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
soon 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
victimized by unworthy tomes

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

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

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


Three women of wisdom departed from Gal-veston
bearing insight, learning scars plus a large dose of mirth
Their destination?
So would it be north of the Ganges?
Or south of the Pecos?
Well, they never were much into following, directions or otherwise
For anyplace was now truly their place
Or soon would be
Paris, Texas truly being Paris, France in the heart

These daughters of the American Revelation had quieted their internal fires
no more emulation of The Furies
Not that they would ever go gently into that good night.
Their newly adopted modus operandi:
polish their rough edges of survival,
continue seeking truths despite its varieties and beckoning detours
answer the conundrum why karma is always a bitch and never a bastard.

After enlightening the Four Horseman into turning the other cheek
by choosing to instead rep Win-Win, Peace, Cornucopia and Everlasting Life
the trio entered the modest state of Whimsy, population: depends on the day and time
A few denizens milled about.
One, a forlorn carpenter crossed the road in front of them
distributing cards reading “I build bridges, not fences.”
A slovenly lawyer turned and addressing no one in particular asked:
“where might I find the court of public opinion?”
In the corner cafe, the literati argued fervently over the divinity of the Brothers Grimm versus the Sisters Bronte,
This certainly was not Kansas.

One street over, the wise trio noticed a burned out hulk bobbing out in the water
Ambling past free range fruit pickers, a gnarled man shuffled towards them
He said, “I am Noah and some say I failed miserably
I faithfully acquired two of each but with ‘don’t ask, don’t tell, how was I to know?
Nowadays, I meander about awaiting further instruction, grabbing thunder in order to quiet the constellations.”

But a little past due, scarred voices rang into the heads of the threesome
these cries and whispers unrecorded in history books,
vocal eruptions of scorching terror and fear,
plaintive outbursts from humanity’s collective unconscious,
these were debts of horror neither dollars nor words could repay or repair
burdens borne by the innocent.

Soon, over the ridge crept a wagon train sporting a skeleton crew
From it came an overpowering vibration of cosmic energy
A townsperson pointed and quietly mouthed Truth or Consequences”
But what did that mean?
It actually was more a statement:
Those exhibiting predatory predilection
secular or otherwise
would be rendered into a void
a suspension into everpresent miasma
before eventually returning as those they harm
unless and until getting right with the purpose of life.

Facing the wagons, the women spoke in harmony:
“There is no glory in bombs bursting in air or any rockets’ red glare.
For this we know, the very hard way.
We have heard you are of true emancipation.
and not another corrosive ball and chain that poisons the magic”

There was no audible response.
The crocuses continued their dawn-to-dusk interpretive ballet
Caterpillars sang and butterflies barked
The wise trio continued: “What guides us?
Enlightenment as a springboard towards grace”

All remained silent
Then a puff of white smoke emerged from the lead wagon
The women said “yes, we were once but now are not who you seek”
That they weren’t.
Because, nevertheless, they had persisted.


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 cast 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