Category Archives: #dversepoets

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!

Honoring William Stafford’s poem, “A Ritual to Read to Each Other”

This Glosa series was written using the five stanzas of William Stafford’s poem “A Ritual to Read to Each Other”.

***********
If you don’t know the kind of person I am 
and I don’t know the kind of person you are 
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world 
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.”
– A Ritual to Read to Each Other, William Stafford, 1st stanza

If I don’t know what pebbles
wreak holes in my soles; whether
fashioned from childhood, lifetimes ago
or today’s gnashing headline
cause oracular eruption, scorch the self-scape
even clog clarity with energetic spam;
such that when I beg myself reveal my self
enlightenment has no path for inner-expression;
then I can hardly condemn
if you don’t know the kind of person I am.

Though let’s be truthful, often I do
condemn you personally, in private and public
wounded and wounding through syllabled landscapes.
Vociferous pronouncements fueled by pain
marshal despair-driving pebbles
into professional antagonists bizarre.
My soles, your soul, intuit the damage
hostility pain drama and trauma of spirit
insidious destructions I visit upon your star
and I don’t know the kind of person you are.

You and I are called to an awareness;
this knowing, it must be made known.
Blind carriage of pebbles yours and mine
perceived as miniscule and rightfully pained
cannot be rolled at micro levels without ramification.
Held therein are exponentials of power yet unfurled
microscopic anti-tools leveraged at macro levels
magnify creation’s power in reverse, destruction.
Be warned within dysfunction’s legendary vortex lies curled
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world.

The question is what to do now.
The pebbles are in our shoes, gnawing our soles to bloody shreds.
Hear this: You and I are called to the wounded healer’s
knee with our massacres of self and multiverse.
Acknowledge, release the gods of rage, grief, anxiety,
real, imagined, ancient, contemporary, whether of self or polestar
intend, act, cull, excavate or integrate.
Pray, be healed and be.
For we know ideal outcomes require a creative god on the radar
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

 

*********************
“For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dike.”
– A Ritual to Read to Each Other, William Stafford, 2nd stanza

My Pragmatic Professional steps up to be heard.
What’s this I hear: mega-time focused on inner
flight, feather and bone, principles, prayer and peace?
For shame you self-involved Pussy Poetic,
there’s work to be done out there, not here.
I mean really, are you blind?
Ruminating quietly, my Poetic Potential considers
prayerful differentials, cellular and global.
My sense is, the out there and the in here, they must be aligned.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,

could have been honorably addressed
if my heart’s house of light were focused and bright.
My dear Pragmatic Professional, there are
mountains up ahead. We must begin it here
to avoid eternal recurrences out there.
Recurrences? Yes, the likes of which thus spake
Zarathustra. You scoff at my feeble heart’s tone, yet I know
those hills out there are alive, and right here, we lie beneath them.
What will I contribute? My lyrical tones lit from a heart full of ache
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break

because if I don’t tend my heart here, I lose the path to Overman’s Pass.
My Pragmatic Professional shifted her stance to consider
her whiteboard lettered, nay littered, in red green and blue;
human rights, militarism, democracy droned, earth and sky,
outsourced and resourced for economic short sales; those battles
outstood, demanded, and commanded, all they could.
And more. Thunderbolt struck, she felt her own heart
aching from too much light sent chasing there there and there.
My sense is, Poetic Potential continued, collectively we’ve misunderstood
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood

adulthood, even livelihood in magnified measure to address
us and them inhabiting our now-hood. Truth is, over the eons
time spent healing sole and soul’s pebbles drizzled, then dribbled.
Yet now we fight not to drown. Informational data stews and spews
emotional mega and hertz through our sole and soul’s pebbles. Remember?
The ones that gnaw us to shreds? Climate change, both inner and outer, alike.
In the face of all that is – and it is quite an all, we can’t afford you and I
to stand in battle here, because out there neither will live absent aspects of other.
Perhaps you’ll consider: How might we unite to assure chances we like
storming out to play through the broken dike.

