Tag: plainsong

Intrepid Voyage 1996

Beth

Thrice magestus

Hermes of Octune

Tragedy of Neptune

Dithering crystalline fractures

Universal ascendancy

Plane thwart nuclear fission

Fusion semblance

Tz mantic

Ars magnifica emantic

Neotic

Light in extension

Origami rapacity

Bachelor press

Dinosaur brains

And nervous systems

Four church modal

Conjuncts in the stellar apparatii

Vigor of cuneiform figures

At transcept oritan en fret

Cant etiology of crook and flail

Intercalary periods

Fugue of accidental

Interest

Sidhe

Grange

Kirk

Irony in benefit

Placards

Tocsins

Shingles

Golden store

Atu the acorn

Ancestry-bone

Genealogy-skin

Church of modality

Projection

Extension

Extrapolation

Exhibition

Lengths

33 By the dinosaur

130 Bone

365 Tale full of

1077 Aberations

Binary code

Movement in the Mercabic

Oxymoronic quark

Movements by precept

In 10’s 100, 10, 1, etc.

Or else no movement

Represented by zero

Inducing contraband

In verisimilitude of a range

With just such surity

Of bow and sultry in the realm

Of a mass transcends purity

The host becoming the flesh and the blood

Mother’s mass

Report

Enterprise

Oluricular imprendarius

Declination en esque

Agwire Mira lay a lay

Ta wins na sa boot fit

It goes by coot and root

Daily to meet its ends

Traveling Blues Concordance

Too many shoes to wear out on the street. Leaves the foot of your good old king sore and travel worn. To get back in the swing of things the horses are saddled. The rye canting song of jim chiminy has outside the post to get another matter on by. The rider gets to its righteousness and the woman and children race with the rabbit and the egg.

Numer, letre, and tone. These have the heights of sky and the depths of a sundry perversity to beat the time. A betting game of telephone booths. Run in leery eyed contests of a hampered van. Levee the draft in the cogitations of missed busses and lay back trains. Make romantic a windy beach with the augur of a lucred wreck. Traipse in ragtail siminy throughout the diurnal period.

Learn the ropes of the terrestrial condition. Rein in the horseplay of racing coursers. Lead the march beneath the pale moon of an early days meander. Look back high and low for that sign that this is not dissolution in the lightness of fantasy. Take each round through the gate sans indulgence and be not unaccustomed to the passion play. The days will wax and they will wain. It is the Hyperborean commitment. A trip of cats in the ramble and row of concommitant relations. A pride of the ephemeral and chaste.

To growl pleasantly upon the hillock and berm. A respite’s pace for youngsters in the brood. Wresting the gracious harbingers’ their traps. That a lady may carry the way in bringing on the hungers of a panged heart. Identifying the longing of the church for the cross.

A halted line of workhorse. The road gear and swag of a traveling manage of concerts. All the wise and rye dalliances with the favorable Mrs. To brave the conduct of the tamers and wranglers of the equine boss. Work and play. Love and sustinence. Sleep and interaction.

The packing in and packing out of treasure and debris. To see the winding hill and bend in the wood for well cared after portions of the forested country. To identify the embellished retreat for its pleeched walls of bowery and Linden and to know that like a ship at sea all is not so well with the captain and his men.

The force of the spirit can fall disparately into the hands of the self loathing. What a horrible romance it is to get lost in drink. How uncertain our culture does become in trying to lay deception upon the generations. How to believe in those generations without forgeting the self. I think the selfless can be awfully needy people. And how may we forgive if the resurgence of past transgressions is the faulty laud of persons at the heel of our own shitty provender.

Back on the road and traveling enmasse. 1,2,3 maybe 4 periods within a system of lifetimes that I can remember living without the confines of a settled home. Seasonal or year round. The lights of heaven twinkle from the edge of a family fire. The circle of wagons gets the oily treatment for the squeaky wheel. The horses receive a pleasant tide of oats in a mash. The children linger after supper and as the men tap whiskey some marm of the householders’ begins in on a song or a story.

