What I Know Now



“We have to create.
It is the only thing louder than destruction.”
                                                         – Andrea Gibson


It has been a long journey to discover for myself:

Everyone is an artist and we each have the potential to heal the world.

It is a worthy life’s work to nurture
and hold space for ourselves and others as we discover
and tap into that innovative force of unstoppable creativity.
After all, we each are not only capable of retrieving the mysterious,
inexplicable, constantly flowing creative phenomena,
we ARE the phenomena.

This truth holds especially firm
in the face of all manner of destruction, decay and tragedy,
from personal to global,
psychological to environmental,
and the micro to macro.

Each of us is a powerful agent of transformation.
We are here to reinvent the sacred and the numinous
wired to perceive, absorb, and transform knowledge in all its forms
(pain, suffering, destruction)
into imagination,
and imagination into creative, healing energy
that has the potential to heal the world.

Photograph & Subject Artwork © Lori Fleming, 2014

Ain’t No One Payin’ for the Sun Rise


There I was sittin’ on a mountain high,

watchin’ the Sun rise to shine another day,

when I caught myself fondlin’ a tired ‘what demise

might await’ story line hauntin’ my mind’s lust for pay.

Bit-by-bit that econo-me spin slowed

as my breath rose ‘n fell, synchin’ a code

of rhythmic wave til I get a lilt-ifyin’

sense my convolutin’ moved on to clarifyin’.

You know, Nature be runnin’ a business in wise,

Which be funny ‘cause my nature be edifyin’

on how there ain’t no one payin’ the Sun to rise.

Ain’t never been empty skies

or a bunch o’ takin’-off day

sick calls from the Sun at moonrise

announcing it gonna stay

at some other node

til its transfer mode

feel more energizin’

or complainin’ how it done doin’ demoralizin’

risin’ n’ settin’ duty for zero prize.

Can’t you hear our stingy elders proselytizin’ –

‘You think charity payin’ for that Sun rise?’

All my sun-spot thoughts wearin’ the guise

of who payin’ for a sun that never play

a billin’ game, have me realize

how crazy-much a fundin’ worry weigh

all dense n’ full o’ forbode

while us humans calculate what owed

and be all justifyin’

what drag of a life be glorifyin’

chasin’ penny-clad security til we dies

n’ don’t care what stuff be monetizin’

We all so brief under this foreverin’ sun rise.

That trail o’ thought had me huntin’ supplies

‘cause I desirin’ a reconstruction to sway

how I be interrogatin’ like McCarthy’s spies

all the trackin’ n’ chargin’ done gone astray

from inside to outside my heart n’ head’s abode.

I’s tell myself, Self, spare some change, lighten a load,

n’ quit singin’ that  self-litigatin’ chant terrorizin’

the flow. Use that sharp intent-logic t’ be verifyin’

how you all aligned n’ sittin’ perfect on life’s railroad ties.

All our heart’s be callin’ for a new type o’ evangelizin’.

Land sakes, there be a whole lot o’ knowin’ in a sun rise.

Watchin’ the sun reach high skies

it warms into me all its light, swirl n’ sway

what be powerin’ all that dies n’ rebirths ‘n lies

in wait for my notice-what-I-notice way

o’ discoverin’ where my next step be stowed.

N’ I don’t pay nothin’ for what-I-noticed-code!

It be some kinda’ cool how the Sun ‘n me cyclitizin’

together so my tiny steps be synchronizin-

a tiny circle o’ daily life with the Sun as it ties

on another round o’ free energizin’ –

no matter who takin’ time to watch a sun rise.

Now I know I need to be stylizin’

myself every day with the Sun’s free hypnotizin’

‘cause it be bar-none the end-all-be-all  prize

Nature giftin’ us with, lightin’ every moment’s devisin’

on our journey to seein’ yet another sun rise.

© Lori Fleming, 2014

Linked to dVerse Open Link Night where you can write about anything you like once a month!
Head on over and check it out!

Sow Me Amid Clouds – A Glosa


Sow me amid clouds
lest I miss the Sun,
so I can embrace
the light of my destiny…      ~ Gavriel Navarro

The verses below have been crafted
using a variation on the glosa poetic form,
weaving new lines with the final four lines
of Gavriel Navarro’s poem, “Sow Me Amid Clouds”.

Glosa read by the Author.