 

**************************************
“And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.”
A Ritual to Read to Each Other, By William Stafford, 3rd stanza

Such passionate prose, said Pragmatic Professional. Then, not to be
out done she added, all things are considerable.
I’ll take the lead. Best plan I’m sure you’ll agree.
You may call me PragPro and I’ll call you PoPo.
Poetic Potential swallowed hard, winced for a glimpse, then nodded assent.
Excellent. Generate objectives, strategy, tactics, and timelines through email.
We need bottom line goals, resource allocation, a competitors list.
Sign here PoPo. Mock up stats, pie charts, post by close of business.
But PoPo’s eyes were hazy. She said, My dream had elephants of great scale.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,

tri-level pyramids balanced, packed and stacked on their backs. WhyPragPro,
it’s profound! But your spreadsheets show no heart-sense
just dry facts, figure’s ink blobbed to margin’s brink. Vision, no-think.
You say inner yields no-count ideologue? Sense this: Dream elephants speak
ancient futuristic dialogue. Magical synchronicities insights to investigate, not litigate.
Dreams elephant pyramids, beg explore feminine triads. Its just one insight spark.
Invest in team dreams to explore the versal connections, inner, outer, uni or multi.
Go internal! Find vision! Project external! Enough! a clipped PragPro snips.
I hear your dream-vangelical point. Perhaps elephants could be our trademark,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,

nor make a mangy world all hope and changey. Don’t think your fall into
ebony’s schtick went unnoticed. Was Audacity’s hope your dream? All borne out of
vision-spit goo. Talk about load of tactics! Funders and plunders
postured and fostered, grassroots milked and bilked. Feeluckingly brilliant game!
Bank on this: Your approach invites insults, mine delivers undeniable results.
Left-brain logic fuels the pool, though I’ll agree elephants an idea not entirely faulty.
Didn’t Plutarch note Hannibal’s war elephants key to Punic’s put down?
Maybe we cost out using this inner-fluff stuff if strategic enough…?
Poetic Potential bowed her head with a sigh. Let me ache my reality.
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty

to use and abuse a natural resource, then all accountability recuse.
Whether it is water or land, human or animal, mineral or oil, me or you.
Universal truth insists payment, whether now, Eve’s then, or seven generation’s then.
All we expose, dispose and impose internal or external, it’s all part of our commons,
singular, plural, micro, macro, Earth’s core, sky, even Hannibal’s elephants left to die.
Pragmatic Professional’s face drains ashen. What do you suggest constitute our pact?
Dear PragPro, sense that you are me, I am you; together we are them, they are us
whoever, whatever, however spirit of us-n-them chooses to reveal itself to the all.
Walk with me here PragPro, neither of us can afford to believe it’s an idea abstract
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

 

*********************
“And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk;
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
A Ritual to Read to Each Other, By William Stafford, 4th stanza

 

PragPro reaches her laser pointer, tappity-tapping PoPo’s hand.
Go ahead, indulge holier than thou sad-snot over my resources and your elephants,
Let’s be clear. I know you, am nothing like you, forget actually being you.
You say you want truth. Why?  To frost in poetic charm?
Martha Stewart-ing real-world’s face is a luxury only privileged poetics afford.
Go ahead.  Manipulate others with your ridiculous rose-colored sparklies.
At least I’m honest about this fact. I’m in it to win.  To win you have to fight.
You find me unlikable, but hear this:  I am authentic, something you may never be.
Poetic Potential’s inner-deer freezes still. PragPro adopts tone all nasally,
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,

that’s how you’d begin to tell me what I’ve just told you.
Poetry is doubletalk.  I only do straight talk.  Pity you don’t know how.
I suggest you figure it out, quit that hysterical whining.
Don’t like how I use your precious resources?  Then fight me for them.
Oh wait, that’s right, you’re just an impotent poetic.  Cowboy up PoPo.
You’re not wanted here. PoeticPotential sits a moment, sensing inner spirit’s hawk
dissolve into formidable lion form.   Slow grace rolls her head forward
eyes locking PragPro’s mandala’s in steely cold stare.
About this impotency you speak, let’s address it specific to your stalk,
a remote important region in all who talk;

