Fluid Universe

While digging through and organizing some old personal papers, I ran across this poem. It's scribbled down from a siting at the American Visionary Art Museum. Enjoyed the feeling of connection with the Chesapeake Bay, which one could see out the window opposite the original inscription.

"Oceana (a poem from the Ocean to Humanity)"

One breath away from mother Oceana
Your nimble feet make prints in my sands
You have done good for yourselves
Since you left my wet embrace
And crawled ashore.
You dance by my side
Children sublime
You show me continents
I see islands
You count the centuries I blink my eyes
Hawks and sparrows race in my waters
Stingrays are floating*Across the sky
Little ones, my sons and daughters
Your sweat is salty
I am why
I am why
I am why
Your sweat is salty
I am why
I am why
I am why

letter to M.M. "Activists Save Water from Corporate Control"

Dear M.,

When this headline came onscreen, the memory of your activist legacy sprang to mind. You old stalwart! Nestle has successfully been banished from Wells, Maine, and now it's moving on to other communities, peddling Lies and vampirism. Doubtless they are pouting from the stinging bitch slap of forcible ejection.

It's been in the news lately, some humans out West are prohibited from catching the rain that falls on their roofs! The Evil Machine of the State has declared that rain belongs under its dominion. After the rain percolates underground and into rivers, pipes suck it up and divvy it out to food factories.

Earlier today, I imagined a conversation going on between two undines, elemental beings of water. They were talking about humanity's and hanging out in the clouds above Denver. "People are getting so dense during this part of the cycle," one complains to the other. "What a crappy way to go! Their agricultural paradigm reflects backwardness and greed. It's gotten so bad, they might desertify the whole planet." The second is inclined to agree. "Some of them say claim that they are inventing their way out of their ignorant practices, while at the same time continuing on the same self-destructive course. It's a Hell of a big lie to let yourself believe in." It's voice is choked up and water begins to precipitate as tears, falling to Earth. "Ah, cheer up, this part is always enjoyable!" says the first undine. "Sure, many of them are living like fucktards, and that's part of growing up. They are falling on their face, so they can learn the invaluable lesson of picking themselves back up again. Soon, many of them may learn wise stewardship of the World." They splash together on a homesteaders' roof, and are funneled into an underground cistern. Later, as their liquid is sprayed out of a watering can onto the homesteader's indoor marijuana patch, they shout together, "See, it's happening already!"

Your root balls have been delivered to R. Robust and vital rosemary, sage, oregano and lavendar are coming your way! I mixed additional compost and sand into holes where your plants were dug out. Your soil was not so desirable, typical stuff of Cincinnati, a hard pan of acidic clay. Those herbs seem to thrive on adversity, though, and your more Northernly Garden is about to be enriched.

Over the last few days I've done some good reading into the Western Esoteric Tradition, and I wanted to share my take on the Rosicrucians with you. I think you'll appreciate their story and find them to be kindred spirits.

Rosicrucian translates as "of the Rosey Cross". Conjure up a picture of a flower, sitting on an elemental cross of the 4 directions. It immediately sheds light both on their unusual monotheism, and their work of healing the perceived rift between humans and Nature. Jesus being equivalent to a rose bush without thorns, I suppose

Times were dark when the Rosicrucians got their start. The Church was actively hunting down and murdering rural wise women, and declaring all free thinking (to say nothing of smoking pot and running around in the woods naked) to be thought crime, punishable by indentured servitude or publicly burning to death at the stake. In their times, the first corporations were going on State-sponsored expeditions to America; America, where people's civilizations were quite sophisticated in sustainable cooperation with whatever bioregion they occured in. For this, the indigenous humans were uncomprehendingly laughed at and slaughtered!

Rosicrucians were Christian, European men who answered the call to shamanism starting 500 years ago. Through meditation, studying alchemy with Muslims in North Africa and the Middle East, and learning about the Tree of Life from Jews in Spain, they realized that they as humans were part of Nature. They realized that the alientation we suffer from Nature stems from a primal disconnection from our higher selves, from "God". So they sought and achieved conversation with the Divine, which is an understanding of the animating spirit of Nature, of all the beings: our fellow humans, animals, plants, fungi, bacteria and elementals like the undines. Also, seeing the Divine in the interconnecting relationships between everything, which makes existence more than the sum of its parts.

