo
reverberating in fear's canyon:

I do not want to wake up in my 50s
having fallen into
something.

and there was that man, tall:
hair turned grey in 4 years
running again,
running fast
and not fast enough.
he who (still!) fears the Stance
of Shape.

there was the woman
i would have gladly married
but never mustered the courage
to so much as kiss -
and then those i buried
myself into, steaming up
windows and blushing strangers
but would never
ever
marry.

there was that paper
i didn't actually publish
and later someone else
won awards
for lesser work.

there was that meeting
with the top man
and the top woman
and the top go-between.
i've sat with them all.
but still i sit
quiescent.

none of that
past
matters now.
it just got me here.
and that's enough.

now darkness
takes over the earth.
amidst short red skirts
clicking heels and
tinker bells i
stride
can i make
this emerging shape not
fall
through time

he is learning
a new shift
into a shape
grounded in
soil and stardust and
even a shimmer of
teleos.

we from our depths:
to move past the shadow
through the door that opens when
windows
waiver
blowing closed:

to take our
place amongst the
constellations that
raise their eyebrows at our
destiny (such potential!)
that we are still
learning to
summon
where our yays are yays
and suddenly all is
simple
and the world is
(somehow even now)
well.

resumption

What's this
fooled
again?

there was such
clarity
on the mountain top
but then I
kept wandering in your
forest

as if dark damp shadows
were to be preferred
to sunbeams

I've been a cave dweller
in the forest
surrounded by
monkeys

I knew enough:
these waters were
poisoned
by decades of extraction
legitimacy's inconsequential

why didn't
I keep traveling
to the spring's source?
because the road was
steep

now looking at your
reflection in the
darkness of the
waters:

you never mentioned
her.
(bless her)

I guess I'll
go back to
climbing.

whats and whens

so when.

so many books but the question is not of
more information
its in the writing
in the shaping of words
and the communicating
who hears this

the whens.

some planets circle long
i didn't see pluto returning
until now
black and cold
that force that
turns my head
And then there is Saturn
heavy and deep
Compelling: that question
that begs to be answered.

ah, the whats and the whens
not just the ideas
that flow like water
but the concreteness
of exactitude finite calenders
the timely ordering of planets
the right ordering of our lives

the weight
and the pressure
of so much that we love:
when, when, when
shall i see you
again
what what what
will i say
when the thoughts are gathered

thin time

setting sun:

that thin time

when the spirits between one world and the other

pass like gold leaves

between our fingers

we miss one another in the

hurry of the morning

only to come together

in the eve of our beginnings

the dark time

of magic and chaos

shreeking goblins

and laughing children

and a woman frail,

barely breathing

what Trickster guides this game?

where oh where

is the man

who quietly stoked the winter fire

chopped the wood and bent his sholdure

to what was needed

So close to her now,

his empty space

(no, no, don't even try to fill him, you have

your own)

ah, Old Hallowmass.

dead dreams rise like ghosts

bury the apples and carve the way

for those whose names we have forgotten

complexity: it is never the same

twice.

Fear not.

Nutmeg, mint, Heliotrope.

mulled wine and beef stew.

Obsidian.

such gold as the falling leaves:

fleeting wealth of life fully lived

turn now and turn again

to the dying and the dead

keep in the living:

not you not yet

do not run away

face the the Crone and Her

Consort but come home.

come home come home

sunbeam's shining boy

to the earthy darkness

of your ancient mother's Ways.

veni veni

to the space between:

standing close to the doorway

again on the threshold

you don't

have to

run

away.

Me, I'll

take your

hand

facing ...

(a break in between metaphors and models and cups of tea and shadows on walls)

face this, then: white clothed lady

a slight man with a big smile

you'd never guess his story

till the telling of tales begun:

pizzas sodas donuts cheese

until his feet became blimps

red sirens stilled into white hospital beds

the successful financier

enough stones overweight that

several nurses had to work together to turn him

until he was there with tubes and wires and his

concerned indian mamma

scolding the man who never grew up

only then did he see the desparation at the end of the tunnel

the powerlessness

the fatality

of his attempts at survival

face this then: hooded blackness

he was tall, handsome, oxford-bred

he was quick to assure me english was

not his first language

somewhere under thirty with the cynicism of the comfortable

the indian said he was beginning to think life was just a game and

really he preferred economics, the simple numbers at the end of the

day

sure it was meaningless but at least it was clear and

if they didn't listen to you just throw more graphs at them:

no one wanted to admit ignorance

but what, i wondered, are you really ignorant of

have you really

looked in the shadow land

beneath the curve of the supply chain

have you really

sat with those who have

nothing

dont talk to me of resilience

you who have not faced

that naked siren of a woman

who will lure you to her Shadow- Master's door

before the postman

notices you didn't

collect yesterday's mail.

face this then: a shadow where there was once substance

the memory came sharp, pungent -

the sound of his voice in my ear

i was 5, 15, 20, 25....

ah, i'd manage to forget -

the taste of death

not today

by god

not today

improvisational contact points

autumn colors paint the redbricks yellow

sing the sweetness of the hereafter

in the dying leaves bursting

life into just a single point

of contact

wrist touching wrist:

stillness

man watches woman watching man

mirrors upon mirrors

of difference

in breath out breath

stillness

i'd cry out for everything but for nothing

until the still point moves the

point of contact

(it is only in one point)

wrist then arm then sholdure then back and suddenly

we are moving

wrestling leaping flying rolling

where can we go

but here

the true fallacy of nothingness made concrete; the wind

blowing through the leaves it is only

here

that we live

push away no hold back come close stay put

move

fall head first duck roll run still bleeding

come

you: never ending eyes

in that stillness of deep listening i

rest.

such intimacies -

the stranger

who touches your hair

like a lover

the man who lifts you

like a babe

the woman

who says come play

in the wilds

of the imagination

between the body

and the soul

the beckoning

under the blue sky

of a Meeting

Gathering

ah, to dance, to dance

to sway like laughing trees

and make poetry

of such silly things

as bodies

and minds

and lives

too briefly lived -

when each movement lasts forever

before tumbling into the next one such

stillness

as grace.

coriander seeds

she was one of those women

who had to stand on tip toe

at the edge of the podium

and still people could only see

blonde hair (dyed) and the edge of her

wire glasses.

but her voice

easily projected

to the back of the hall you

were surprised

she was not

taller.

hands gnarled

from years in the soil

stooped the slightest bit

from the bedsides

of child birthing

and the heads

of desks and meetings she

meant business:

mortgage paid

bills neatly sorted

taxes done early.

forward planning:

the freezer stocked with

homemade sauces, pies

and handpicked blackberries.