She extends a mocking pinkyfinger slowly.  Why do you think I chose you
from phallic symbols galore in a sea filled with pillar coral?
She reaches her old feather pen, trailing tip along PragPro’s chin.
Of all those options I chose you because you inspire me and I you.
Remember what inspired feels like?  It’s been a long time, hasn’t it.
When was the last time you sank into depths of flower’s scented water?
When volcanoes appeared and receded in time with waves ebb and flow?
When did you last breathe an entire firmament, your voice roaring from Earth’s caves?
When did you finally hurl every last ounce across dehydrated plains? Let me proffer,
though we could fool each other, we should consider—

you cannot create without me.   Poetic Potential rises on giant spirit paws.
Inspiration powers explosions, tsunamis of color and form, joy and song.
It fertilizes original cells of every all thing you might never create.  That. Is. Me.
I am the feminine power of all creation.  Are you hearing me?
You’d be wise not forget:  Earth’s every element transmutes through my form.
Creation ends on suggestion this partnership’s an ill-fated lark.
Consider, you would be wise to engage me and my talents
with careful attention if future is what you desire.
I propose you think hard on what inspiration’s flint sparks
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

 

*********************
“For it is important that awake people be
awake, 
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give— yes or no, or maybe—
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.”
A Ritual to Read to Each Other, By William Stafford, 5th stanza

Poetic Potential’s eyes hold PragPro’s, flint and match, flame undecided.
Silence broke, breeze dancing, light suddenly warming their face.
My dears, did you start without me?  Felt oppressive air then blasts of heat!
Ah, deep breath. There, my precious two.  Pray, sit still, sip jasmine tea,
allow our heart’s beating slow. Extraordinary day, two views expressed,
truth’s non-refundable prize, these well-exposed stakes.
Well done.  Now, Stafford’s verses have served us well.  Though his pen
falters here, continued heart’s exploration on well-lit stage avoided, optioned
instead for final lecture. Agree this next line, his entire last verse an outtake?
For it is important that awake people be awake,

Let us conceive a final verse; create new word vessel, a paradigm where
all excel, a joyful dance space inviting all conversations’ flow.
Poetic Potential offers a line: First, let’s commit to have and hold awakened state.
PragPro looks away. Awakened state, a mystery phrase to my ear.
Counters: We commit to hold ourselves awake to our being’s truth;
Excellent first line, eager to see what truth between you both reaps!
Now, to address manners engaged to hold each other awake.   PragPro tenders:
noting flaws in how each executes the dance.  Poetic Potential suggests:
form internal truths from  rails of our rift;  then Stafford’s next line bleep
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;

Yes!  Commendable progress!  Now, a third line of action?  Poetic Potential
submits:  Ongoing reunions, blessed communion? PragPro proffers:
reconcile partnerships to value equality and autonomy;  Poetic Potential
smiles. Yes that covers it well. Now, our last line must finally eclipse darkness
in which Stafford’s lecture ends.   We must each agree to die to former self,
especially our self’s realm where bottom line’s value is power and money.
PragPro’s eyebrows rise sky-high.  Impossible! Entirely fantastical!
My dear sweet Praggy, I do enjoy that name’s privilege, heart breathe with me.
Pray union with us in our stanza’s last line.  New manifestations depend entirely
the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—

paradigm lost or paradigm won. Allow vision anew endeavored here is
your true heart’s desire; though unknowns are incalculable, and path is dark.
Pray, let’s heal pebble of sole, fear of unknown, dissolve boulders that dam
collective soul’s flow. Come, join powerful thought and call forth our new paradigm.
Poetic Potential sits still, eyes closed, her slow breath cycling, willing
all heart to open, expand, and awake from its sleep, centuries long and deep.
Dear Praggy, this final line rises up.  Let it express our profound entwined desire:
to surrender into resurrection’s arms to embrace and seize its gift.
Now, reasons for new verse to light heart’s path, precarious and steep,
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

 

Hence the proposed new final verse to Stafford’s Poem:

We commit to hold ourselves awake to our being’s truth;
form internal truth from rails of our rift;
reconcile partnerships to value equality and autonomy;
surrender into resurrection’s arms to embrace and seize its gift. 