Their wisdom, their Gnosis, and the exercises they developed for its attainment, has living, contemorary versions in many other cultures- Taoist sages in China, Lakota medicine men- but that kind of knowledge has died in the minds of European intelligentsia. The mythical founders of the "Fraternity of the most Laudable Order of the Rosy Cross" stole around Europe, secretly relating their revelation to every dissenter they could find. Their goal was to ferment a great reform, to bring us out of the madness which is still embodied by the international elite and the spectacle-bound masses. Those crafty prophets of love, the Rosicrucians, sought to resurrect a WORKING, practical understanding of the unity of all things. The unity Nature and God, of humans and Heaven and Earth- they rekindled this in the hearts of many of their countrymen. Their heirs are still failing, and still succeeding. I see their ethos gettin' replayed out by "CrimethInc." and it's anarchist culture jammers, for instance.

I love writing letters. They afford a rare, social opportunity for taking time, getting one's thoughts together, and sharing them with a friend in developed form. Getting one's creative juices flowing, laying down the ambrosia on paper or pixel.

Traditionally, I have experienced debilitating difficulty with inspiring myself to write. This may stem from the fact that my favorite writing is usually done in letters, and I lose them when I send them. A.A. mentioned that you are reading the Artist's Way together and cheering each other on. I'm feeling the urge too, and I am embarrassed to say that my blog lies mostly empty. Writing letters this week has been as Cerridwen's cauldron of inspiration, a self-renewing source of fermenting fuel, with which Brigit is sparking a creative fire in my head. I had this idea, and I want you to give it thought and tell me what you come up with.

Instead of trying to pull teeth by writing random shite on noblesavagery.blogspot.com, (for instance the latest post about getting randy after eating too many plums), I could duplicate my best letters and anonymize people by using peoples's initials. That way people who know of the events from direct experience could know exactly what and I'm talking about, but noone else would. Of course, discretion would be necessary for any private matters. Discussing peoples' comfort and gaining consent before publishing is necessary. This would become second nature.

Do I have permission to republish this letter on Noble Savagery? Your name would be M., or M. M. Please let me know.

Be well M.! I hope you enjoy your herbs, and please struggle to maintain a positive attitude about your situation.

Yours in Love for the Earth,

Badger

I Pledge Allegiance

I pledge allegiance
to liberty and justice for all

The Dreaded East Side of Springfield is ablaze with highly illegal fireworks, probably from Missouri and Indiana. Autonomous fireworks shows in all directions rival the centralized government-sponsored spectacle. We love it when people celebrate their freedom with illegal fireworks.

I rode my bike to SIX places today looking for sparklers for Kid Khalila. How can we have an Independence Day without sparklers?!!?!! How can stores be open for business on this holiday, yet not sell us the traditional tools for celebration? Just how lame can Springfield be? Nevertheless, neighborhood displays have evoked loud primate woooping from us on the front porch of the chaos house.

If we are truly a free country, could we drop The United States and just be America? With every neighborhood, every household, different yet included in the endless open play that is post-civilliesed pioneering?

And the irony continues--how much of these fireworks were made in China?!

In other news, we're enjoying Badger's kim chee. It has Badger chi in it, I think.

Weep Mother Weep

Weep Mother Weep

For all the lies that
Try your soul
No promises to keep
Weep Mother weep

Rain Sister Rain
For all your tears
That wash her clean
Ravaged harvests
Sunken seeps
Savaged forests
Rain Sister Rain
Balm her weary pain

Pour Mother pour
Let your waters flow
O’er silting soils
Flood well your plains
Where waders wade
And peepers peep
Fill your aquifers deep
Welled sullen and sour
Pour Mother pour
Cleans your stores
Flush your springs
Life will we restore

Strike Father strike
Your lightning
From the skies
Crash through hearts
Turned dull as rock
Their deadlines to demand
Sink as moving sand
Through hours glass
Sealed from Brother Air
Refreshed with truth
Trust falls there too
As they just turn again
Tongues and fingers wag
Taunting plans void
Temporal shams