Mine eyes, these
lunarscape pilgrims
travel in shadow –
a jubilee sought
in deepest alignment
beneath darkened shrouds,
where Earth obstructs
Ra’s weft of notes
amongst cosmic crowds.
Sow me amid clouds

whether of war, or
perhaps an angel’s moment
of undress, or redress,
or an unspeakable desolation
as blind humanity embodies
Babel’s misunderstood tongues,
their fiery emotion energizing
a soul-filled requiem’s power –
its sound, bending around obstruction
lest I miss the sun.

Let these eyes
nestled within this air-filled soil –
where letters and words
are sent, but not seen,
felt, but not heard –
serve as roots in space
of beginnings not yet ended
and endings not yet begun,
anchoring my truth in place
so I can embrace

this visionary path
cycling through dark and remote
lands of inchoate wails
to become mine own
voice, the sound of light
reaching beyond song or elegy
around all obstruction
to nurture a word-seed’s potential,
my own essence, and incredibly
the light of my destiny…

© Lori Fleming, 2014

Daughters of Revolutions — A Glosa Series


This is a Glosa Series hosting a conversation between
Rilke, Neruda and who I am calling the Daughters of Revolutions
The piece is created with a poetic quilt of lines from four stanza’s
found in three poems translated by Robert Bly:
– I Live My Life In Growing Orbits, Rainer Maria Rilke, both stanzas
– Walking Around, Pablo Neruda, 5th Stanza
– A Walk, Rainer Maria Rilke, first stanza
(See details at end of post.)

Daughters of Revolutions

Journey the spheres to discover
the views atop Venn’s Hallows,
where an ancient temple
honors diverging paths. Here
Daughters of Revolutions gather
to query estranged poets,
for course direction, insight
and inspiration, asking,
What will attract our feet’s magnets?
I live my life in growing orbits,

Rilke’s light frame leans into his words,
To feel, love, and seek truth
of the sacred inner world where
outer contradictions meet – a path
that allows the celestial to be known.
Neruda’s Hitchcockian form sits in stark
contrast. Lips pursed over drooped pipe,
his green-inked writings scattered before him.
He waves, signaling intent to remark.
I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,

living a good life, doing nothing while
others suffer. I cannot avert my eyes
while poverty imprisons, power
terrorizes, where scores of humans
live and die like dogs, yet privilege
insists, ‘repair lack of will
and equality will be restored.’ Entitlement
to frivol one’s life in beauty and heart
has a rank smell of pus that leaves me ill.
My eyes already touch the sunny hill

a familiar quote my Rilkean distractors
croon. A sunny distant hill is not mystical.
It is a hellish mountain with minefields
navigated by less fortunate humans on
blistered feet, their comrades’ mangled bodies
rotting in their backpacks. What power
can a sunny hill ignite? None, I say. None.
Rilke’s eye traces the sun’s rays as they pierce
a window’s stained glass flower.
‘I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,’

is the thought the sight inspires.
He resists saying it though, turning instead
to the Daughters, their note-taking
tablets poised. He smiles, wondering
if inner temple photos are allowed.
I say, great space has been unfurled
here between we poets. Are there
further questions? The Daughters
see poetic perspectives have swirled
which move out over the things of the world

needing integration – evolving
technologies, climates,
quantum awareness and
especially now, the Daughters’ ability
to change reality. One Daughter
speaks up. Our way is steep,
stakes are huge, and yet we know
each of you is a part of us.
We don’t want to creep,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,

afraid contrasting ideas
living in us insist our orbit’s doom.
Neruda shifts his bulky form,
as if to support his extending
awareness of Daughters’
vital role in what must be spun
next. First, let me honor
the load you’ve hoisted on your
backs, for it is a heavy one
going far ahead of the road I have begun.

It is a new idea for me to perceive
Daughters’ DNA as composed
from my truth-filled density
mixed with air-filled niceties
of he who soars with oblivious
self-interest in heavenly spheres.
Lofty ideals have proven weightless –
to date, love has not healed societal ills,
indignities are still endured in fear –
and I have been circling for a thousand years.

Rilke blinks, breathing deeply. Heart’s
politic challenge is to describe
our live’s mundane with honesty.
If a poet cannot see beauty, consider
it is not absent, rather the poet
lacks ability to express the vast
nuances his life offers.
The Daughters’ eyes go wide,
bracing for a contentious blast.
Perhaps I can never achieve the last

word with a poet whose fluff
I admired only in my untested,
immature and gullible youth.
But let me submit: truth reveals
we stand as opposing pillars
of our own clarity. Yet at birth these
Daughters of yours and my Revolutions
are imprinted – with me on their soles and you
in their soul. Let’s not compromise their worth
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,

pretending to tunnel our way toward them.
How does who we are serve, direct, or inspire
the Revolution they must now undertake?
A Daughter stood, moving
into a dormered circle of light.
At first, all I could hear was the rasp
of tiresome competition, but now I
perceive something new. We Daughters
must petition release from history’s clasp
so we are grasped by what we cannot grasp.