Like it or not the days pass much in the same way throughout the seasons. One might just complain or comment on the weather or local constabulary or even recently having been snubbed at suggestion of a romantic walk by a young woman decidedly in need of her space. No more to throw a mark at the rents. To have care for a little child so curious as to the maids whereabouts for moments beyond the easy feet that have that child only so far into his journey.

Likened in the vestures of life as may permit his taking to the floor to treat with another youngin or else one of the family dogs. These also limited in adherence to the rules of the caravan and knowing the bout of digression not worthy of the trust in there compassion as beasts of the friendly persuation. Also haply glad and attentive to the banter of the clandestined folk holing up in a pocket of the woods.

This for a week while waiting for a stock of supplies necessary to end a passage South to finish out Winter. Going to be near the seaside in warmer climes and within easy reach of the smoked fish. A meal known to be of a good sustinence and resource for their traveling ilk to at times feast on.

Glad to remember and glad to have been a part. Retired for now thinking sometimes on a new start. A little timey in the country, a little timbre sounding in town. The roads and the miles extend while the night camp circles the wagons round.

Magic, Spirit, Healing, Practice

Fear. Fear of death. Fear of the unknown. And the converse. Those things longed for, or sorrowed after or in so many ways more familiar found to overjoy.

Boo! Aaaah. Ooooh. Yes. Yes I see it now. The long walk up from posterity has found few paradigms that are willing to put it down again. It would seem the Sun was set on a skew wrapped in packing tape and then sent by the barrel like oil for sipping spoons to dole it back out at $100 a pop! Ah yes 👍 casterated oil, snake 🐍 oil, ketchup, patent goods and hairbrained ideas.

Is it beauty that escapes us in looking over? Do the various rites of passage deigned fit for youth at least give us time for a good glimpse at what that beauty provides. We are living longer. I can see in some sense that we are maturing slower. I can see much of the mass hobnobbing down the road. Itself staying mostly silent in it’s affections. And yet there it is also. Stumbling horribly when the gregarious nature of the Holy See at such times looks only to capture or encapsulate that mass for it’s own privy. It’s losing battle with the control principal forced out upon the Western beam.

The demiurge is a well acquainted romantic in the guise of man. Unfortunately having once or a few times seen the great beauty of the Universal and it’s accompanying dreams their is all to often that uninhibited want of the fool to try and ring the thing by the neck. Unfortunately.

The quavering breadth of aetherial space and it’s surround of the Earth is an entity of no uncertain persuation. Let Mother Nature be. Let her ways remain free of the constant need to turn her into a queen bee pumping out the flesh to be forced to survive on a limited planet of now diminishing resources. Let the vision be. But do not repeatedly ask for the weird or freaky when those things out of control do not belong in your direct means of manifestation.

The Earth and the Universal are physical in so many ways. But God and Mother Nature are not always involved in the matter to the same extent. Confusing this issue has literally put us behind the wheel of our own destruction. It would be a whole lot wiser if the roll call of the flesh were not so highly conceited by the want of power 💪 brokers to take control of everything that comes before them or happens to pass their way throughout the normal cycles of life and death in revolution of the heavens.

We are failing at this test of our spirits miserably. The more of a grip we need on the collar of earthlife and mankind the less coherent are we in our person and the more liable and inculpable we are in regards to those things that still remain out of our reach. Not to make that want of possession out to trespass. And not to further taint the remaining domains of regenerative Earth. Knowing not to entertain our jealousy and pride in going about always trying to divine the creative nature of life is a best practice.

It is simple enough to be thrilled at times by the nature of the world 🌎. While those things without a good nature are like a burden of the cross. Inanimate. Bent. Dark as a hole. And demanding the flesh for it’s perversity and it’s pilage.

