the mission

To provide a forum for the intersection of spirit and art - a place to share what creations we must manifest to continue living in a meaningful way.


I'm open to what develops here - poetry, fiction, non-fiction, images, videos, quotes, insight - mainly looking at this blog as a record or shared diary in a spirit of playfulness and inspiration....mental froth, mind's eye materialization, and life songs lost and found.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

~ little climb to a plateau, a running spirit on a high mountain plain ~

A little music jam that I caught on video last weekend.
James is on mandolin and I'm playing the tabla...

Thursday, January 20, 2011

The Key part 4

His mind had a lizard tongue, a flicker that was bright red and licked randomly, speedily and with a lisp of silence. When he was tending bar inside the colossal tree stump, he wore casual beige pants held up by red suspenders over his bright green lizard skin of perpetual goosebumps. He was a bony gecko man, a bartender with connections, a listener and a storyteller by trade, ambition and fortune.

“Set me another pint, ‘bro -there,’” the glass thumping on wood woke Karl up from a lucid dream that was a good start to his day.

“Whatchoo restin’? Jobs! Beer, dummy!” Karl never once had a boss he liked.

As he lifted his head off the wet bar, his drool spilled freely down and hit the skeleton key hanging off the hemp rope around his neck. “What the..?” Karl thought his most common thought.

“That dream was awesome,” he realized, staring blankly at the clammy customer and then down at himself and the stained suit he wore. He’d been a way cooler bartender in the dream. The morning sun came through the hotel’s front window and hit the good feeling in him that the dream had left.

“Yeah bro, there’s a beer for ya.” He poured and set down for the clam.

His overnight rest, the dream and the sunshine allowed him some happiness and clarity. She, the Sneer, was no better than he was and here he was with a job, a job and a dream to start the day. “When a young man has dream like that, nothing can stop him,” Karl thought, steadying his hands on the bar.

Not that it was a dream like a goal, he couldn’t much pursue being a lizard bartender inside a tree of misfit patrons, or could he? Ha ha, no matter. He fingered the key and took a deep breath. Despite his earlier confusion misplacing it, finding it, trying to swallow it (embarrassing!), the key was his security; he would always have a place to stay at Grandma Anjie’s, even if the tea was laced. He'd have to tell Josh about the dream. He took out his cell.

“Yeah, had some problem getting the mix, can we just party at the bar?” Josh said.

“Dude, the party was last night, man, what happened?”


“Yeah, what? Hey, I’m having a breakthrough here, man.”

“You mean good or bad?”

“Dude, let’s have a meeting, I’ve got the key still.”

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

The poet's drive

If I asked you for a poem,

Would you tell me where to go?

Inspire me through forests

On highways lined with snow?

Would you race me out into the field

Of all that matters here?

Surprise ourselves, collect our lives

Retire from our fear?

Would you tell all your friends

That you and I are near?

Are you a guide, are you a source,

A sorcerer or seer?

Romantic visions clear my head

And offer me a beer

I steer myself around the world,

A headlight caught in deer.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Thursday, January 6, 2011

At Camp Artaban

Sun-warm savored, mellowing
my half-sleep, provoking dream.
Wooden dock, waving ocean
all warm and relaxed to extreme.
I have nowhere to go, nothing to do,
no business amongst the trees.
My back is not bent, the wind is not spent
and like me it has noone to please.
Exhilerated solace, lapping laughter reassuring,
The world is peaceful alone,
Distant, constant, turning.
The shade in my head, a soft tidal bed,
Sorting sediment soul,
The contented sun sighs and starts to set
Towards tomorrow’s goal.
The waves do leave and the leaves they wave
in their vitreous, twilighted way,
Ash of campfire falls,
Day we give away.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Rider at the End of Time (I Ching Fiction)

He was ancient.

His clothes, deeply creased, sunbleached and sandblasted leathers, a horsehide language, an extension of his own corporeal barrier - a wide brimmed hat struggling to maintain its identity, long coat, chaps, gloves and boots – all mingling and blending – a further skin, taken, to shield from the dry, piercing erosion of sun, wind, and sand.
He spat before raising his scarf over his nose, put his boot in the stirrup and raised himself up onto the horse. Two hours of pre-dawn until the sun would crest over the hills to the east, and another day of hiding from an unbearable sun would begin.
A night of searching soon over– searching for others like him in this time without history stretching beyond human memory….and yet he pushed on each night the same – a code chiselled into his blood urged him on – the fuel of hope had long ago evaporated – this was a primitive knowing – that to survive is also to connect – it remained a restless need to move, to travel in a direction across a vast seared expanse devoid of vegetation and life…save for the north facing ravines where plants grew, and the nights when insects and rodents – food – returned to the surface world. He did not use words anymore – if he did think, it was not with the chatter of words, but with gesture and effort, a thought long as a day. He no longer gave attention to hunger and thirst, the desire for comfort was but a flicker.
And yet, there was one thing, there was one solace, a place that kept the words for him, inside his coat, a breast pocket where sat a a binded collection of pages – covered in the same stained and worn leather he wore over his body.
He removed it rarely from its place to open and look upon, but when he did the strings of shapes within conjured forth lucidity from his wooden disposition of mind. It changed him – like water to a dehydrating animal – replenishing cells and blood and feeling. But really, it was company – it had been so long since he had been touched by another.

Upon its cover it read…”To the Sons and Daughters, born beyond the Kali Yuga.”
With the sun now up, he retreated to a rocky gully, where he lay on the ground in the shadows next to his horse.
He touched the book to his forehead, then opened it randomly and read from the brittle pages….

FU – the Return.

Deviations from the path of good are inevitable.
The movement is cyclic, the course completes itself.
After a time of decay comes the turning point.
Persevere quietly on the path.

Depend not on your ambition.

Recognize errors, correct them, and there will be no misfortune.

A wrong attitude prevents the return to light. Opportunity wasted returns very slowly.”

The rider returned the book to its womb-like pocket, and lay his head against his resting horse, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

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