 

© Lori Fleming, 2013

An Ode to a favorite poet posted in honor of the three year anniversary of d’Verse Poets Pub.  We’re celebrating all this week!  Head on over and feed your desire for something original!

We Each Powerin’ a Loop, Formin’ Whatever Got Our Vote

 

Sittin’ here thinkin’ on how I done just had the joy
of cheerin’ another mother’s high school son
durin’ a weekend of crewin’ fiends testin’ their real McCoy
skill while the hot sun toastin’ head and bun
o’ all the rowers, cheerleadin’ and birdy-duck
types present. We all’s feelin’ like more than luck
brought us to be pourin’ sweat n’ emotion into whatever role
we occupyin’. For three days we all together align-
in’ heart ‘n mind to be or see a sleek crew boat
powerin’ some talent we nurturin’ all careful-like across a line.
We each powerin’ a loop, formin’ whatever got our vote

I gotta say here, there be a knowin’ no one cheer a girl or boy
like a parent does. Even if be you a guest cheerin’ one
you love, you compare like tofu, or that there soy-
bean chicken stuff they be feedin’ vege-arians – or a nun
wearin’ her black-white habit at a Grammy Award muckity-muck.
An let me tell you, our kids, they knows what cheerleadin’ duct
carry the full power of a father or mother’s love n’ soul.
Don’t you ever worry someone else be taking up a sign
n’ cheerin’ your Bobby could put on a coat
n’ take your place when he scanning a crowded finish line.
We each powerin’ a loop, formin’ whatever got our vote

This whole eventin’ weekend bring up somethin’ all coy
n’ unexpected that had me do such an emotin’ twist-on
n’ off it required a sit down ‘n anna-bittical look usin’ a ploy
to untangle somethin’ I didn’t even know be feedin’ me un-fun
feelin’s. I be reverse-engineerin’ why I feel like somethin’ just suck
when it come to me I done spent a whole lot a ‘sittin-duck
time at my man-child’s history-finish-lines bein’ his single-mom-whole
cheerin’ team. N’ as I excavatin’ why on earth I of a mind
to be to be all teary n’ swallowin’ on some peanutbutter throat
I’s shock myself discoverin’ I believe somethin’ unfit for even a swine!
We each powerin’ a loop, formin’ whatever got our vote

Now, I know I not alone when I say I be a parent employ-
in’ some funny practices on my way to bein’ the parent-sun
my man-child gotta rely on to rise him up to his full god-son-boy-
to-man I KNOW he meant to be since countin’ his toes for fun.
When mine was little ‘n runnin’ track, I be in the stands plucked
hangnail gnawin’ while he standin’ at the start block, little body tucked
ready to fire off ‘roun’ his lane. I’s stand there n’ imagine coal
firein’ up to power his heart sittin’ in a skinny body’s bony ribcage line.
It was me spendin’ each race closin’ my eyes, breathin deep n’ slow, float-
in’ all my mother-power straight into his 10-year-old heartline.
We each powerin’ a loop, formin’ whatever got our vote

I do that breathin’ n’ imagining my big heart feedin’ his hard-run-
in’ body pure oxygen while he runnin’ n’ breathin’ his gun-
shot initiated heart-mind-body like he a baby giraffe, done
intendin’ to breathe up a world o’ air before he finally stuck
his feet to the finish line. N’ when he get there and we’s conduct-
ed our awesome race like the team we are, we be at the goal
but I be standin’ by myself. N’ what I discover yesterday was all mis-align
is my belief I will always be standing all alone-goat
at finish lines. That done make me cry like someone shredded me fine.
We each powerin’ a loop, formin’ whatever got our vote