The right to live a life of spiritual practice while making good on the surrounding environment is not all about the medium of exchange. The best measures to calculate by can usually be apprehended just by finding them where they happen to lay. And dark or macabre as you might think that ease is to be found in the grave. Not the body dead and packed away in a six-sided box with an appropriate tombstone kind of grave. But in regards to the heavenly bodies of the solar system, the Galaxy, and thus the Universe.

That meaning of the grave will bring us into time of being together with the likeness of our offspring and brethren. It will go so far as to open the gates of heaven. And it will keep the constitution of the body human nice and snug.

Still it is best to beware of strange tidings in that grave. Hold your own and try to stay safe when it comes to letting go. Of those things dross or unnecessary. Always coming up with the foment of tide in the washing of the many sands. Knowing them that are longing for respect and acceptance. And not to be disuaded by the crass handling of a medicine wheel bunch of drunken lunatics.

Faith to me seems the best approach to the unknown and yet that faith remain within the realm of possibility. Communication is a working kind of faith. Relate to one another in an honest means to convey what might simply be called wisdom or at least that it is sage.

Stories and reckoning are good. But so is the tradition of honor which does not always get spoken of lightly or in times of jest. For the better care of this planet and her children I would continue in the scale of this practice and make good on the peace of a peaceful community.

Stay fit and practice good health. Remember though to respect others if there wishes or means of keeping up that practice does not include those things outside their element and without their own good blessing way or a belief in a higher power. We are a familiar set of individuals whose own discretion will best bring each of us into the light of peaceful community and cohabitation. Beyond that the only ones we need control are our ourselves.

Open Contest 2000/02/05

Spit fire-open contest. And he in his attire has chosen to gather with the par event in horizon.

When will the Zepher attract its cohorts? How shall Ecumenicus return to the deft renown?

With a jiff of the trick. So up air hardy you’ll not rather have them sick.

Each with a one of his exhalations. Providing explanations. And the rippled speech of your common seer.

This I say has entendre closer to sense than any ultimatum my dear.

Over Field And Glen 1994/02/08

Run free with the wind in the fielded glen. Fast as a cloud with a few minutes over a valley to spend. Then rest beneath a few trees with hints of azure skies above the boughs. Or bathe in the cool of mountain streams during spring thaws. For such occurrences I bodily strive. Bound through nature’s eternal struggle with happenstance.

To keep my life I write, I sing. I fly as in a dream with birds on a wing. An augury of flight. Innocents of the night. With our lives like ritual and a foreboding sense of might. Where we will land to the predator there is given no clue. Simply a fact that this story continues later is true.

Join The Movement 1996/05/06

The time has come when I should join the movement. Thinking though my get up and go must have got up and went. Yet where? If I should care. Can this movement be?

If not standing beneath the gallows of a hangmans’ tree. Or as clouds high, born of tempest storming aloft the sea. I am here thinking. That it is a long road to instincting. If I have got to make this movement a part of me.

Warding off strife. Throughout my life. To live, love, and take a wife. With what else being rife. I want it shone. The way these thoughts into dreams are grown. Till our memories are honed. That each of us stands. With open hands. A member in the heart of gold band.

This movement, is it a tribe? Jah people, a revolutionary jibe. At the resting, souls of our earthly harmony. Telling what’s up. To each of us. You and me.

Change comes and we are on our own. Again protecting hearts from loath at what’s still ode. We’ve got to rise up singing. Having been brought low.

K

Kilimanjaro, Killington, the big K. Food as stepping to the big time. Skunked out. Goes further. On a VW microbus in the 70th reign of an old codger. Tramps and homebodies make exchange out of turnovers’ throe and the gauntlet of an idle caste into cold lounging Thebian Democrats.

Reading up on the precipitous designs of some Wintertime haunts. Slave papers of the Federalist broadside. Truth be knowing, or rather the persuasive glam disreputers of the qualm surfieting backdoor of proper sensibilities. Peradventure amongst the conquest of lies. Those suicidal trappings of almost or not quite good enough. Maybe you had better. So don’t try that again.

