A Single Signalling

I and It may not be monstertruck obvious
But like a catspurr can spur you through a thunderstorm
Or a night, Or origami maybe might
Amaze you in new ways for focus, and sight–
.
A single signalling;
A child of eleven
On a church swing
Offers “You’re funny”,
I’ll take it as honey
On manna from heaven.
.
The world’s love’s not worth leaving, all in all.
Mine’s a frontline free for all an’
It’s Mercy itself inside all this breathing.
An air strike has been called in
And tear gas’ got me weeping.
.
Same as a mammoth
Dropping to his knees
(I’ve seen it from my cave),
Or, a sweet whale sweating and letting go
Off the side of his seas,
Too far off from saving wave,
Or, one wheelchair child really feeling
Enough in him, not his flesh,
To reach especially hard
To a high gardenia.

Adaption

Ink can slip onto and stain a page
I think it can permeate a world around
it that can see it then re-see it new
and adapt it to the stage.
The symbals clash, the lights rush up. Both astound
A staring crowd. So start up yr. casual
stroll from the wings, not forgetting yr. casual
role

shackled in full moon's shadows

if my bloody feet
work the way
up my path as they
might, come day,
.
these falls, this stumbling,
All before my Moonlight
would be humbling
with goodly reason.

One Warning

It’s not only at night
One ought to be quiet
So as not to .startle
A sleepwalking man
.
So you stay still
Mostly I still do
I wouldn’t awaken
A sleepwalking man
.
He’s steering past scenery
He’s deaf to the dreadful din
It’s as if imbedded in him
An old ghost holes up
And mostly he still goes
All lost.
He’s explosive
World wrecking
But mostly he’s expecting
All lost.

I'm Going On No Moon

I’m going on no moon. And no one
Made me any offers. Tell Tale signs stay silent.
It’s gonna simply empty out,
This night, right to its residue.
It’s gonna spill out again as fountains do.
But wishing wells replenish
W/shiny pennies/ Pitched prayers cheap,
Bright as church bought candles.
.
Night wants a way with you.
It stews, but
I do see hidden handles.
You gotta know when to get out,
You go inside and light lanterns.
You gotta know which trail to see clear
To see clearer
Nocturnal patterns.
.
(lit lanterns surely must lure lost angels
it matters to turn first to conference then
all our eyes on the one sunrise)

There was this swift swirl of street leaves
That left him lifting his head, just a moment.
He witnessed nothing that would stand
As an assessment of all this movement.
.
All that’s just dust
Against the Presence
Of swirls of uncertainty.
ever-present whirls of worry work to sort it out.
He’ll re-address the best intent,
Just muster efforts to sort it out.
.
.
.
“CANCER(June 22-Aug. 22)
Aspire to achieve great focus
and concentration. Do this not
because it proves what a power-
ful person you are, but because
staying involved in your projects
and endeavors is better than
spinning out into worlds of
worry.”
THIS MORNINGS HOROSCOPE

Sam Shepard/ Patti Smith Books Report

If you do like me and you sometimes see that you’re waistdeep immersed in a coupla books simultaneously
I’ll recommend two (2) that in some way complement each other. On some level they work, next door, for me.
Artist/performer Patti Smith’s “Just Kids” is a sweet memoir and a tribute, I think, to her soul partner, the late Robert Mapplethorpe. I say sweet because Patti’s voice is soft & clear throughout, its tenderness pervades her storytelling and her passions for things spiritual (Art, Music, God). Her courage to leave her loving family home without nearly enough money to go to NYC and to brave the obvious challenges for a new start there. Her quest to make it as an artist and the creative heights it may lead her to, will demand much for her climb.
She’s resilient, courageous, passionately faith-filled, and tender. You root for her, and Robert.
.
Another approach..not defined enough to root for..another journey is artist/performer Sam Shepard’s “Day Out Of Days”. Sam’s voice undercurrents his prosaic tales as he wanders America’s not-so-well-known highways, 2 lane blacktops, less beaten paths. The characters that use them, like the author himself, are characters indeed.
Instead of Patti’s exalted & reverential renderings of a majestic world where young artist gods stumble into a future where something/anything can happen…Sam is one hardened cynic, one stoic watcher of human folly and devastation around him (including the guy in the mirror). He eloquently tells his short troubled tales (nightmares almost) with too few words that expand & expound on too much. His dismal, beautiful glimpses raise many questions, while raising consciousness.
One book is fueled by a cool hope, another by a warm hopelessness. These two authors, in another world, another time…fiction & non-fiction, primal female & male spirit, just might had found their opponents attractive, as I have.