Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

the mind is a terrible thing to
have

the taste of spring
on the tongue

tomorrow will be
perhaps

the world is not upside down
(maps are other things)
the sun is setting
in grey-blue sky with lights
I wonder about the future of poles
while I eat an apple
& prepare myself to go

i rushed back to the circle
too late
to say
good night

night
where you are j
light
where i stand still
waiting

i close my eyes
and make it dark
i close my eyes
and transport us
to a grove

i close my eyes
our bare feet stained red
as we stand on a bed
of bloodroot
white delicate flowers
petals on the ground
potent medicine

i close my eyes
and
see the celebrants
gather

Hazel as summoner
beckons us
into the sacred space

and now we wait,
for spring

we wait
to shout
out
together


HAIL! HAIL! HAIL! HAIL!
drum and dance
and Welcome

thank you for the welcome

hola is more domestic
hail makes me think in the army
but it´s just me

We return from partaking in
seasonal mysteries, cyclical,
our mission, musical, our
collective voices.

We usher in yet another
turn of earth, turn turn turn
a garden bed with a pitchfork.

We watch God watch us, awed
by our smallness. We are
worker ants. He is the
landscape architect,
the botanist.

We prepare our bed for seeds
to be buried in wet soil, fertilized,
stamen and pistol, stalk and
sepals, petals coming soon,
coming soon,
stigma, style, ovary,
ready for reproduction.

Photosythesis is
sexy. Come with me
and I will be
your perfection.
Let us combine
to make
earthmagic!

Interesting note - Flowers with all male or all female parts are called "imperfect" (cucumbers, pumpkin and melons). Flowers that have both male and female parts are called "perfect" (roses, lilies, dandelion). No kidding!

many fear conflict
but
conflict
can be understood
as opportunity
and can be good

many fear power
but
power
can be understood
as influencing others
and can be good
too

some don't like
hail
but
hail
can be understood
as a way to get someones attention
as what you call out
when you are two ships
passing in the night
as an exuberant salutation

it is good too

words
framed by our frame of reference

flowers
are they perfect
or imperfect
i know what i choose
to think

doesn't make me right
and
you wrong
doesn't make you right
and
me wrong

hail or hola or yo-yo
i choose
and
you choose

as long as we understand
then there is no need for perfect
or imperfect
in relation to a flower
in relation to a word
in relation to you
in relation to me

seems to me

...[/i]a note

"hail" was judih's word used above
my interpretation is my interpretation
and not meant to be judih's

Hyacinth called me.
She sent her
little scents,
like smoke signals,
from around the side
of the porch.
I couldn't help
but smile back
when I saw her.
Perfect pink.
Shy, permissive
girlflower,
curly petaled baby,
she wanted me
to pick her up
so I did.

I made
her a throne
mid-diningroom table
where the
sunlight hits.
("She likes the way
it feels warm,
on the back
of her stem.") *
She's all
decked out,
in royalty
crystal glass,
a spring princess,
slow table-dancing,
in sugarwater.


*the idea is from one of Mind Bum's recent poems that I really liked. It just fit too good here. But totally Mind bums great notion......borrowed respectfully and duly noted as such
H

There are stories of springtime

stories of
daffodils
violets
bloodroot
tulips

stories of the flowers of spring

i remember the story
of an old lady
and
her tulips

she planted them
outside
her bedroom window

she lovingly tended them
from the sign of the first green
pushing up through the earth
she nurtured them
protected them from the cold
made way for the sunlight

they grew tall
and they grew strong
they were beautiful
year after year

one evening
the old lady
woke
from a deep sleep

it was very late
the moon was high overhead
and shone into her window

but it was not the light
that woke her

it was a sound
outside her bedroom window

the sound
of babies laughing
pure, sweet, uninhibited
giggles
from the bellies of babies

the old lady
walked quietly
into her garden

there in her tulips
amid the petals
lay baby faeries

mother faeries
hovered next to each bloom
they
rocked their babies
to and fro

the babies giggled

every night as long as the tulips bloomed
there was the sound of laughter
the laughter of faery babies

year after year after year

then the old lady died
and
the tulips were torn up
and
in their place
parsley
was planted

more practical they said
than tulips

the parsley died
they planted more
it did not survive
it could not live in the place
where the tulips had grown
and the faeries had rocked their babies

a mile away
where the old lady now slept
each spring
her grave was covered
with beautiful spring flowers
daffodils, violets, bloodroot
but none more beautiful than
the tulips

and you can hear the laughter of the faeries still
as the old lady sleeps

night has fallen
eric burdon sings
when I was young
and down the street
an old lady walks
her dogs whilst we
sit on high listening
to rolling stones heaven
waiting for the white
bird in a golden cage to
arise....................

as the time of hope
approaches
as the time of beauty
approaches

may we all be
effective players
on team humanity

see you in the spring!

wireman

remember the days of eric burdon
and
spill the wine
take that pearl

we laid ourselves down
in a big field of tall grass
and we made love
not war

we lay
bodies touching
innocence melding
caressing
hands
caressing sun
on those hot summer days

and when we dreamed
we dreamed of peace

that the whitebirds would fly freely
that the length of our hair
would be a matter of choice
not a political statement

the crazy lady appeared to us
i thought she whispered
a promise of peace

but here we are
the hot flames are still at our backs

the crazy lady disappeared
but has returned

what is on her lips this time
did she have the answer
does she have the answer
will we understand
and
what will we do if we do

see you in the spring wireman

i look forward to walking with you some more

Force me to walk a path in a public square –
allow the crowd to whip me with reeds
until my skin bleeds, my blood, the remedy,
my blood dripped to my feet, a sticky walk,
a ridicule, a veritable abuse! I am not worthy
of heartbeat or breath! Put me to the test!
Murder me by a stab into my hands,
a sword pierced below my ribs!
Hang me on a tree so all who suffer
can identify with me! Make a mockery
by crowning my forehead with thorns!
Hide my desolate bones in a tomb
sealed with a rock and I will vanish
to be reborn on the third morn', my
gift to you, my gift to you, my death,
my rising, my death, my rising!

Spring me from imprisonment!
Sacrifice me now for I am humiliated
to be human!

if we believe in resurrection
we might as well believe in spring
seeds dead in the tomb
and with a subtle tilt of the earth
a rolling of the stone
they are summoned by angels into life.

Don't argue with me on this
I subpoena the maple as it breaks into bloom
and showers us with its helicopter seeds
stop me, or next I'll be talking about
hyacinths
lillies