Rilke brightens. Perhaps it’s not a tunnel,
but a bridge our Daughters need
anchored by our polar clarities –
an overpass where their hands will hold
railings while their hearts birth the future.
Neruda sits back, You propose they form
new orbits founded upon, even rising above
the darkness and light of you and me? A Daughter
taps her heart, Fifty years on this planet so warm
and I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm,

only that I am called to create
aliveness anew. This poetic offer
of embrace and support from both
your valuable truths ensures my freedom
to be the Creative I am meant to be.
Neruda grins, Not to preempt
exciting unfoldings, but suddenly I
understand what I’m meant to be! A tough
test to hold my clarity’s view sans contempt –
but that will be my attempt.

Rilke is moved by Contrarian’s
heart-spoken intention to serve that which
desires to come next. I am honored
to be held in solid form by a poetic
truth so deep its gravity ensures my Spirit’s
pillar will stand firm as I praise and pray.
Neruda’s pillar of clarity was built through a life
staring at truths of darkness I am certain
would have caused me to lose my way
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

The Daughters of Revolutions accept the poetics’
mutually-platformed gift. The Temple of Choice
went beyond left or right, offering instead
to occupy divergent view’s strength –
new footings from which to navigate
higher realms of new light’s essence.
As the two poets step away Rilke calls
to Neruda, My friend, perhaps
we have finally matured into a balance –
it has inner light, even from a distance –

made possible by the precision
of who we are and what we express.
Neruda laughs. I see now there is no
such thing as pure or impure poetry.
We’ve made mistakes, yet now we’ve
addressed perceptions gone wrong
while judging each other’s value.
We are well-matched, a perfect duet –
whether manifesting futures strong
or a great song.

© Lori Fleming, 2014


Remembering ~ A Glosa

An Anoura geoffroyi bat pollinating a Meriania blossom.  Photo Credit: Nathan Muchhala, University of Toronto.

An Anoura geoffroyi bat pollinating a Meriania blossom. Photo Credit: Nathan Muchhala, University of Toronto.

The treasurer who would betray his will
incensed us all; we rubbed each other raw
until the day a quarter of us saw
what he perceives. The vision haunts me still.”

~ Remembering
by Elaine Stirling, 2015

Years ago a bold, midnight blue invitation arrived
words calligraphied in moony hues –
presence, it seems, requested.
It was to be a nocturnal drama series, metaphors,
staged and updated at an inner amphitheater
where bats excrete their fruity feast remains, steady seed spill
a propagation, guano for futures
dependent on digestion’s expression.

The dreamy invite had promised, “Your aha’s are sure to thrill.”
The treasurer, who would betray his will,

avidly pursued value, his Rumplestiltskin-ian
style suggesting metaphor’s hidden identities,
once named, could be bartered for inner child’s freedom.

This Shadow School’s play has run many seasons,
its celebrity cast star nightly. They are UN members
of personhood’s nation, the judgmental bourgeois
heroic figureheads, gutless milktoasts
earnest mothers, and sensuous stars.
Circular scenes have provoked endless guffaws,
incensed us all; we rubbed each other raw

on multiple occasions, yet even sore and blistered,
perfection has been recognized, even cohered in love.

Now, as updated dramas are staged
night after night, a yeasty idea has been rising,
to find the steed whose DNA string
weaves, whether in benefit or flaw,
through personal’s tapestry.

The idea rose steadily into reality.
Adventure and openings seemed the law
until the day a quarter of us saw

a vision of how the father, of the father sought,
was a bat from South America – randomly dropping
his fruity seed through Ambato, Paris, Spain –
all while pollinating landscapes of colorful stalks
and ponds, uncaring of clocks and bonds.
T’is an ill-conceived crop flowed from his quill.

And now I dream as a bee, chasing an ancient bat,
buzzing his mortal midnight blue dramas
while my own Shadow School plays, begging I distill
what he perceives. The vision haunts me still.

Lori Fleming, 2015

I’d like to express gratitude for the strength of the second stanza from Elaine Stirling’s poem “Remembering“, around which I have wrapped all manner of inspirations using the Glosa poetic form.  Inspired notes range from dream work, to how that practice spurs and processes the search and exploratory journey that has me traveling far beyond one generation to identify a biological patriarch.