When dreams come true

Something really fascinating to note... About ten years ago I had a really strange dream where I was following a line of people through fog through parked planes on a flightline. I was stressed because I was in civilian clothes, and I started wandering into 2 dark hangers trying to find a uniform. Then, the line of people disappeared and I was walking through the planes in the silent fog trying to find out where the people I was with had gone.I had always remembered the dream bc it was so vivid, but had not thought of it in years. When I disembarked and in civilian clothes following a long line of people walking through the fog it came back instantly, it was the exact place. This time I did not look for my uniform, although I'm blown away. Not the first time this has happened but it surprises me every time.

It is interesting that I've been here before at least in a dream state...

Summer 2014

I will not become just another casualty of war 

I will take this fallen diadem

Pluck out each precious stone

I will drop them in a bag

Carry it next to my heart.

Then release that crown 

Bent and twisted in the road

The worst pain is that of loneliness. Absence. Lack. I feel it in my stomach.

I have achieved a heart of sadness.

Maybe its good to wander back in...

Hey, it's been awhile... I'll take a little bit to get going, but I'll get there.

The other day, I nearly stepped on this bird as I got out of the car.
She was huddled in gutter, swaying in the cold current from a summer shower. I went back inside to grab a towel and try to save her; upon my return 30 seconds later, she fell over. I was horrified when I realized she had died.

I think the photo captures the linear aspect of the finite world and the great sadness that afflicts us all. When we touch the authentic heart of the world, it hurts, even if it's beautiful.

Something Wicked and Sometimes Good

I wanted to write something beautiful and wild,
Something true,
A sentence with an original face,
Words like angled stones
Sharp edged, chipped from newest ground.

I wanted to write something never before written,
Like when God stood in darkness vast
Spoke the original word:
It was a puncture wound in space,
A first, creative and primal sound.

I wanted to write something that was almost impossible to achieve,
That yearning that we can't express but all of us feel,
The mortal wound that aches in fading light.

Something torn from the soul of the world
But without blood-
To see all of it at once and survive,
To look upon the face of God and not die.
As if existence itself was a flower
A blossom that we could see:
Then I would seize it by the stem and pull it up
From its long root whole
The earth would still cling.

I know it is wrong to desire,Let alone desire this.

To let emotion rage, To free the Nagas
The demons of wild and ravenous fire.
To want something so badly
That we strike it down.

To fall from burning heights of blistered blue
A Hawk that hurtles to a hapless target,
A bullet fired from a speeding gun,
An explosion that obliterates both
Pursuer and the pursued,
A maelstrom of mingled feathers.

Forsaking stealth,Swift ripple of a lion's biceps and triceps
The curling rhythm of its back
As in hungry bounds that eat the ground
Un-poised and unleashed to sudden speed
It becomes the impact of a ton of hardened tissue,
A living locomotive that is flung
A rock from a catepult
A self directed arc of mass + velocity:
Teeth and outstretched knives
Muscle-corded bone
Verb that consumes a noun

The collision of an iron anvil with fragile sticks robed in fur.
A single instant,
The deer crumples to the ground.

But for you a metaphor:

A metal bat through a wine-glass,
Deconstructed crystal
Seen frame by frame in slow motion.

The tiger that hunts in a grove of bodhi trees,
The Eagle with talons
That wings through halls of gleaming stars,
Yet, in this massacre
This possession and this pain,
There is a measure of Satori,
A flicker of the divine flame.

The reaching hand of a bright-eyed god
A fist that held a flaming torch
And slung it towards the earth.

On the mountain in the coldness,
His body as it writhed in chains;
A liver that bled,
An eagle's black and staring eye
Its bloody beak.

Through pain,
He saw the world.
He saw that it was wicked,
Yet that also there was good.

There was the flower,
The dangling root.
Pain,
Ecstasy.
He saw this,
He closed his eyes.
There were no words.
There was nothing he could say.

I wanted to write something beautiful and wild,
Something true,
A sentence with an original face,
Yet I could not find the words.

So I wrote about it's shadow,
I traced a silhouette instead.

Still kicking...

Still kicking? Hell YES!

Death to all tyrants!


The struggle continues!

The Happy Prisoner

He sat in a tower
A blank pad
With a pen in hand
An empty room
With a window into blue.

There was nothing.
Even the sun which shone
It did not reach his corner
And the smell of the wind in the wheat
It passed the tower by
While the river flowed around foundation stones
He sat in silence while silent walls stared.

But then,
A sound of wings
White feathers
A dove that flew and gently landed
Perched upon the window sill,
Turned her head and cooed.

The sky was still a wide expanse
The room was empty like before
And the wind still circled round
But as he sat
He smiled
He bent over writing
The sound of pen on paper.

The man he wrote
Looked and listened,
The dove was there

Perched upon the window sill,
Turned her head and cooed.