Tulips? Planted!

The bright white lines

on the garden steps appeared

after that fall

and the broken tooth.

the orange buttons

on the kitchen gadgets

came after

the gas was left on.

today she

found the new recipe i left on the counter

voice rushed and tight she asked

me to read to her the ingredients

before turning away into a corner;

neither of us saying

it was anything other than normal.

she said,those seeds?

looking through her spices:

she had no coriander seeds

would ground coriander do?

in the conservatory

pressed against the window

the yellow flowers are

wilting

against the unusually bright

autumn sun.

ground too fine

coriander seeds

blur

into dust.

the night frosts:

as if we needed reminding.

winter is

quickly

coming.

island stories

she said

your eyes are like green blue rainbows.

looking at hers

i could only guess

she spoke true

what do i really know

of my own eyes?

on top of the world we have

an entire island beneath us

green hills curved around blue seas

silver sparkling memories

of pirates and empires

who knew how to duck in and out

of armadas and slingers and black deaths

this

tiny little island

now slowly drowning

in its own hubris

we laugh

what craziness that brought us

to where we are outsiders on the inside

of ourselves

hands on her hips

that perfect curve

that only a woman has

oh how i have missed

slopes and curves and wide buttocks and hips

i reach between layers of cotton

to the softest of flesh

between hip and breast:

pull close

small sharp intake of breath

hers or mine?

i could

oh i could so

fuck her.

instead we stand swaying gently:

dancing trees.

pressure rises up

pushes down:

the inevitable opening of the

gates

desire stains

my jeans

stick together

whimpering;

a lioness

roaring, unsure about

such peculiar pleasures

as waiting

asking

is this really

what you want

older couples walk by

hand in hand

they don't seem to burn

they don't seem to

need to

fuck

they watch the queer women

she without much hair and i

in a good pair of walking shoes

which one of us

is which?

they walk

too close.

i wonder if it is just age

or if i

american from head to toe

endowed with the eyes of the

sea maidens

those sweet sirens

who shaped my name

before i was born

and brought me to the island

at the edge

of the old

falling

loosing everything it once knew as true

if i never belonging am just

unusually horny.

those sea creatures told me

pirate stories

forgetten during overgrown empires

of loss and recovery:

its never too late

to ride the ocean of desire

to steal the world anew.

death came a-leaning against my door frame

on that day when i was stained

wet

with the desire

known by blooming roses

leaning over tall stone walls

veni veni

there is no essence

like bones

dried and white

empty sockets staring

nothing like the leaves

torn beneath crushing feet

and what they expose of you:

the bare branches

the gleeful children,

remembering

gathered together we

spoke of the things that matter

holding nothing but

tea despair laughter

over the most common of terrors

that there will be no letters

from the postman

nothing to weave us into the

richness of the life of the caring

and the meaning-making

and the substance of well-being

bills letters funeral arrangements

and that in meeting our obligations

we are forgetting our real duty

to the dead:

to pave the way

for the unborn.

when death walked by

in the guise of the half-living

i had her pressed against the church

wall

soft against soft

i might have

fucked her

then

but for that strand of convention

and the inconvenience

of skirts and jeans and such material

things

instead i just left

stained

no virgin pretentious pureness here just the

flesh and sticky nectar;

memory of your hands

before you ambled back to your

shadow-lover

halos

he was one of the tall ones

speaking carefully

walking quickly

laughing, at times, easily

but vexation came

quickly to the dark wolf.

Avoiding assoilment

he tended to circumvent saints.

still he hunted goodness.

hankering: can't all that

damn intelligence

construct more than

speeches reports invoices -

grains of sand

when we need to move mountains.

sometimes captured

by the unexpected -

a strand of music

circumventing a star

Intrigued

by the ghost of her halo

shining through her eyes

rippling through her fingertips

dancing along the thin thread

that both kept lightly strumming,

He wondered at their music -

did he think it would last

this long?

how did it move in her body

when she let herself be

enough?

Really - do we seek beauty

in one another

or that the shape of our

wantings

the aching restless emptiness

find a-holding?

of course what is

that beauty

if not justice

and what is justice

if not darkness

held

transfixed

by a halo

of wholeness

shimmering?

veni veni

(I)

most mornings, grey,

we don't even hear

ourselves harking

like angels

who have forgotten

that the mortals

are listening

unaware, not blissful

we flutter the wings

of our imagination

our attention hovering lingering

over strangers - rejecting/conforming

passing in and around friends

going through and between Desires

as if Eros

wasn't actually right there

taking notes, granting these

semi-conscious wishes

torn from unconscious patterning

You what is your clearing?

what have you not cleared

that such messiness you generate

you who are nothing less than

Precious

Named for the very depth

of your being:

veni veni

evoking

So is this how we summon

one another

into Being:

Calling one another forth

by those sacred names

Dignity Joy Beloved

Friend

Fostering the Movement

to carry us

as we piece together the pieces

of our incompleteness

into some imperfect Wholeness

Nudging the tender creation

that can rise above, poised

and Reflect --

onto the darkly chaotic Waters.