If the length of day in a given season’s countenance were to get down to business. Were to propitiate in the realm of constancy. Gave up the number of lost sheep to the sorrows of the shepherdess. With her spirits in ascension and the night offset by the relative darkness of unconscious knowledge. A way of precluding the alms satiety of being prepared by the wellness of sleep.

A manner of exercising in the house of dreams. Finding those functional and elavating nuances of the word and its relative frames of reference. Resulting in the accents and conditional quality of those terms patios and divergent. An open door to the daybreaking ahead.

The Eastern primacy of having gleened proper rest from the depth of field accomplished in an eight hours long bedstay. Drawn through quarters fit for dream reveries and lowdown decisiveness of consistency. The morning dew and those dramatic urges of the spiritual cast into the hourly sands making their way through the glass of a welcome night’s keeping.

When the day remits the progression of a rising Sun to the congress of what is a lot like kicking up the dust to make hazy the gathern light. Between blue morning and rosy Sunset the mind does tend to its weal. The body also must have needs gain its impetus. Extending welcome to those things of worthy exercise and the accomplishment of works.

Emotions on the side of the heart that turn the tide of physical constitution and earned completeness of an otherwise foundling figure. Also, to make a day out for the good and fulfilled, there is the quest of spirit. Be it a blessing of the Angels for their God or a recouperation of over exertion in the field of bodily rigorous and doubty awareness.

And of what does this stem? This mindfulness of those things advantageous and fruitful. Contemporary in the continued state of peace. Willingness determined by regularity of gait and foment of thoughts upon the sharing of the family tide. A moral aside and the rest of passive entities in the later days rank and file comprehension of those things learned by craft and given to care and by lore of rote.

I will save my chiding of the unresponsive diaspora for its own sake. Let the post know that there are refutations upon the score of the leaden weighted waters. That there is a scism and a stigma between the feats of Mother Nature and those unnatural tendencies to try and make propitiate an unyielding religion.

To worship a God in heaven to me seems the best way to surrender my soul to the rising and falling tide of a practice made out of prayer. Moving forward afield and very far in the daily processional of time and its capacity to make out the liberal turns of its touch with human agency.

Within this church of the earthly matters. This proud Mother of the legions of Earth. She is many faces of beauty and familiar discernment is her vast memory of the way things once were and how best they might also be brought to fruitfulness once again. By the limn and deskry of her peace, her nature, her clear ides of the middle path.

That is no onus. I say the mark of a fool cannot too long go without the notice of its parentage. If they in their role remain faithless know that the condition is really much worse. It is not truly that they are alack. It is really rather that they are a quire full of many consuming beasts.

Out of my earshot and ready to stop the presses until they and their paper tigers, their paper and fire, is just as quick mete with its remove. The word, you sense, is an old and humbled matter of typical things. The reason for liberty in its experience, for exercise in its creative measures, and for conclusion in the leading tones of its more impractical discords.

It avails all, none the less, in the simplist way to stem from praise, from fear, from experience, and from the storying tendencies of repeating its understandable means. By occasion and lesson and to a considerum at bouts with speech in making acclaims outright unto statements of desire and want of beauty. The commiserate levity bound in an incorrigible manner of a culumny to wit. Baubles of that which betides in the carolous fallacies of too much to go by.

The futile judgements of prayer. The tried over and crass notion that what becomes is at best a state of the estranged and lucky. The beat and the dread. The devil and his folly. Mi thinks a ring like that is hands down shared by the many over the few. The parallel against the spoil of loath. A lord beknownst unto sound commitment of conscious, current, and glad triage of days. Port of call and beck of downs respite lacking dodge.