So I’s be turnin’ around that limitin’ belief right now, ’cause I got spine
n’ it deserve my chosin’ a better thought powerin’ my future’s thought-shrine.
My man-child tell me yesterday t’ never forget I always be the Queen-promote
he happy to know powerin’ n’ rulin’ a world cheerin’ ALL his future finish-lines.
We each powerin’ a loop, formin’ whatever got our vote

© Lori Fleming, 2014

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This piece went to Meeting the Bar at dVerse, to connect with a gentleman named Tony who served up the prompt— “Repetition”.  Click the link to read entries, and have a shot.

You Keep Pedaling, n’ I Promise Those Gears’ll Shift

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”   ~ Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

~~~

 

~~~

This morning I got me two disparate things rollin’ ‘roun’ my head.
One be the words at the end o’ that openin’ paragraph that man Dickens gave
all us in his story The Tale o’ Two Cities. The second be a funny thread
that I be sparkin’ a re-run on time after time ’cause I a giggle-slave
to a picture that be generatin’ anytime I recollect how once I was ridin’ in a car
got a bicycle strapped to the top. It was bein’ driven by a man who played scar and star
in my storybook. He be the most common-sensed filled celebrity
I think I ever known. Which be why when we be havin’ some kind o’ angry
words ‘n he drive that car right into the garage all swift
n’ the bicycle scrap off the roof ‘n clatter to ground – I go all helpless n’ snort-giggly!
Sweetie, you keep pedaling, n’ I promise those gears’ll shift

That man, he give me so many fun ‘n funny memories that done fed
n’ fueled a whole bunch o’ gear shifts when I catch myself feelin’ all furiatin’ or grave
an needin’ somethin’ powerful t’ help me remodel the mood-bed
I be rollin’ around in from one moment to the next. Now, how that giggle-seed pave
me a path to Mr. Dicken’s Tale can’t rightly be ex-splained ‘cept by how far
this mind be weavin’ an old thread from there and a piece o’ mylar
from here – cause I know it be waiting to fashion itself into something I’d never see
if I didn’t avail myself on how us humans got this fantabulous capacity
to find a pattern ‘n create some special-to-us meanin’ in what all drift-
in’ aroun’ us just waiting to spin some gold-meanin’ value for free.
Sweetie, you keep pedaling, n’ I promise those gears’ll shift

That Dicken’s Tale, it be opening with that word-song done everyone but me read
’bout how it be the best ‘n worse o’ times. That Dickens, he ink a gorgeous name-wave
o’ opposites, like his epochs of belief ‘n incred-uality – dang his pen done led
my pendulum t’ swingin’ an easy rhythm – til it screech like Vic’s Vapor Rub after-shave
when he round out the ink of his openin’ rap by sayin’ how them noisy Czars
o’ authority be insistin’ the noisy comparison of far set opposites be the bar
everyone be drinkin’ around back then and now. First 89 times I read that I be
thinkin’ he sayin’ we shouldn’t be excavatin’ for ourselves why all the same duality
presentin’ all the time. You see, I be pitchy-fit annoyed at how all these opposite rifts
just repeatin’ over ‘n over ‘n I thought Dickens be saying that be okee-dokee.
Sweetie, you keep pedaling, n’ I promise those gears’ll shift

It be botherin’ me enough that I ask someone who know these things an’ they shed
some light that help me see Dicken’s weren’t suggestin’ a wave
of investigatin’ and excavatin’ shouldn’t happen, only that it weren’t led
by those front ‘n center in the story’s time or present-time either. My crave
for insight ‘n meanin’ be somethin’ I know exists, n’ findin’ it be worth big dinar.
That be the tune my very cells know ‘n sing anytime I’ll listen. True tho’, them scars,
they mark us up any time one polarity spins hard against another, makin’ us all road rashy
and wary of takin’ another run at it to see if we can soar above otherin’ polarity
n’ discover a third thing we couldn’t lay eyes on where we cycling below the super-cliff
we be aimin’ to rise up above. Momentum, that there be the key.
Sweetie, you keep pedaling, n’ I promise those gears’ll shift