Such tender work, this boldness

requiring the inner harbor

and the arms

of One - and another.

funny how even now i keep

wanting you though you

are clearly on your side

and i on my side

i put you there after all.

funny how even now i

check my emails

or my phone

half-expecting

a missed one

but the one i'm missing

never really left me

(H)e

is right - t/here if

only i would stop

looking

for your name

as if i ever

*really*

wanted

you.

Requirements of the cheerful order

the refrain ends with:

turn around right.

Towards what?

Returning -

to the truth.

Truth: live on a finite planet carrying finite beings.

Truth: to survive, much less thrive,

in a changing climate is to transform

production consumption governance

the house i call home.

Justice.

Foxes warning: ‘keep your testimony against the world’s vast fashions.’

be plain.

Not 'fashionable' ‘green’ -

talk like leaves that easily blown away

Fashion: easy. – easy food, easy relationships, easy work.

Easy come – and easy go.

Where is the nourishment? the ground?

that which is most - profound?

The meal:

cornbread, homemade

a fresh tomato-and-avocado salad - red and green and

lightly salted.

dahl, smooth and rich and properly spiced.

a mushroom risotto, homemade chutney, yams with rice, local cheese, local apples and grapes. And extra rosemary.

Rightly ordered?

Is your stew prepared

to save you from those binges of packaged meals?

Is your week planned

around the local shops and farmers markets?

Is your advocacy geared

towards the right order of the planet

for substantially more enjoyable and delicious eating?

ah, the radicalness of simple joy!

Awash in the nightmares of climate change, despair is easy to come by – and not to be avoided. Only in facing that despair do we risk any hope of coming into the next opening.

Alignment: no sugar. no caffeine. no booze.

Alignment: good work, paid. more joy.

self-discovery: tantamount to the practice of simplicity.

Alignment: essence mirroring essence.

refrain from all that leads to scattered thoughts, diluted meaning and the slow painful reduction into mediocre lives.

I crave good order

The ‘essence’ of Spirit I seek remains clouded.

so much daily footwork

just to clear the windows – even to

lift

the shades. I

seem unable to discern

alone.

Our meal

seasoned well with those

occaisional, spontaneous moments of silence.

Then, I knew we were traversing

further afield than the limits of our physical selves.

in turning towards the truth of the limits to growth,

we turn towards the truth of the limitlessness

depth

of fellowship

that continually, collectively delving deeper

into our own essences can bring us.

(reflecting on the day)

life is strange yo...

complexity and simplicity

bubblin rivers n roarin brooks

spewing emails and falling leaves

creating the old

facilitating the professionals

professionalising the facilitator

hpyocrites and saints

and what-the-hell

seeking dynamic stillness

Grace, like Beauty, Arises

Tumbling, broken

into wholeness.

10 years on

Papa said: we will never be the same.

I tried to understand

Absolute State Changes

To wrap my head around

a future that would never resemble the past.

'we will not falter we will not fail.'

except we did falter

we did fail

our innocence drowned

between two great oceans

did we 'export enough hope and optimism?'

now....dim dim dim as we look in

Trillions for a hornet's nest in Iraq

for 3,000 americans - more than that, now, gone

Unity temporarily achieved - heros in fire-proof yellow

Commerce-shopping gained; then that shuttering Crisis

our own Reserve becoming an Enemy causing a Meltdown

Fiscal shudders overseas sweat barely remembered

As children watch their mothers

standin beneath unemployment signs

Outlined by an Eastern light from behind that old Rising Sun

but the light is chilly: we fear the Dragon who feeds us.

a new world, a new world.

Arab's bright spring flowers

stuck into the guns of those strict Regimes

a new world - a new world.

do not miscalculate the 'ultimate result'

they say

but what is ultimate

and what is the result

10 years of war? 30?

a generation - gone?

a warming world that will never change

back again?

a new world, a new world.

And the changin'

its only just begun.

cloudscapes

to paint this morning's momentous sky

give me a brush

made of falling leaves and apple skins

a box of colors

from lavender flowers and scented rainbows

a canvas

of textured cotton balls and white leather

silver gray white

dancing rain and sun

no blues here

just

the delight

of change and change and change again

the sky the color

of horses galloping on the hills

of a german philosopher who wrote social revolution

from a circular reading room.

the color

of sheeps' bleating and children playing

the season of partridge and game and beginnings

oh lord i aint

no stranger

not to you

not to you

not on the morning of such sky

that holds such glory

as thine eyes upon us all -

even as we cry

Beautiful

let yourself be

beautiful

early morning sunshine

knows no boundaries

of clouds -

he

stretches color beneath them

an array of pinks and glories

the steadyness of the sun

between so many other uncertainties

this at least

moves

the same.

the beauty of the dawn let yourself

stretch

out of bed and

laugh

at the craziness of your thinking

that today is the same as yesterday

and that tomorrow

has any bearing on either

let yourelf

be beautiful

as you

embrace the women

who stand at the doorway to

hell

(the one you created) youre still

beautiful

my love.

capsizing sap

(Totems:)

He'd take the brook.

She'd take the boat.

Neither of them

Sailed.

But both owned

a fine pair of telescopes

and enough laughter

to keep them bubbling

along bobbing.

She'd been long

in the forest.

In the woods the sap

dark molasses

moved slowly.

She had plenty of incentive

but the

sap

seemed immune to the forest fires

not so far away it kept

a slow pace

a thickness

a tear in slow motion.

as if she didn't have to change

at all.

He, a wanderer.

How thick was he, anyways?

Would he narrow down

enough to be here

widen up there

substantiate himself

long enough to be anywhere

Value someone else

out there?

