The Continuum

From a simple loving act
the three seasons passage
a consciousness unleashed
unique,  unlike no other that will ever be

Tabla rasa
said, done, felt, thought
existence ripples in infinite reciprocation
as life’s communion transforms and transfigures

Beware the insidious siren song of self
exacting penance at the innumerable stations of the cross
but beckon not the weary spirit nor the calloused heart
to our leased vessels and transitory costumes

Polish the inner mirror–the revelation of insight
change takes but an instant–the dance of metamorphosis
the promise of providence blossoms outside the fortresses of our fears
that distant glimmer below the exalted and above the woe

Such salvation is our constant north star
as we slave in our pilgrim’s progress
but our journey need not be a labor of Sisyphus
for the pathways are many on destiny’s spectrum

Weave a gentle fabric of sustenance
nurture love as your redeemer
for it is the most powerful sanctuary
in harvesting the transcendent self

A Christmas Ditty

Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the manger
about to appear on earth
was the Holy Roman danger

The moment finally arrived
he emerged all red and rude
without finery and crown
but bursting with attitude

He loved the vagabond life
for which he was truly ordained
a fisher of women and men
and a vintner when he deigned

Most were not disturbed
by this rouser of the few
but bulls and bears feared him
the priesthood and neo-cons too

So they worked up the Romans
calling in chits and favors
the press jumped right in
on this most holy ‘hater’

He was added to watch lists
deterred by no-caravan-zones
his conversations recorded
the victim of unworthy tomes

A drone watched his bearings
a smear campaign designed
he’s not one of us or ours
a mantra devoutly un-divine

Shipped out to Guantanamo
President Pilate not of his fans
“the dark side’s not my doing”
as he verily washed his hands

Crucifixion has many platforms
hate fed by numerous fuels
sadly money and power prevail
when riling those who actually rule


Three women of wiseness barreled out of Sapphos
each bearing incense and mirth
Their destination?
North of the Ganges
Or was it south of the Pecos?
Well, they never were much into following constellations
For anyplace was their place
Paris, Texas being Paris, France in the heart

They had quieted their internal fury
and viewed it all now as some sort of skewed cosmic joke.
Not that they would ever go gently into that good night.
Their newly adopted modus operandi:
polish the rough edges of survival,
make no effort at blending in,
one just was,
they just were,
no more discarding the story you are,
why cheat other passengers on the journey?

After riding roughshod over the creampuff Four Horseman of the Apocalypse
only the Self-Imprisoned Adherents remained as threats.
Its membership hardwired religious heathens sporting sharp incisors,
their mutant teeth honed on the body of Christ.

Just past Irony, the trio entered the state of Whimsy,
road signs welcomed gatherings of pessimists, armadillos and a secret sect involving glass jars
Just what kind of town was this?

A few denizens milled about.
A forlorn carpenter crossed the road, distributing cards reading “I build bridges, not fences.”
Winking, a slovenly lawyer turned and addressing no one in particular said:
“People of the jury, there being no court of public opinion” before stopping and scratching his head.
Under an elm tree, a dusty exhibit featuring Arthur’s sword stood alongside an anvil for sale.
The literati argued over the divinity of the Brothers Grimm versus the Sisters Bronte,
This was not Kansas.

A little past due, the mists of Avalon appeared on the horizon,
as scarred voices rang into the threesome’s heads,
cries and whispers unrecorded in history books,
vocal eruptions of scorching terror and fear,
outbursts from the human collective unconscious,
these were debts of pain neither dollars nor words could repay or repair.

A blurry stick figure appeared overhead, it’s mouth in a grin speaking, “the fleet is in, go cause some holy hell.”
Mary Magdalene, bruised and bleeding, shuffled by
heading to or coming from a sea of sin
Pharisee sycophants sounding her approach with a warning bell.

Moving on, the wise women encountered a large, burned out hulk bobbing in the water
Dodging pookahs and pixies, a gnarled man shuffled towards them
“I am Noah and some say I failed miserably
I faithfully tried for two of each but with ‘don’t ask, don’t tell, what was I to do?
Nowadays, I meander about awaiting further instruction, grabbing thunder to quiet the heavens.
There is no glory in bombs bursting in air or any rockets’ red glare. For this I know.”

An empty wagon train appeared on the horizon and stopped
From it came a vibration of galactic energy, call it Soul’s Law.
The definition: all exhibiting predatory predilection are rendered into the void.
Suspended in a timeless purgatory,
banished to another part of the multiverse,
a yellow lit miasma of static state internal wilderness,
doomed to return, upon relenting, as those they detest
until getting right

Facing the wagons, the women spoke in harmony and misinterpretation:
“Our desire is to hold you harmless so hear us out before your action of carnage seals your fates.
Is your faith one of actual emancipation?
Or a corrosive ball and chain spoiling the magic?
The foundation of belief is best if poised as a springboard towards grace.
All we seek is the earthly manna that succors spiritual hunger.
We are not the meal you seek.
We were once you.”

That they weren’t but would be in time.


The Koch Boys own some on the Supremest of Courts
with the rest of the majority, it’s wink and flirt
as for governors, senators and representatives all
it’s a brown nose affair of beck and call

Theirs a purchase protection racket at very best
feathering crony capitalism’s burgeoning nest
greasing all manner of palm and ballot box
the duo a put-the-Borgias-to-shame poisonous pox


Oh, they’ll drown you and call it a baptism
draw down your lifeblood and say it was a gift
make you Sisyphus with boulders ever growing
then nonchalantly aim you over the cliff

With ideas unable to succeed on merit alone
having to rig the system throwing monetary bones
these welfare kings with a slakeless thirst
boost a patriotism of their bottom line first

Terrorists who destroy with their wallets
blithful witnesses to the calamities they knit
proposing 30 pieces of silver as a start
keeping their hands clean if not their hearts


Their enterprise now passes for civics genteel
warping reality into what is full-fledged surreal
just what will they utter on their beds of death
a making of amends or damn full speed ahead