Bridges
We can stop now, we are not deluded, not that story, it is not the main theme. We don’t need to fulfill anything else; we are bridges over the creek, we have been shown more, and ¿to what end, if all those stage lights were not for us to bask in? No, we’ve recapped, passing through a tunnel of thrills and goose bumps, fleeting passions immersed in philosophies, until they mellowed, settling into us for certain. We can stop now; this is not our stage. We’re the tunnel, a passage, a bridge hanging over a ravine; an invisible network of comm lines, waves that work gently, prompting, coaxing, while all hell breaks loose. Let’s halt our fidgeting, without frustration or wallowing; let us tell all, say it like it’s been, and allow that story to do the sacred work we’ve been entrusted with. We are not the romantics of old, but always hopeful in His works; not delusional, but imagination has converted our soul. We’ve been bathed in more than a half century recap, we are the direct line of transformation. Stop your worry, we are already in place, between time frames, generations. We can sit still and speak our original kind of diplomacy with a cup of tea. Our message will resound even if unnoticed today; the song took years to be fully finished, and it shall take plenty more to be heard. A hanging bridge, we sway gently over a deep ravine, being the work. Someone will hear the song and eventually want to cross, be sure of it, and let that be your faith.
Vulture Speak
Not enough anymore to wait for perfect timing, the outcome presses in the mirror, crow’s feet, tired eyes, and we must get back on route, but doubt sticks to the background, circling like those desert raptors outside. What else is vulture trying to convey? He’s been present along our travels for a few years now; a common species, ancient and wise. Something to do with carcasses left on the road, from a way of living in previous paradigms of progress, success, and pleasure. Carcasses of places and games taken too far, for too long. I see people decay as they live, their bodies dragged by consumerism, instant gratification. I see excess, people mesmerized back to the animalistic, driven by blunted senses, from so many additives and experience enhancers. Vultures hover, circling, like they’re waiting for a known outcome, but I do not know how to wait without looping into my own: craving total freedom from a system already in place. I see players seeking advantage, suited up in opportunism; slaves to the next best thing rush by, going nowhere new. Remnants of glories past seem so silly, now that less has proven to be so much more. I wish for our safe passage, an opening that´ll get us to our true land, of red earth, clay, and master weavers; heat and underground cool, protection enriched by soul. Visionaries of new days, foundational, mystical songs, and stone temples carved by the wind. Spirit of vulture, teach us now how to ride the thermals and soar.
Inklings of a New Creature
Memoirs of power dribble down the rear mirror; it rains. Reminders of a recent past, of duties upheld, contracts signed, unspoken promises, inheritance of protection, while we watch the world outside unravel; a command to nurture the connections made with those stewards of the machinery, the great providers, the decision makers, the game masters; at all costs. Don’t mind the back door and the one silouette standing at the threshold of farewell; the end has come to what we did to secure our standing, the intricacies of control. A hand ushers to close it shut, for good; the ways of power to come are a new breed unheard of, and they have no use for brain strategy and sleepless nights. Reminders languish on the rough outskirts of ugliness, stretching for miles; meanwhile, the telltales about wealth glisten on the streets as symbols of joy, the next big thing smiles broadly, and the road to success has its own advertisement. An old energy calls out on the radio to retrace our steps into nostalgia, they want us back, they preach: our previous order should tame your confusion. But we know better now, and won’t be fooled; they only makes things worse with each try. We’ve changed, the door is almost closed, power suffered a metamorphosis and is barely coming out of itself, trying to understand its new, softer body. Don’t let them in, they won’t understand! The creature breathes, frail still in its newborn tenderness. Let us watch over it, nurture the new ways of power embodied, our hearts animated in wakeful presence as it takes it’s first steps; let us wait in the potential of fresh observation and witness our fullness, a creature in bloom.
Summon
Black angel came to do his bidding, to a soul he didn’t know, a kind he’d never tried. He took the gamble, with not a thing to lose in the vacuum of his chest: the poor creature had shut off the light and summoned amnesia. An alien of this planet, he pretended to understand, unsure of what to do, so I shone a light for him to make it all believable, until I had to point elsewhere. He spasmed, shook, unable to stand alone in his peculiar nature. He began compulsive calculations, came up with all sorts of numbers, descriptions, and reasons; could not comprehend his part in our world, as he came from one where mirrors didn’t exist. He’d ever seen himself in other eyes, in love’s open countenance. He pleaded for others to urge the shadows away, but no one’s help would do. I explained to him that my flashlight points to what can reflect even more, for all our sakes, but he cannot grasp that. He’ll have to live the inversion he summoned, where vacuum consumes all light. Now, I let him wander the void and maybe choose to remember… or not. I let him search for the faintest echo in the dead of silence, let him understand there is one path back to grace. A wide path, but one only, where you summon the light in.
Sleepwalkers
They’ve been noticed, now defined outside this room, the same he took the liberty of stripping of anything that didn’t make sense. He points to the sleepwalkers, dead energy that keeps running a program, and I wonder if they have an inkling, the here I go again voice in the back of their head. ¿Or do they live the scene fully, each and every time? It was the smugness in their eyes when they told the story; overcast sky iris, dark circles under eye, waning crescents. Not to fear, the door is closed, shut secure -he assures. Yet they walk on my property. I didn´t mind so much before, but now it´s beginning to be unacceptable, almost unbearable, since Pluto whispers ever so intimately. He shows me forms of energy in reverse: cold electricity, when life discards fragments, cells, and membranes it won’t need to continue. He shows me the mysteries of charisma in reverse: a facade on the dark side of the Sun; a masking of light from darkened characters, gripped by misfortune, while an audience delights, basking in the cool charm of a sleepwalker who pretends to be fully awake and vigorous. I must ask now, ¿is our greatest virtue as humans the mastery of enactment, the art of delivering lines? -I utter And he says yes, we are grand at it, so much, we forgot we made it all up to cover the fact. What fact? The fact of humiliation. And if they do wake for moments, when the gifts of random inspiration penetrate the shell by surprise, those jupitarian rays of elation, the venusian comforts of beauty, I can see the basic child left behind, until the tissue closes off again and is back to the program, back to circling the yard, telling the story, repeating their lines. And then he says it, -time for complete removal.
No Analogues
Written prose, verse, choosing beauty, upholding value, creating my life.
Marred
Short piece, written prose, shadow self; integrating shadow, the other as mirror.
Chatter on the Moon
Short form prose; Moon conjunct Mercury; getting lost in a sea of information; losing oneself to the noise of the world or the inner chatter; as above so below.
Casino Lady
Short piece of written prose on lady luck, human folly, the illusion of control, coming to terms with luck’s whims, learning to play the game.
The Ball, a prayer for January
Short piece of written prose; prayer, learning to receive, mastering abundance, overcoming fear, lack mindset.