She still

hadn't taken

the test

to measure It.

she didn't really

want to know

what she already knew

that was

the way of destruction

the old one

had told her so.

and back when she didn't know

she believed

and when that belief

ebbed its way into truth

she couldn't recall but it was hard to

change the shape of the knowing

even if it was bleeding

her dry

Recognising the dryness

he took her out

on the waters.

she capsized

and then stood up

laughing.

he kept chasing her

and then falling in

she managed to only knock

one other team player

over

really quite victorious

for someone as

new as she but of course being fresh

she could change direction so (too) easily

the water flowed so quickly the wind

blew

and she blew

with the wind

the thrill! the boats

raced, tilting skimming slicing

their way home

wall and boat:

collision

no matter. she was

no longer

the viscosity of

sap

thick quiets

Are we playing a game -

who can keep quiet the longest

before breaking - speaking?

You'd win.

(you win most games you play.)

(or is it just chance, and i'm

restless)

I'd prefer

to focus on

playing.

---

(Spoken, just for the record,)

I can do silence.

I and the rest of us -

all those

little silences

bowing to convention

the silence between

the complaints

and the kvetching

and the networking

when really nothing

is happening.

into the room: such grumbling

into their late-day conversation

my innocent questioning

of their mutterings on matterings

do you not know what you are doing?

Oh, its not the doings

its the beings

that are so troubling

really who is this Team?

So much stuff but Who

are we?

What histories had been lost in the

doings

so much chatter. Reports and workshops

like hammer and nail

the silence around the Matter

Thickens

like shovel and gravel and six feet

Under.

Repetition as our only permanence.

Breathing, Running. Breaking.

The words change but too much else stays the same

yesterday's poverty's today's inequality I

wonder at the silence on

ownership and the arrogance of assuming

anyone is listening.

Their game:

talk fast hard loud

in certain places at certain times

Repetition of key words

Changing those phrases (environment - sustainability - strategy)

to produce: the same (new man in the corner office, darker colored skin)

the heavy viscosity of the system that

really doesn't move

rapidly transitioning language

leaves the spaces between each note thick

those dark silences

of too many values-priorities untouched

unmoved.

---

When I turn off the lights

finally find a rest

for fables and neurological burn-ways,

there is a wind outside my window

that passes sweetly around my lips

i wrap Silence around me You

old lover with Your

arms and presence

as thick

as the sweetest lavender-scented honey

such glorious viscosity

that sinks into the depths of soul

quieting all else until we find Ourselves

gently carried

home

water falls

Sometimes the world really is flat

And ships go over the edges

of waterfalls roaring into darkness

And the sea monsters

Swallow them

Whole.

And then, the next moment,

the world is round again.

You are simply sitting there,

breathing.

At the bottom

Of the sea monster’s belly

There is a lake

And on misty days

You are not entirely sure

If the warmth

Is his digestion

Or if that really is

A sun-stroked land

Up ahead.

People come and go

As if all of this is normal.

Maybe it is.

Really, you are still multi-dimensional

Still substantially round.

Yet too much is flat

(and hot and crowded)

Too much is slippery and smooth

Untextured

Un grown, untendered.

That fraud - the clean blank silent slate:

As if the past never happened.

A more accurate truth: we are aging.

There is a callus

On the ring finger

Where his band

Used to rest –

Even in his absence

even in his aching quiet

He is still there.

In the morning

The rain came.

The waters we sail on

Fall from the sky

(where we were once dreaming)

Onto all of us sailors

Blurring distinctions

Between sound and

silence

keep it simple

he said he had no need

for drama.

i was about to say,

me neither

and then suddenly

i wondered.

if i had habitually done

what we too often do -

so much drama.

Simplicity:

when we have no choice

because we have already chosen

we have been chosen

and we know ourselves as

spoken for

we know the sweet sound

of our own name

like a ripple

without a wind we

seek a centre and a

movement.

somehow there has come

a clutter

like a tyrant

of an ostrage.

i want no more of it.

no more of this angst

turmoils of unproductivity

looking wanting yearning

bring it to me now

front and centre

no need for hiding.

it is in love

that we are

found

betwixt betweens

on the edge of the green leaves

comes the beginnings of the red

in the midst of a mid-day, sun-drenched walk

the rain comes swiftly

sunrise turns grey, grey turns pink

apples fall into my hands

pears overflow my pantry

snakes relish the damp and the slowly falling leaves

in the morning

my bike seat

is wet.

He came back brown

fresh, muscles well used, tendons stretched

pleasure sought - found

his stride long again - there is something new.

purpose?

ah luvlie,

she said, you've done so much

she said, you've changed.

she said, its just beginning.

I've watched the leaves turn.

now i think they never stop turning

its just one big ol' turn

yet another hue

for the next chapter and verse

of the season.

am i turning red too?

my tan is fading.

the call is clearer -

Simplicity.

Beauty.

quietly surprised -

there you are (again)

working. are you well-tethered?

i wonder where is your wondering.

are you alligning

your own turning a bit slower - is that a glass of red wine?

leaning-easy, overlooking drifting leaves

onto the street corner's brook

the bees are fretting, honey-making

they feel the sharp winds gathering

and our hive - fretting, hallucinating

markets turmoiling

they say we don't have much time I'm

oddly grateful

if the world is collapsing at least I

am experienced

in picking up the pieces

practiced in building

from the shards of broken sentences

a house of poetry

and laughter

mining equador

Carlos Zorrilla

It's possible.

That community led development.

Two translational mining companies

criminializing leaders of the community

wrecking social havoc in the communities

standing up to the

destructive development

the name eco-terrorist

those against development

become terrorists

wars over language are faught repeatedly

for peacefully protesting an mine

extraction

violence

mining economies

34 biological jewels.

The ones with big bellies

would come and

destroy the jewel

of lush forest and birdsong

in return for 15 days

of global consumption

create desertification

12-28 species all endangered.

Mining water contamination

goes on forever

that long time

2000 years of zinc contamination

how can this happen?