All this here is to say, I think bicycles, peddlin’ & Dickens all done bled
together into some kind o’ new insight for me. It be ’bout hows people behav-
in’ back then ain’t much different then how we be actin’ now – n’ how I be done dread-
in’ my metaphorical bicyle be strapped to some car drivin’ into the historical cave,
that garage rerun I done seen 89 times before. That scene jus’ end with a bizarre
sound o’ death, devastation ‘n destruction as the bicycle scrapes the car
n’ hits the tar! I done ridin’ that bicycle, Now I be seein’ what personal Palestinian n’ Israeli
conflict I be hostin’ inside, cause it be waitin’ for me to go do some in-sight-see-
in’ and findin’ the self-knowin’ that be waitin’ to fuel me n’ power another run that lift
me up, up – above the garage, the house, the history, the trap – and into clarity.
Sweetie, you keep pedaling, n’ I promise those gears’ll shift

I remember the one time I try riding a bicycle with some star played in my history
I done barely figure out how to move forward while keeping the bike steady –
when he say it be time to take it up hill, and I know he’s about to rise above me all swift
I be wrestlin’ with my gear-changin’ lack-o’-knowin’ n’ he smile all gorgeous sayin’ to me,
Sweetie, you keep pedaling, n’ I promise those gears’ll shift

© Lori Fleming, 2014

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The Word-Seed Be Sayin’ I am the Sacred Mountain

