The stream (all workshops)
To you who who have searched and did not find
we are one
To those who have been lost
we are one
To you who through searching for love have
lost your identities to a ruthless society
we are one
to you who you would rather ignore
tommorrow call
we are one
To you who lost herself on the pavements of happiness
To those who found a haven in the arms of now ,
we are one
There is a home for us ,there has to be.
Relax and enjoy, believe you.....me
while the plumes waft up through the air;
you quickly will find,
complete peace of mind,
erasing each primary care.
There's two ways to ingest this plant
baking will entice one to "teethe";
but other than that,
hold onto your hat!
Because then, all one must do is breathe.
Whenever I go to my cabinet
I not only think of myself;
I remember the "lot",
of friends that I've got,
and I decide we deserve the top shelf.
I've created scenarios around my eventual death,
sometimes a swan-like Camille in her finest performancec,
sometimes a fistful of shout like Eleni, "for my children".
I know nothing for sure, and each day
brings me to the cold rapture of sky--
Basho's poem and its scorpion sting.
Dying into this. Dying into this.
Splash.
Flip out life's begun
when you're seventy one,
nothing's "not done,"
you can eat how you like, wear what you like,
if you like,
kick all the traces, go out on a binge,
roll all around in the bed,
there's no one to scold
because you're so old,
all the powers that be are now dead.
Horizon
II
this
\
fix
/
to
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mind
/
of
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heap
/
steep
\
this
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up
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way
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the
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make
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once
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All somber, those who stand around
this wound cut deep into the ground
beside a box so square and stout
as if they fear you might get out
but from this casket there's no sound.
The preacher murmurs on unheard.
My attention's fixed upon a bird,
a hawk soaring nearly out of sight
within a sky so clear and bright
as if nothing special had occurred.
After moribund years of misery
An exerting care cautiously put
To seek fellowship in the sanctuary
And rest my burden with open door
A querying way asked the why
Not obliged to give a try
But for the gratitude and respect
Troubled self bereft of answers
For the tools to tackle the mundane
cargo lithe
this spirit flesh
evolution
excites like a winter surge
rakish falls the day behind
drab torn fountian clouds
cold and pallid
pour the fire from decanters
throat
and let slip ambrosia
passage
Tottensonnetag
let night find us
drowsy with angel touch
let the black winged wind
play its orchestra
and the moon shall ferry
the lost
When men were somewhat odeivorious,
a little less carnivorous,
softer and more chivalrous,
poetry had it's day.
Women then, were swayed by this,
upon such poets, plied their kiss,
which sent them into poets' bliss;
oh those days are surely missed!
In the closet now we hide.
Abandoned is our poets pride.
We now hold it all inside,
lest they catch us as we cry !
I love you
only because angels have wings
and death is too heavy to carry
the remembering,
we fly
you and I,
old soldiers clashing now and then
on the battlefield of perception,
fucking age from our bodies,
wild with monsoons, cherry blossoms
and the savage moon
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