The government. lack of regulations. world bank. weak institutions. corruption. unregulated investment. high demand for metals. unethical lifestyles; wrong life premises.

the cultural matrix of our lives.

they wore jeans.

jeans boots and teshirts. they stood in front of their gates. and the men came with guns and tear spray and cameo.

after dialogue with the officials they were turned over

ex military security guards

community interviewed the thugs later on. no one went to jail. not the canadian mining company that funded it all.

lost their concession, fined.

the company - the law suit in canada, - kicked out of stock exchange.

the communities triumphed over transnational mining interests.

The mining companies came to the land.

The people of the land

they had been told they were poor.

Internal peace is number one.

WHat is the point of money if you can't have peace.

peace adn security. is the most important part.

consumption and lifestyles and social devestation

and environmental devestations

we are directly involved.

how to make the connection more real?

stop being more unethical.

close link between consumption and devestation...

exquisit

exquisit

stories of those peacekeepers

beirut jerusalem baghdad

who keep meeting.

they knew their generation failed.

they go to the meetings. they argue.

and then they keep coming back.

Years: how to build a shared existance.

after the meetings they stand outside

chain smoke and talking about their children.

in this way

they come to know

each other's souls.

the signs on their walls:

'when you have lost all

what else can you lose, so fight'.

intergenerational anger. alienation.

Will that be the story of climate - justice?

ignore the real apathy and despair at the risk

of your children's lives

posturing. when people talk about their children,

they talk differently about conflict

than when they talk about themselves.

exquisit - the human soul.

So she loved – as easily as breathing

It always had been that way

And she was well loved

But really

What did that matter

What bread and butter

Did love create

What oceans did it save

Whom could it actually help?

Her heart- did something so

Intangible

Matter

at all?

The lioness will slay

for her cubs

The father will forsake all others

For his sons

A man

Once overturn a table of money lenderes

Then ride through town

On an ass

They say he

Turned his cheek

Then raised the dead.

He loved the wicked;

And through love, changed

She once said -

Your greatest gift is your heart.

I scoffed that into a forest of cacti.

Now

Cut by my own knives

I know at least one answer to that

‘So what’ question -

A life time of poetic

action.

True terror:

that deep

Transformational

Unconditional

Love.

let me turn towards that fear…

the beekeeper's constitution

Beekeeper

do you (ever) remove your bee-mask

that you just might

taste

the honey?

or for one such as you

(how many divorces?)

does that necessitate

a constitutional amendment

perhaps even

a convention?

i'm told

bees

can be gentle

when we

can be still.

---

Then again

maybe bees

are impatient

for us to learn

to fly

so they might show us

such discoveries:

open flowers.

tracing the sweetness

to its source.

(though us humans, we need

the production the work

from nectar to honey

the work of the hive the work

of conventions

for the pleasures of continued consumption

for honey, amidst desertification)

---

You said sometimes

you laugh

sometimes

the bee lands on your

fingertips.

An image:

the bee tracing the distance

from finger to knuckle

(another you would have used those knuckles

to punch that man who dared

to say such a thing

to those who had next to

nothing).

Image:

a bee whispering

secrets of hidden brooks and sweet nectar

of your shadow-light of cacti and willow

in the dancing language only bees know

into the exposed softness

your skin, your hand

you: known?

the bee asks

simple questions:

who is this

flower?

Sweet or sour?

is this my hive?

And one to another:

How faireth

your queen?

is it really you

who wrote and now sustains

the dance of the pattern

of that old

constitution?

Would you rather

re-write the whole damn thing

and fly

in a different direction?

the currency geek

he was coming the visionary

from far away countries

with stories of the impossible:

people learning to trust one another

discovering the meaning of

complimentary

And the possibility of value

shared; created.

on the morning of his arrival

i didn't want to move

recalling his steel blue eyes

his long black mane

his hands, from farmer's stock the

nails bitten absent mindedly

as he typed as he listened to my

growing confusion on the monetary system

he once

held my discoveries with the gentleness

of an elder his eyes

laughed

when we let our differences come together.

Our first walk:

10pm in London, around and around

in circles of old trees and fenced parks and

cobblestone streets

I in my frock and he in his torn t-shirt

the nomad working

building an 'impossible' world

one community at a time through the creation

of the most important thing

the exchange the gift the value:

currency

he had almost nothing in his pocket

he sought a different kind of exchange

why spend money on anything

that would line the queen's purse and the banker's rule

he was harsh, critical, stern - even cold

always looking for what would push forward the mission.

he said, i don't really feel.

he spent his life staring at computer screens

creating a code for a world that didn't yet exist.

the first time he rejected me i took it personally

only later

when he held me

stroked my hair and we let ourselves loose time

just for a while did i realise

we all have onion-layers

we went around to the parts of town

where the ordinary people

sought an extraordinary realisation

of creating themselves anew

separate from that City that sucked life and drained

away integrity from the lands of peat and oak.

why had people stopped using the lewes pound?

they said what we already knew:

novelty rarely creates lasting value.

my friends giggled when they met us together said

oh he is so handsome! and so kind!

i looked at his face again.

his backpack was never far.

Yes, i suppose

but it was his voice in my ear.

what's possible:

communities creating their own value

he was doing the work the only way he knew:

a prophet on the road.

i would have him no other way

for this is his form - true.

now i'm not as clear

in my own destination

i resist moving

from my nest this morning it was all

too bright

the sunshine on the buildings of victoria

albert and stonemasons and deadlines colliding

i said - be warned:

i'm as dark as a demon these days

moody as a roller coaster gone a-riot

if i snap i snap.

and i'm making no promises about - anything.

past performance is no predictor of current capacity.

he said:

depression is part of the human condition.

No need for the warning.

I will take you

as you are.