2014_0523ChrisDelleShastaReflect

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~~

Below is a video/recording of the author reading this Spoken Word piece.

~~~

Ok, you just cool out ’cause we about t’ talk somethin’ controversial here.
I gonna jus’ lay it down from my heart, right here on the dang line.
All that waxing the world’s ear canals to the brim with fear
’bout how Monsanto be doing ‘n sellin’ ‘n causing’ Earth t’ decline
is exactly what kind o’ negative crap be feedin’ the sphere the kind o’ generation
givin’ us exPOnentially more of the same damn miseration
that be Monsanto’s earth-killing self. When we gonna learn our react to the shit they’s doin’
be the power-packed fertilizer we need to be plantin’ the Monsanto we been desirin’?
You walk with me here. There be a lot o’ screaming ‘evil!’ that be firing a hot emotin’ fountain
with a crazy sun-like-heat power we could strap ‘n tap if we just move where we be focusin’
You heard? Monsanto’s word-seed be sayin’ I am the Sacred Mountain.

You don’t believe me? You got web-access on your cellphone or someplace near?
Look up what the word Monsanto mean, cause I be standing on every life connected to mine.
So quit feedin’ that Monsanto marshmallow ghost-buster terrorizin’ shit our anger ‘n smear
cause it be creatin’ a MarshMallow Man that be shovelin’ all we be into a toxic brine.
Ok,          Breathe.     Let me back it up and be all calm-like for quick tick observation.
Any you all gots kids? I gots jus’ one. The most profound bar-none thing my parent-ation
act undertook was t’ show that kid how when he walk in the room, the light brighten
all perfect for me. I stopped focusin’ on how he not takin’ out the trash, ‘n he be puttin’
beer bottles in the recycle like he musta not had a party while I been gone consultin’
to earn them dollars be payin’ for where he go get his educatin’
You heard? Monsanto’s word-seed be sayin’ I am the Sacred Mountain.

My boy, n’ the word-seed planted in his name, Meka, mean Thank you God. And that there
be where I focus every damn time I be thinkin’ for such a smart kid why he not tow the line
n’ do this or that. Now I not sayin’ he Monsanto about to pollute people ‘n water-to-land pier,
but he be the most important thing to me ‘n I still feel the future rests in what he refin-
in’ hisself into – which be the fullness of his name-seed’s meaning. Nurturation
of that tiny name-word-seed his Daddy ‘n I put to his name be what got prioritization
over half my life. An’ I didn’t spend half my life nurturing one perfect word-seedlin’
so I could screw it up by pouring toxic me-chemical energy on an Earth-seedlin’ just waitin’
to bloom into the opposite o’ what fill people with the power of visceral damnation when
they see, hear, or feel Monsanto’s presence.
You heard? Monsanto’s word-seed be sayin’ I am the Sacred Mountain.

You think on how much infuriatin’ energy people be generating far n’ near
o’er the bees gone dead, diversities spurned, n’ phosphatey lime
grit poisonin’ water they be infiltratin’ from Tulsa to Tangier
N’ all that sly suckin’ o’ health, safety n’ welfare of the poor ‘n rich so fine
without consultation, hesitation, reservation, but just a whole lot o’ litigation.
See how we got a frickin’ ocean full o’ passion-spirit all splicin’ together a planet’s nations?
Can you hear me now? Cause I’s standing on the top of this here word tower an’
lovin’ every last one of you in the name of whatever be dear ‘n wantin’ tomorrowin’.
I be laughin’ with my arms open, welcomin’ your fury’s power to the future we nurturin’
and together we create what we DO want, by cultivatin’ what be named in the seed’s wordin’
You heard? Monsanto’s word-seed be sayin’ I am the Sacred Mountain.

It be said true love save whatever be needin’ savin’. For the love of what’s dear
can we adhere what we truly love to hate to a recognition that the choice be mine,
really mine and yours, on how the seed sittin’ in Monsanto’s name bloom into our sphere?
Here’s be the truth: The Earth, she done always take care of herself – the question wind-
in’ in the mind o’ humans is, ‘are me and my progeny gonna be on that future Earth rotation?
Or, are we gonna righteously indignate ourselves right out the equation?
To power what is truly odious into somethin’ mega-worse or quite melodious be the choicin’
thought to pass one t’ another as a light beaming the way t’ what we want to be doin’.
An’ let me tell you, I want us to do what come next together, and have now  be the ‘when’
we fired up to create the Monsanto-word-seed powered from the heart of Sacred Mountain.
You heard? Monsanto’s word-seed be sayin’ I am the Sacred Mountain.

Now I’s not just standing here pouring my controversial heart languagin’
without a thought as to how we focus the one and the sum power we holdin’
into a heart force powering this Sacred Mountain. Text me, I be helpin’ others focus emotin’,
that power they be carryin’ that be what theys use t’ form the Monsanto they be desirin’.
You heard? Monsanto’s word-seed be sayin’ I am the Sacred Mountain.

© Lori Fleming, 2014

A link to Chris Delle’s Photography, whose beautiful work is featured at the top of this post.

Over @ dVerse, Shanyn wants to know what crops we yield if our poems were to sprout as if they were seeds—a providential exercise no doubt.

Come Be In Peace – A Rondeau Redoublé

Image

 

Come be in peace, truth sets us free.
Let go the picture long ago glassed,
the love he gave you, the way he hid me.
Step out of the frame, move beyond the past.

It was or wasn’t, a tangled morass,
a teacher, a lesson, or simply a key,
opened a voice, she sang and sassed
come be in peace, truth sets us free,

Abandon shame over bended knee,
as well as judgments built to last.
Gently release the hold of our clergy.
Let go the pictures long ago glassed.

She called him Dad, while all encompassed
needled distraught, their unknown fees
The good, the bad, the happy, the blue grassed,
the love he gave you, the way he hid me.

True desire squeezed teen-aged acne.
Scars of choice serving as ballasts,
the Tao of everything unfolding perfectly.
Step out of the frame, move beyond the past.

What’s done is done, surrendered in equity,
the burden is eased, the cross surpassed.
This awakening spell, employed quite ably,
the sun and the stars, now ours en masse.
Come be in peace.

© Lori Fleming, 2014