Welcome, and thanks for stopping here to read selections of my original poetry and prose. Only half my art is here. As you browse my puppets, words if you will, think of them as empty hulls whose dance and form are only animated in Play through my vocal conveyance of their characters and via my direction of their tone. Lyric to the ears, its whole message soon appears, in thus the conjuring of ancient daemons deep within to combat the evil ones brought up infernal by the Craft of ages can be our stage tonight.

On this blog the theme is AWAKENING and how Revelation is not some story plural in a Book but supposed to be one of yours in this lifetime. Here in verse I share with you my inquiry to which has bonded Muse.
YOUR STORY IS THE STORY. Their horsie four so full of holes they named that way just to have a laugh. Revelation and Creation coincide, they never stopped. A daily occurrence in a Live Show me is true Prophesy which I assure you, smells nothing like a library book, and for which no innocents are ever killed. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you copy it to heart.

Tending to the Tweetiesong

Trials came in Christmas song.
In tribulation, we pulled defiant of the couch and plasma screen
the Ahab knotted rope descent of town square bell
to signal crisp and clean to all citizens that they know well
our welcome this New Year.

Ice Age came.
All around us life seemed frozen,
and underneath where we call home
the works seemed certain that they may burst
despite the the sunrays pouring through homestead windows.

We huddled.
We rigged up systems to bring back power.
We brought to cold the heat.
We let run the open taps
to such sources that lay discreet,
to deepest underground our hopes to meet
and pour forth again from the every sink
such free bounty flowing up from Mother Earth
rural, rustic, raw
in the City they bill you by the rate
for something stolen they didn't make.

And these last few days and nights
surely forty all but summed,
The Flood, it came.
We battled torrential rains
lightning storms insistent and with rage
to quash the vestiges of our exhausted love,
like that of the so-called followers of Christ
who stand in protest and placard in the streets
to ensure the End Time days are never seen
for around a finger, wrapped a bondage ring.

Wrath of God is why they fear
such endorsement by the State
when all around them tornadoes go already
safe in raincoats, umbrellas and rooftops that slant
angry so angry to beat into an alley pulp
life as style and lived out loud like they can't.
this barnyard sickness so deeply a disgust,
man and man so coupled to their fate.

The pitchforks and the torches
seemed too this storm to be
bashing down our dreams
obstinate in hurling every obstacle
Against our hopes of any carefree days again.

We baled as best we could.

And through it all
I always tended to the birds outside...
I talked to them in bushes where songs they hide.
New seed, my friends!
I'll leave you be...
go tell your friends in yonder tree!

Today a different sun they say.
Upside-down in energy.
But listen... see?

Tiny ones have come in flight
angels, lost and hungry throughout the night,
now fluttering in agitated breeze
around such Providence tended to.
I watch the scattered timidity of trust return
to fill up lively these lovely aged trees,
with their vibrant colors winged
replace barren and the gray
with happy songs we thought were gone
but now perch safe and frolic forth on this day.

I delight in their company
Sunday's passing winter light,
and wonder on how we are the same.
All it takes to smile with the heart
is tending to the seed
as you navigate life's raging storms
with ones you have confessed you need.

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