Ah, you nomadic geek.

coding currency

valuing only the true:

that space between the hard

objects of our world;

it is so soft

the value only we can give one another:

this precious grace

moving stones

argh the stone!

i cried.

it is so heavy i

wish it could just roll away

down the hill

no more of this moss and liechen

i just want it to

disappear but

moving it

takes more strength

than i have.

she reminded me

at least you

dont sit in front of the television

with tv dinners. you have strength

my dear.

not that this is much compensation

for those who dream of flying. but i'm

sure she's right.

she usually is the lady

who works to

(re)move stones.

first we find it. then we measure it.

then we look for its leverage points.

figure out

the best place to

put our backs we need to

push

continuously. regular application.

of course

the stone can move.

of course

it always takes two.

of course.

even Mary

did not move back the stone

Alone.

how many of us are there?

not yet fully emerged

shamans healers ministers

we knew it in those early years

when the lightening bolt came

nearly knocked us down the

black and yellow and gold the

message the

Promise.

we who are called to Her side

to listen to the moaning

and bend our minds to task of gathering

evidence and people and ideas to

be awakening

I keep discovering us

scattered and embedded and striving.

living without hatpins

I've got this thing for hats

big wide white ones

curly cues on red ones

fringe on black ones

Covering everything:

extravaganza.

I've got this thing for this

somewhat improbable

attempt at practicality and

extravagent beauty.

Hats yes but not hatpins

They stick to far too fast so I

can never seem to keep the

damn things from blowing away

they require

so much holding on,

my fetishes.

In the past few years

I've lost a few good hats

and a few have resurfaced again

like your smile in my memory

when I had thought you good and gone

He said it would be a wild ride

the loss of consumerism

with the financial crisis

and all that

funny i haven't noticed

a lack of hats the

pretty girls at ascot

might be a different skin color but the

hats sure do look fine and the

consumerism

continues making good times

good for those who don't worry

about if they've got enough

for that total unnecessary

head garment

he kept removing it

the hat

saying my hair was so beautiful

maybe i should revel in the wildness

but i'll keep a few things

just in case he's right, the visionary

it might be too soon

before there isn't much extra room

for wide brims

that hide eyes and hearts and the secrets

of beauty.

invisible

Invisible -

he knew his most important work

was when someone else said his ideas

not even knowing that weren't his own.

He sought that most subtle

manipulative of powers the power

of the mind behind the words

the imagination unleashed from

the bondage of too many assumptions

quietly enhancing empowering

to illicit

the want that wants to be wanted.

That conversation

with the head of police

after the workshop -

his head bowed

shoulders straight - nothing but

responsibility

and too many late nights

and the sights that should not be seen;

despite all that

something was - missing

not a person a process an insight - something a

transformation.

Then the Invisible one

said a few quiet words

a question, posed at the right moment -

a breath of fresh air

in the light of darkness,

the coffee stained carpet gave way to

patterns to

recognition.

When the Chief

repeated the words of the Invisible one

into the microphone and the assembled ones

nodded in appreciation

He chuckled to himself:

a job well done.

That they walk far:

that is all he asked for.

But what happens

When the client stops calling

when the donations from the corporations

stop rolling in and the monastery

where he had studied and practiced the art of

invisibility

use up their stores

of bread and bones?

What happens

when people don't want his services

because they don't know what he does

when the shape-shifter

can not be found because he is shifting shape

too often?

What happens

when the invisible

must become visible

to be found

to be made

invisible

again?

It was the crisis that did it

forced him to play his card and

choose

a shape for the world to see

force him to take a pathway

in the direction of love done fiercely.

he could hide and possibly drown

in the rising tides around his

island of sweet lavender and oaks and

the cell of the celtic

or he could build himself the raft

of left over animal skins and new friendships

tie tight a few books on his back and

travel

to a new world where he

didn't recognise himself -

We've done it before we

pioneers. Who said we ever wanted

to be someone else's hero we just

aimed for survival - and some of us sought

-justice

for those others who had been invisible

far too long

who needed

the knowledge we had harvested

each on our own blundering pathway:

to step out of the

shape shifting role we had to say

this is who we are

and we have had

enough

of the invisibility.

when did all that humility

come to mask the perfectionism

'i'll do it all my way',

stop the publishing the

realisation of the visioning the

articulation the action the

actual birthing of

something that resembles

sustainability -

it is not so

soft.

when must the Great Invisibility

show Its face upon the waters -

when is it time

for those made in It's image

to emerge from hiding?

when the waters

are rising.

for the reed amongst the oaks

oh, those magnificent oak trees.

They have shaded you so long.

Their trunks so large that even you

dear man

can not wrap your arms around them you

who held the little girls in your arms you

who held thousands of patients' hands

checking pulse, breathing, eyes

and now it is your

pulse breathing eyes

that those white coats check

as the doctor becomes the patient

that familiar disease of so many of us

westerners living in the risk-world

of endless growth.

oh those oak trees.

may they carry

on the back of sunshine and shade

these blessings.

blessings for a man of kindness

a quiet man who smiles sweetly

laughs gently

a reed bowing to the Wind

i call and

you seem on another island

even further away than america

even further away than home.

how are things?

Oh, not so good

At least I can stay at home

And there is not much pain

And I can still walk

But I'm weak

ah, yes: weakness - i hear

the raspy voice

You were never thick

I imagine you now,

a reed whistling

with the wind

of life and death

there is something so

pure

in the sweetness of your

raspy whispering.

May those oak trees

bless you with

beauty

bring the birds song

and the flowers of July

into the life of your veins

shining out so blue

like the streams

amongst the golden hills

the streams of moss, fern and home

you in your wood house

filled with books and tapestries

you who have given me

nothing but kindness

well-wishes

and a heart fully open

even before this 'abnormal' growth

ate into your tissue and bones you

were always open

to wanderers such as I

who keep at nothing if not growing

Have I loved you well enough

you reed amongst the oak trees?

I wish I could give you

more than blessings

on your journey

from this world to the next

You would shake your head, smiling gently.

My dear, it is enough.

For you

I have always been

enough.

your deep

acceptance of me

(and, long ago, when it was we)

For this

I thank you.

