To the seedlings sprouting in the 8 corners of the world:
An open communique can lead towards
a perilous precipice overlooking jagged rocks
being pounded by the relentless waves
of a cold, apathetic ocean --
in such a circumstance,
it doesn't take much to slip,
to be pushed, to be sent over the edge,
shattering upon the rocks below,
sucked down by an undertow
erasing all evidence of your prior existence.
We have come to an impasse,
the windows of opportunity
in the jet-streams of change,
are passing by at astounding speeds.
A true Anarchist
is not a Terrorist;
leave such decrepit despondency
to ultra-fanatic zealots and the New Gestapo.
A true Anarchist
should not fight for lawlessness,
should not wish for chaotic, wanton destruction -
such myths are propagated by automatons
and the controllers themselves.
A true Anarchist
should not raise placards in protest,
should not spray-paint graffiti
upon the walls of gaudy Bauhaus replications,
nor lob Molotov cocktails
at an establishment so entrenched,
four heads grow back
to replace every head, decapitated.
A true Anarchist
dons a masque of mirages,
reflecting nationalism, consumerism and Swastikas
back into the eyes of the pushers.
A true Anarchist does so
by donning the uniforms of business districts,
of the worker,
of the paint-splattered, ink-stained artisan.
When a true Anarchist
gains the confidence and trust
of Drones left in charge
of oiling the cogs,
a true Anarchist enters the control-room
not to smash instruments,
turns dials, flicks switches, presses buttons,
re-writes programs and codes,
in order to help alter the directional course
of the very Beast itself.
When job positions within monopolies prevent us from working together
towards a goal far greater than lining the pockets of a few,
when schools stop us from educating ourselves,
and are instead, assembly lines churning-out tin soldiers,
when governments prevent humanity from achieving self-determination,
when media keeps us informed about current events,
rather than us becoming involved in the events,
then only in resistance will we find each other;
will we find ourselves in the purest sense.
The masqued ones are erasing themselves
within a society in which everything is under surveillance,
measured, quantified and appraised,
where everything is determined by resumes,
credit history, internet profiles.
Background checks, gossip columns, intelligence agencies,
conspire to drag every last detail out into the open.
The masqued ones live in an in-between world
being squeezed by other worlds.
It is a world existing in the hope of understanding reality,
by changing reality.
If the powers that be, can reveal the hidden world,
dragging it out under the searing spotlight of scrutiny,
under the spotlight of current mass-ideology,
then one more possible world reality becomes extinct
under the boots of Fascists using the freedom of speech
to silence the freedoms of everyone else;
eventually, even including themselves.
The controllers want to show there are no unchartered paths
leading away from the programmable masses of mundanity.
Therefore, the masque is seductive to those not fully conditioned
to become blind sheep led by shepherds, towards the slaughter.
The masque suggests mystery, unknowns,
alternative endings to a story covered in mildew.
The masque symbolizes a threat to an entrenched establishment.
The masque becomes the chrysalis in which a pupa
can evolve into something different; into something new.
....in warrens deep below,
Babylon-kids write love songs,
and above ground, people preach rights and freedoms,
while enslaving the world in the chains of a democracy
that has never truly existed.
Democracy is a dream turned nightmare,
so the Babylon-kids are keeping the dream
of a choose-your-own-adventure, alive.
©Alfreda Williamson, 6/29/12
Spring’s first day . . .
as cold as
Winter’s first blast.
Until . . .
as hot as, blazing,
Then . . .
as I stood in,
the midst of the seasons.
I felt it,
ever so softly, almost imperceptibly,
a brushing against my cheek,
a landing on my bare feet,
that I almost could not feel.
that I saw in my mind’s eye . . .
swirling speedily to the ground,
as if heralding,
TIME, catching up to itself.
SEASONS, catching up to themselves,
All at once . . .