Strike Father strike
Ignite our hearts again

Is real the mind of man
Without your loving hand
To guide our living with
Her waters gifted all
Her land

The time is ours
At hand
To shift and take
Our stand
With Her
Or without
All right here
On
Our spot

Grow Mother grow
With Brother’s breeze
To clear and ease
The static sticking thoughts
That grow seethingly more taut
And as a bubble breaks
Into countless sparkling drops
Will sink into the soil
No inkling of toil

Rest Parents rest
While your grasses test
Brother Wind to blow
Last years seeds to sow
From standing stems
Birds too will fend
Awaiting green to grow
Rest Parents rest
While Children give
Their best
GMFH 04/18/06

Two Legged’s Dream

Two Legged’s Dream

Dripping splitting from rusted door
No other on the prowl will explore
I’ll take some shelter on this seat
No windows left to slow my leap

In the morrow I’ll move on
This rain will not outlive the dawn
I’ll try my haunts along the stream
See who’s lurked there in between

Junkyards, old cars left behind
Lost to two-legged’s nimble mind
Fall between the culture’s cracks
Making room for Life’s come back

How’d they loose the hunter’s way
Aware of all, the gentlest sway
Busily they move, consumed like ants
In desperate mood and rigored pant


Many waft the fearful smell
In their packs constrained, unwell
They roar the roads out of touch
Thinking so and so and such and such

So many there are about here now
The world beyond they’ll not allow
It’s good for us we’ll not be found
Ghosts that slip between their ground

Their world is fixed and locked in blocks
Their out of sync and chained to clocks
They do not hear the passing prey
And live blind to Life each passing day

I suppose it will stay their loss
Their trap need not be my cost
Until they take Life, in their way
Building things to slow decay

Much like us they’re built to impress
To climb in rank their stature stress
It would not matter to me their haste
If they would not lay so much to waste

But at least they do forget
Forget their toys and their pets
When all they touched is laid to waste
I’ll still find plenty to my taste

As time winds on Life finds its way
Sun will set and rise next day
Rain will fall and Wind will blow
And through it all we’ll come and go

So for now I’ll just rest
No other’s power need I test
I need not strain or like them toil
Or worry what next they will spoil

I am Life’s and Life is mine
What I need I will find
In every step and every mess
I will find my wilderness

GMFH

"Labyrinth Renewed"

Labyrinth Renewed

On this Summer Sunday morn
we wandered the centering way
of the labyrinth
cyclically weaving
my hands languid for langsyne
raked along the seed
long relayed
enpatterned smooth
in rippled groove
and billowed rise
along their rythymed stems
leaving free the chaff
The tyranny of the typical,
the constraining constructs
topically were shed
to float as loam
to find the gaps
of blanket thatch
and coat for winter warmth
where freeze and thaw
heave for seed
and haw to swell
scarified in acrid gut
to deeply cut and dig
and break into
the sacred home
where Life begins
enthroned
again

Seed bearers all
we lost our way
into circling step
and restful breath
drinking in
the growing glow

Our paths wound
to and fro
encircling round
and through
the corners of our globe
through the seasons
journey of our sol
weaving free our souls
egos intertwine
fine web refined
as sunrise divined the clouds
edges shined as
silver lined
whirling trails like
leaf minors eating doors
seeking sustenance cell to cell
safe within their green
and living host
so we as guests to her
her land holy waters and sky
contemplated Her
Our mother O-hi-o
and her ageless beauty here

Blossoming forbs and
upright waving blades of blue
rose
to hip,
to heart,
to eyes and on
her dark rich soils dry sands
her waters deep
in rounded gravels grey
aquifers in beds of clay
and limestone rock with
sculpted ancient life
fossils of her limelight days
gone by now await our sight
when all was sea and sky
to lend to bones
strengthened since
from snail to human kin
who walked through these
gentle prairie blades
wooded glades to rich wet fen
dry oak ridge or rocky edge
more barren yet and all
in ancient living ways
just as light in step
tall and straight
strode in strident gate
above the trail
their feet to meet
the gentle beat
up through her loving skin
roots woven within
where her returning stroke
would lift to carry them
blood red with iron
hearts strongly drawn
to knowing well
the way for home
shared by hearth
through tale and dance
in ceremony
in prayer and play
to lift all works
to great
as a newborn laugh
or stubborn wail
or open
present easy
gaze