May you

Know in these last days

everything of what you so generously gave

love and kindness and patience and gratitude

may you

put together all that needs to be done

so you can bask

in the warmth of your fine family

two daughters - successful, strong,

courage in their wry frames they always

reminded me of you

such a wife, familiar with suffering, sorrow, joy

the mysteries between two people are seldom

fully known.

the cats, they come and sit besides you the

flowers you planted the fresh tomatoes of

california sunshine you can

still

taste everything please

may each morsel be

easy

may the pain

stay far away. I may believe

in feeling everything but

really

there is no need for that.

may the love come even closer

the light even stronger

may you forgive them

for what they knew not what to do and

may you

forgive yourself

for all that you left undone and

may you find happiness

in the pain of breathing weakly

may your mind

rest and still move

(not in desparation nor boredom) may i

learn

not to put off that which most needs be done

that work only i can do

a sign of peace

a piece of work

a string of words

in meter and in song:

protest, truth, resistance and

liberation

may you

be held in the arms of the Lover

who walked with Death at the Beginning

before you were born she

knew the arch of your smile and the

shape of your eyes.

May the winds of the high summer

blow sweetly

as you greet

whatever

it is -

that is a road only you can walk

the oak trees

only you can see

the wind only you

can let whistle through these

last few - times

i - i can only wish

that for you the oaks

hold you in light and shadow

and the wind be soft

not too cold

just a soft breeze - just

lightness

for a reed

in the dappled shade

of the might california oak

ah - may you rest

in the long time sun

shining you all the way

home

noon-day poems

let me write only at dusk

with a cup of ginger tea

or in the early dawn

with mint leaves and honey

and the birds laughing their way

into the day

when the colours sweep across the pallet

of my typing

and the haze and the sweetness

brings words together

the sweet swallow's song

it is not that the mid day sun

does not bring with it the poems.

Indeed.

They come hurtling at me

assaulting me

with image and verse and rhyme

i become

desparate

to write and even more desparate

that they be read

and you dear reader

occaisionally oblige

but really

even though they

are

beautiful

they are becoming too painful

they become

that which I do

to myself

instead

of that which I do

for myself

you noon-day poems

take me away from

that vital noon day meal -

from

bread butter and self-sufficiency

i

just can not afford

the noon-day poetry

let my muse

turn my head towards

that which generates

income and 'real work' and 'success'

let he

show me what to do next

how to win the proposal

how to secure the outcome

how to re-write that paragraph

that will do the work

that reconnects the

academic and the practitioner the

thinker and the thought the

earth and the value of creation

the work

not only of networking but of building

the community

beloved

i seek poetry

actualised

poetry

manifested in brick and mortar

in reports and published papers

in meetings and invoices and human resources

transformed.

please

mighty poetry,

in all your glory

my dear muse,

in all your strength -

help me

seek thee

not only on this slip of a page

but in the world.

help me

build thee

create thee

form thee -

manifest thee:

beloved in the flesh.

the prickly pear

the prickly pear

she was at least 100

trained in the judgement

of medicine her MD

hang about her like a

stone

infiltrating itself

into the tightness of

shoulders wrists and knees

there was so much pain

in the stiffness of her glare

behind the broken sentences

but still she came

to the workshop on healing

with a swamp of cynical harumphs

enough to swallow

any who dare sit too close

the lady who came to herald

the grace of the creator

that can be found in the simplicity

of hands and hearts brought together

stared at this wounded child

the apple wisened past sweetness

this is what she was given

to hold: that which did not

want to be held.

what if

she asked

you just - tried it out?

just - experimented?

well.

the prickly pear

harumphed.

I suppose I could

just give it a go

And so, muttering,

she sat in the chair in

the circle of Members

nobody special besides a few

Ordinary Humans

(made extra-ordinary by Love)

And they came to her

hands outstretched

touching her

sholdures

hands

knees

feet

she

who had never really

let the grace of the ordinary

or the simplicity of the hands

the touch

of the lightness of the baptismal waters

wash over her

stones

she was, there, held.

later

those who held

spoke of beauty

of meaning:

to be able to care

to hold

the prickly pear

to discover

the smooth soft skin beneath

afterwards

she was quiet

not so many harumphs

something

indescribable

touched

the healer

for a few moments

healed

who knew that even prickly pears

could taste

such sweetness:

their own

oh!

these imperfect clay forms

in Your image:

You make all of us pears so

precious

requirements of the cheerful order

The founder of my faith

did not merely say,

'walk cheerfully over the earth'.

The Fox said,

'walk cheerfully over the earth....

spare no deceit. Lay the sword upon it;

go over it....

Spare no place,

no word, no pen;

be a terror

to the adversaries of God

and a dread;

answering that of God in them all.

Ye have the power, do not abuse it;

eye the wisdom...

the wisdom of creation...

that you may be

ordered...

may you live...

where glory

and life is.'

Deceit.

Foolhardiness and fooling - ourselves

of anything less than -

the glory the life of god:

action truth beauty

stand on top of structures; tear them down

this requires

a fundamental

life-transformation.

why didn't anyone tell me that

walking cheerfully

required

such radicalness.

that the Christ

is nothing if not

revolutionary

that without revolution

we just keep spinning

the same fabric of destruction

not knowing where to turn we

move: myopic animals just

turning randomly floating endlessly

un-ordered.

but there is an order there is

Love

who comes with the sword

of the word.

into the long

Turning the bend we imagined

they would greet us like Giants

these Mysteries of the Isles. instead

they were so much smaller

just a little circle on a hill-side.

In that strange blue-florescent bright night-light,

we'd be hard pressed to find a ritual

much less a druid

here; instead just

raucous squeals, twisted dreads of that

breed of mostly-young hippie-consumers:

even before midnight,

beer cans and plastic strong-bows

litter our path.

That throw-away culture

colliding defiling melding - defining

the usually clean 'English Heritage site.'