I set off along the faint trail
it was one I had not noticed before
plunging me deep into unknown territory
stomach clenched in excitement as I strode on
Tall old Oaks, Aspens, Chestnuts and Beeches
cloaked the way ahead, I was aware of silence
rather a nervous paused silent as if holding it's breath
everything seemed to be waiting for something to happen
Deeper into the woods I went, admiring the new slightly odd
flora and fauna scattered about, beautiful flowers blooming
mushrooms two feet and more wide with red and yellow spots
sturdy enough to sit on while I took a rest
Slipping into sleep I traveled even deeper
until I came to the heart of these mysterious woods
a shout went up from elves, fairies and pixies
she is here at last, our soon to be crowned new queen
A magical glen with a throne in the middle
red carpet made from red flower petals strewn
jewels most wondrous glinting in the trees
birds so colorful that they dazzle as they fly
Clasping me by the hand the pixies lead to the throne
once I am seated, they serve me with golden nectar
tasty berries and cakes of flowers on leaves for plates
full of such excitement I gaze around the clearing
A place of tranquility and majestical splendor
little houses in the trees and small fairy lights
standing sentinel was an ancient gnarled Oak
branches waving as it moved towards me
Shaking as it drew closer and stopped before me
an elf handed it a crown that glittered with gems
turning to me it said let the crowning commence
with great ceremony he uttered the words
"Has any here just cause as to why she shouldn't be crowned?"
A deathly silence prevailed not even a murmur
Then turning to me he placed it on my head
all around were now on bended knee, heads bowed
The oak said "Now you are our ordained queen"
As a great cheer went up I startled back awake
the clearing, throne and all the little people vanished
All that was left behind was a feather of wonderful hues
and the crashing of a startled stag fleeing into the trees
contest In The Woods
The cool dampness of the morn wraps its blanket around me inviting me come
sit enjoy..The gap in the hedge row calls my name; come into the mist be
shrouded and walk into the unknown as the rooster crows constantly stirring the
air with their vocals..The sun with its yellow light of illumination ever getting
brighter and warmer draws creatures of the sky to fly and sing praises..There is
beauty all around on this spring morn. .Silly Mocking Bird said Whip-Poor-Will
and for a second he had me totally confused was I getting up or going to
And the westerly wind,
Will blow a sea of waving grass
And the sea's fine mist
Will breathe drops like dew
And the sinking suns
Will cloak the sky's horizon
And the moons of Autumn
Will beckon the golden fertililty of the harvest
And the violet tinged edge of night
Will cry for the white bursting of the stars
And the carved thrust of the mountain range
Will challenge the forever yielding blue
And the hovering tunes of the dawn's awakening
Will mimic the lullaby of my dreams
Encumbered with the walker
blankets for the wet bench,
sheets of water splashing the cement.
I ventured to my smoking spot
face hidden inside my hooded coat.
I light my fire stick,
letting drops of water
reverberate on my hood.
My angel came walking by
called my name;
gave me her umbrella and kept on walking.
Her Fate lies on a
Of muted red
Darkness speaks truth
Though gifts are silent
Blindly, she feels for
The magical key
That will finally unlock
His lonely chamber
Her spirit is gentle
Ready to disclose the one
She has loved
’Drink the blood that patiently
dripped from my heart into
this Sacred Cask, and as you
feel me rushing through
your veins know…I love you’
Can he see beyond
Time’s Regal cloak?
Lift the veil of which separates
logic and emotion?
Sight and touch?
She’s coming for him soon
With the key to his
‘Meet me at the
Bottom of the Spiral Staircase’
The tears she sheds
Belong to him…
Within the nucleus of an
Love hurts that much
A seemingly black abyss
Answering to the Dark
The deepest place
That eats away at her flesh...
She’ll sacrifice her life
If one moment
His eyes see…
The digital face displays a naughty grin. 5:23am.
Sliding into seat 23C, I double-check my ticket just to make sure:
Seat 23C on Flight 753241698, with a designated lift-off time of 6:08am.
Beside me, chuckles Robert Anton Wilson's spirit:
"See, this is exactly why we appointed you as a Cardinal(the bird?)
in The Church of The 23 Enigma. You are a perfect fit.
Son, this is a destiny you cannot change,
so why not just make the best of it.
The plane might crash, be refurbished or decommissioned,
but the flight itself doesn't ever stop. Ever.
Once you get on, get in, the flight stays on an infinite course.
Thank you for flying with: Synchronicity 23 Airways. Please, enjoy your flight."
What is it to me
that I cannot place you
in the picture painted by the years
the life has already spent?
Do you merely lurk,
and leave at a much later time?
you are staying
If you may.
While I find a place (for us)
in the picture of eternities,
the gods must be
Ah, the grand scheme of things -
A familiar spirit we feel -
(Note) This piece was inspiredly written for the beautiful souls - even the strangers - I have met along the way and will still come upon in my lifetime. To each special one, you have stirred quite a familiar spirit within. A remembrance of forgotten past, I suppose. Thank you for letting me peak through your soul's window. The veil of forgetfulness has never been thin as now to me. You have so given me a gift I shall treasure in the moments I may tend to forget who I truly am - a being with a soul.