Measureless in mornings light
like here and now we walk
wandering free
from roaring highway sign
I feel mutations choice
Lend way to compromise
and ponder how do these
allow the interplay
so resonate by fate or chance
but ease to dance
when two or more gather
commune and harmonize
the fabric of our Earth
Being in between
in resonance we sing take wing
the fire that moves the wind
the water steeped within
the movement of the sea
of grass or leaf of tree
and cloud to move the fires
of councils in the skies
together all relates
rise up the swell
flow down the wake
along with the others as vessels
we contemplate

Small flickering flames are we
on ripples of her lake
concentric circles weaving wakes
on her warm and welcoming surf
of her depth
movements
never known before
from her deep
shelter
ever known before
stars that move
reflect in care
of the dark unknown
from which we come
and alas so know as home
where soon in our roaming
we too shall shore
to enter in
not extinguish
but return

Curves bends and turns
all these
allowed our deepening
to personal pathways here
I took to deepening pause
to behold one Indian Grass
whose stamens dangled on
within my eyes
as candles draped
brilliant gold
and glowing danced
in flow
with morning ease

Gold dust hopes aloft
were carried bouyant o'er
air adjoining shores
waving to and fro
admitted rise and fall
from deeper arts unseen
of an interfluent weave
that rose up through
the web so fair and true
and falling low
sought to plunge
to the frighteningly deep
where nurture juggled currents
tussled new and fresh
from learn-ed old and clear

Balanced held I poised
in open full embrace
in mutual healing balm
cast from driven thought
not ours now gone

Onto timeless dawn
we launched our vessel on
with knee to others knee
we carried ancient light
gold to those in need
indigo as received as deed
cognate on waving air
oarless but for trust
in prayerful intent thrust
out we went
into the intimate one

When In circle we met again
we reached out and then within
greeted journers and the directions
we joined hands
we shouldered arms
and stoked the children’s fire
shared ancient mind at hearth
inspired anew to carry through
wisdom of our sacred land
in kind we were renewed
kindred through many faiths
diverse in common place

To heal wealth
to wellness
we celebrate
the all
of each
and every race
all facets
of each face
we share
the beauty
of our
place

At the center
we became
aware
of being same

So uniquely so
from here
as ease
we go
to greet
those
with whom
we sow

we sew

weave
so

ahe ahe

aho
GMFH 8/07

postcivilliesed poetry

Manifesto of the Kindred

Recreate the Garden of Eden,
here on Earth.
Isn't that impractical?

Once you begin to see what is possible,
it becomes impractical to do anything else!

Pray for salvation?
Petition for redress of grievances?

We are already saved,
and to worry about it
is to undo it.

Take it easy,
Leave IT easy.



In This Here Garden

In this here garden
I'm drunk on Sangamon strawberries
and pissing in the compost

In this here garden
I welcome the thriving weeds
and the predatory wasps
(but not the predatory W.A.S.P.s!)
I welcome the Japanese beetles
with their native copper shells
eating weeds
so the crops can ripen

In this here Garden
are enough signs of God
for a second Qur'an
no god except God
open-ended and
thriving

worm to Wyrm

my thoughts are all over the map. for a while, i've felt scattered and unfocused but now things are coming clearer. there've been lots of cool new folks over here, including an olde buddy from KY, and all the interaction with positive people and my thoughts racing out my mouth to them has whushed out the cobwebs. so bwaHA! i can write again. this is what i did this morning.
____
Not acting myself
Or anybody else
I stagger along in the darkness

Trapped in a story
That feels really borey
I squirm like a worm
On a fish hook

Earlier today, this worm realized
That his writhing couldn’t get him
Off the hook
& he refused to believe
that life could not be better
for a trout in the sacred brook
below (he’d read it in a book somehow)
So
Smashing his forhead
Onto to the wicked barb
Of the instrument of his torture

He shredded the blindfold
From over his third eye
He pulled the pie
Down outta the sky
& as the fisher-Man yelped and ran,
the Wyrm levitated off to adventure.