Long: the plastic forks for the stringy wok noodles

will take decades to decompose

Long: the squeals and yells seemed to never end

just pass from one flippant smiling baggy-jeaned girl to another

Long: the pull, the pull of 5000 years -

we kept walking

Long: the sacred walk, the ancient walk,

of breathing and rhthym and rhyme.

picking our way amongst

debris blankets hash

we walked the walk

we had never been permitted to walk before we

crossed the barrier

that tonight of all nights the English Heritage

did not police

we crossed the barrier

that even we did not understand:

the young coming to greet

the Old Ones

She gasped as we crossed the barrier

Took my arm; her hands were cold

she said can you believe it

they suddenly seem so

big

So much smaller than anything in London

When we crossed the barrier

size reconfigured itself to a world

without skyscrapers just human

muscle and laughter and (perhaps) faith

Oh, these stones.

Crossing the barrier

that my parents crossed

before I was born when they

stood here

I now stand

I now stand

Amongst the standing stones

touch

5000 years of lichen and cold and warmth

nothing but compassion

we all reach out

to touch the Long

Not noticing

if we stand on beer cans.

All night we

kept staring at them.

She popped a little seed

told me it was acid and would only take

a few minutes to work -

He opened and drew back the strong bow

glowing golden light shining through plastic -

she carefully laid out the flimsy trash bags

to protect us from the wet -

(we were without wool blankets.

we were not our mothers.)

and we stared into the Long

embodied in the stone

----

I waited till after midnight

to fully enter into it, into the Long -

i feared a mosh pit

but the press of so much living flesh was more

akin to swimming among a thousand seals.

After my sholdures

began slowly to move

(how did they get so stiff?

how did i forget the rhythm?

Where have I been? - oh yeah - Lost

in the short.)

I took up the meaning of my given name:

princesssan, wise woman, minister-ess

she who (got away with) laughing at god

now standing on Stones

Not so high

as a corner office i could still

touch the head of the drummer

who came to sit beneath me let his rhythm

overtake me

dancing and spontaneous yelling

embrace me

as i stood on the (sacrificial?) stone

celebrating the longest day

through witnessing the shortest

(misty chilly) night

Raise hands above head

draw down the moon

(dear druids please forgive us

we mean no usurption just responding

to that calling we have all almost forgotten:)

raise up that old life force

that beats so strong here

here in the long

looking amongst a sea of laughing untrained warriors

who do not know the ways of the druids

who do not know the chants or the songs

who do not know how to care for the dying

who do not know how to properly wash the dead

who do not know how to harness the energy

Who are looking ahead only dimly, drunkenly

I see the stones

holding the hooting descendents of their makers

such immense imperfection

In this time of such planetary destruction

we are the ones they must rely upon for protection?

(or are they the weighty Guardians?)

do my fellow dancing fools know the collapse of the system?

regardless: the stones hold them.

they have seen so much more than I they know

the rise and fall of how many kings, civilisations, children

In the flashing lights of cameras

even the stones in their stillness seem to be moving

opening

Maybe in the old days

it wasn't always proper somber rituals

by chieftans

but sometimes

people came to laugh drum scream

awakening, the stones danced in their stillness

on the longest day of the year

I in my remembered-role

the men came to me

dancing, telling me

their confessions:

how they would never miss this night

how it gave them energy for months

how they couldn't explain it but

how they came to reclaim

their heritage, not to be bought

for 7 pounds - concession.

These men

emerged from finite hundrum isolating frustrations

saying: these people - my tribe

wasn't it so beautiful

the dancing young

amongst ancient standing stones

Yes, I said. Yes.

And you from America! they laughed

that their cousin might see what their sister

who stayed at home to watch tele

did not.

They came

men in big boots with strong hands that reached

for booze and women

and for the stones

they

ran their hands over the stones

in hommage

into the long

----

After the dawn broke

When the fields were filled with summer's colours

21st century England's barriers between

clean and filth, ruler and ruled, the poor and the proper

re-emerged

in the form of yellow-jackets with sharp teeth

the bobbies pointed to the exit - that way.

(as if a circle ever had one exit.)

suddenly the

lust

for the stones increased

inadvertantly compulsively we ran to them

reaching out

to caress them

to touch

the Long

we who have too many barriers

to one another we

not knowing how to trust each other we

hoped these

Guardians could teach us

of that which we can not remember

oh how long till we can touch them again?

that one, the tall one

his blue-gray skin etched with wind, rain, and kisses

( i suspect also - swords) i could

stand next to him and lean

and he would never

leave

just murmur the sweet nothingness

of the Long

that accepts infinitely the sorrows and joys

of those trapped

in the short.

but the yellow barriers resurrected at the orders

of class and power which these days

says 'heritage' is to be 'consumed'

at a distance

(without touching, any distance is too far)

came sweeping in their bullet proof vests -

(we who seek to love are clearly dangerous)

instinctively no need to scold me! a flash of anger, though i knew the rules before i came

i know how to

re-cross the barrier

(this walk of leaving, at least, i've done before)

Suddenly everything

(myopic animals/ election cycles/ quarterly reports

my time here) was

too short.

Leaving (not again)

I kept looking back we all kept

glancing as if afraid

they had moved,

shuffling back into 'tourist mode'

from the top of the hill

they looked small - even short.

Certainly cleaner,

tip bags piled neatly

in the far corner.

But my heart,

re-aligned by Giants

still remembers their rhythm.

I pick up someone else's trash

join the bus, the chatter, the 10am pub crawl

dozed on a train filled with suits

considered talking sense into a silver-cufflinked oil-man -

my fellow travelers they somehow have confused

stones and humans. where is the open heart?

may they also journey

into the long

before their short-termism

goes on far

too

long

that they forget

the terrible curses that befall grave-robbers

(especially those who burn fossils into fuel)

and the burial grounds

(where shall they go, do they know?)

and the henge

of standing stones