Within the realm of most folks the ‘raison de etre’ is a unique concept. It becomes clearer when one realizes, when one is coaxed, when one is taught the understanding that we have a good hand in our own fate. That we are not bent, that from birth on any progressively inclusive means of raising our spirits and our children and ourselves out of the primordial soup of time manifested and life encapsulated instancy.

A system of relating one to another or in a group setting a cast of players in the guise of costume preparing and acting out the nature and elavating the notions of a determined and estelliate sense of meanings. Through the agency of its players in the most capable manner of an acquired practice.

We are not alone in our cosmic interplay of good times and hard fate. We are simply being taxed by the efforts of those others whom will not just take care to take care of themselves and out of the business and livelihood of a regular and empassioned crewe of conceivably infinite beings.

Whether we are looking straight to our fore or we have compromised our situation. Must we be bid our remove at least? This unto the general condition of consensus values. That it can be ellucidated upon and we can believe in the ability to think for ourselves. Let us seek out confidantes and have the need for a mutually resciprosperous call to respect ourselves and others in an equal and well tempered conservation. Called for as our very same individual and personally attributive existences can go on and continue to prove to be true unto ourselves, our loved ones, our community and the nation.

World renown is best left to the ages. The tide of folklorico in the histrionics of a plaintive tadoo. Given to the muse and welcome unto the uprising of youth. Gerrymandering of the suit. A gilded splinter left haywire. Finding relief only in those same sands of time that the hourglass itself remains to continue to behold.

Cantus Abilis

The shade, the winning link. The one that the presses chose to go by. Whether a lemon still belongs in the tree or is it now got for the white picket fence as well. Taking part in a long and ornately drawn series of parades. There in the flight zone of the aviary and the walker of clouds. With the amalgam and the parlor fan. The frequent restitution of query.

The choice to be dishonest. To what purpose and to what ends. The spectrum is rather broad. One could simply choose to look out for another. Then again one could actually be trying to frame a loose acquaintance in their own feats of death defying grace. The relation with God whereby prayer and supplication along with offering and petition are led up toward the alter of receiving the divine into the heart, the loins, and the mind.

Somewhere like the chakras. Less mottled though. Really giving to each other the plea of dissemination. In the step taking, in the free exercise, and with all the tenderness and care that a loving set of open arms could give you. With these precepts in the rational field of change. Whereby no trespass is survivable in its own unnecessarily divergent and nasty want of a constant state of quarrel.

The need to make it out to change comes upon us again. It asks for the familiar. That which is in its essence a turning of the ephemeral charge. Blues and sunshine yes, but with the impression that not all will stay the same. Day by day through much seeking and in making out no such feckless saltiness in the take on the universal and its broad ocean swaths. With the rivers and currents both breaking up on the shore.

Long on the road is the way of the kenning song. The certainty that a jackdoe or her friend the muledeer can light up the marquees and spotlights on this man’s new run on the long Broadway. Walking with the sides and asides of the bully tom boss lumber yards. Inimitable given to the pathos of the tourists and scapeys. A penchant for the abased tonality in the transmission of freeweight and dummy’s bell.

Continuum, inertia, and perpetua. The glad free former in a gladdened gait of highstepping. Along the wickets, along the thickets, in the pitch and keep of the very blossoms’ troe. Down lengths of animate forested path. Fortunate as the believer in her garden. Looking over the lost crop of apostates prudent at the death of their pig. Does he still need that ring in his nose? Must his ears remain on fire and will he ever see straight so much again?

I must be sure the laggard slaggard aces remember their five finger discounts. So much for the name of fire. A supposed fallow light where the tramps have to excuse the trees from burning, the animals from dying, and the human flesh from conceiting itself and say please let it all in. Slating up karma and reciprocity for devil worship. Earth body disease point lye. The inquisitive lie. That must break the bough from its wise, from its nature, from its instinct.

A broken West heisting its own satisfactory course. The ride pig and her hustle in the slave yards of the forgotten sonambulist ditch. Stray dogs barking, braying with mules, howling with the wolves at the moon in the mid of night.