Long Articulations Poems
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Articulation
Elocutions
Evolutions
Ecolution
Eartholution
Ecologics
Earth ReGenerate Revolution
Earth Health Enculturing Solution
EarthBound Rivival Articulations
Translation
Transliteration
Transformation
Transubstantiation
Transmutation
MultiCultural TransFiguration
PolyCultural
PolyMorphic
PolyPathic
PolyMathic
PolyPhonic
PolyParadigmatic PolyVagal Therapeutic Outcomes
PolyCulturally Landscaped OrthoPraxis
BeLoved PolyCultural Communicants
BiCameral Articulators of Time's Zero-Centric BiLaterality
of EgoYangAuthentic AND EcoYintegral Balance
of EarthTribe's RNA/DNA PolyGenitors
looking through transcendent Sunlight
feeling immanently warm Earthpowers
Reviving polyvagal health-wealth
(0)Mega Tipping Points
toward polypathic co-redemption
InterReligiously invoking
panentheistic paradigms
mystically whispered
mysteriously thriving
transformative transliterations.
AN INSTRUMENT
&
THE PLAYER
Once upon a time - not so long ago - encountered, was this exotic GU ZHENG. Fate, placed this lovely Instrument, into the hands of an old player, a musician who had been laid to rest, who had lain dormant, frozen in time, among the ashes of reflections of the music he once played, music that created the sights and sounds that made up the visions he now looks into, of his past.
This old man's abilities - decaying, flaccid from so many years of neglect and impotency - came to life, to life with such desire, that it made possible, movements from his tired old mind, mouth, hands and fingers that would play sounds, vibrations of heavenly music, that would sing to the ears of his lost old soul, lifting his spirit to heights once only known to his youth now to extro into the world of the living, once again, fingers - like that of the gods - gliding over this elegant, sweet Instrument, caressing her with whispered strokes, much like those of silent breezes on a clear, worm summer's day as they slide across the quivering strings of this beautiful GU ZHENG, that now - after so brief a moment, making such heavenly articulations -has given up the music, ending the dance, turning down low, the lights that once, where as brilliant as a million suns, and taking the music - silently drifting across the players recollections of tunes they once danced to -and slipping it into the hands of another .
The old musician slips into a cloak of sadness, of dark dirges he puts into his own words, plays from his instrument, - the broken heart - plucking at it's dead strings, bringing to life the blues, the song of his awakening .
B. J."A" 2
February 16th 2011
I think, and sometimes fear,
we have two ways, maybe more,
to read the four holy gospels,
and any sacred scripture,
and any regeneration/degeneration story
of creative tension,
win/win sweet spot future aspirations
midst win/lose historic raw spots
of past experience.
We can read Earth's inspired articulations
as a book of spiritually correct answers,
removed from complex historical-cultural context
in a move toward fundamentally correct creed development
for moral
and political
and economic
and ecological correctness.
And/or
we can listen for Earth's expirations
and inspirations,
reading and listening to naturally spiritual correcting questions,
embedded in universal historical
and uniting multicultural content
of fundamentally healthy development
for resiliently robust climates
and cultures,
timeless times of spiraling revolutionary win/win
ego/eco-logical balance corrections.
If we too readily approach sacred scripture for morally correct answers,
we are likely to forget
divine purpose seeks better,
more inclusive,
inviting,
transparent,
vulnerable,
courageous and curious health questions.
Magic evaporates with comprehension
yet mystery and majesty and myth
deepen and widen with understanding
how where we came from
is also why we return.
Pathology and suffering diffuse with ego's eco-consciousness
and miracles erupt through standing under
where Earth's now time comes forth
imagining our healthiest echoing habitat returns.
Magic transubstantiates patriarchal fake articulations.
Historic
yet mythic
mysteries
mesmerize
matriarchal comprehensions.
Regenerating sacred loves
decompose well-wombed happiest lives
rewoven.
New ecopolitical regenerations
reborn through transuterine eliminations.
Born into light
to bright
for sight
then night
invites Spring Lights
for Summer's nutritional diastatic Bright
of Harvest Healthy Sight,
retiring Winter's long cold Nights
of dream-wombed comprehension,
mourning for morning springs of breezy
warm
moist
Light reborn again.
Magic absorbs patriarchal fascinations
yet sacred Earth's misty myths eliminate
lack of ego's eco-comprehensions,
absence of magically
pricked
pretensions.
THE WORDS CAME OUT ...
I am the mannequin metal hinges rusted articulations
The unfeeling solid dead wood that swirls with patterns
The unctuous rat flickering black eyed damp molasses tipped fur he's
wet drenched sweat
runs circles in my brain fur like nicotine stains run run running rat
in my brain as I fret
He smiles as he circles round again "you will die soon" wiggles his
whiskers and runs again
The death of you comes on in an instant no glint of shimmering hope
Hot air speak words forming vibration carried anvil to drum send the
message straight through. a punctured symphonic cacophony
No arrow more materially solid can outdo words This will kill you.
Words,words, words they are naught but air imbued with magical quality
of affecting reality changing futures, fabricating pasts. They wage
wars they posses power--- to kill, heal, entice, steal, excite, defy you,
eulogize you ---death in an instant by words The words: I don't love
you anymore.
"A personal shout-out to our sponsors and their vapid articulations who made this message possible," ... by The Poet.
Poets and poetesses ascribe to a greater call,
in their endeavors to make their chosen path a cure-all
from those who trivialize and minimize their virtuous
field of poetry's righteous domain and their arduous
measures to maintain a certain quality in their works
of art, to the world of writers past and present, networks
that tethers a fragile grasp on absolutes discipline,
and severance from the mundane, effortless, and simpleton,
out from the left field, melodramatic, sugarcoating,
southpaws are unreasonable and consequently, nothing
our opponents that come out from the left field properly
have no concept of true value to offer poetry.
The body-personal will be achieving little today.
Today is a too tight T-shirt.
Bloat and insomnia
have measured and found soft round toads
croaking in the swamp of being.
There are squawky
oral articulations in dry joints.
A fate has made its presence known
revealing pre-set mousetraps
strewn upon the path of well laid plans;
it warns obliquely of dentures mechanically
nibbling on stale cheese.
Knowing the hours will belch
and empty-out air that could have
breathed new life into words,
Perceiving that chattering mind-children
will cross the distracted mind
without a crossing guard,
be bowled over, squashed, spread
over neural highways,
their scant electric membranes
dissolving and denuded
leaving a sticky residue
over the body personal...
then that body
must retire and regroup
into a proto-cognizance,
a glow of phosphorescence
too primal to be snared,
yet able to predict
when it can get out of itself -
hopefully.
The cymbals create,
A mesmerizing sound
Reaching their brass highs
I sit listening to the blues come alive.
The music is guiding me,
Reminding me of sounds and sights
We've infused our vibes, our lives
In our tune's beat, making it sound all right!
I stroll down the streets,
I can hear the Musicians Nine
They're blowing into their tin horns
Enticing everyone around them to listen.
Tiny Foster is there:
Effortlessly strumming on his cords
Making enchanting melodies on his
Beat-nick guitar; he records.
People are passionately sitting,
They started reciting in their poetries
Speaking their lines in rhythmic rhymes
Talking in verse, laying out some lines.
Representing themselves profoundly with articulations,
In the beauty of prose, it was best that I mention
An atmosphere that leads on for hours, contemplations
You can get lost in it if you give in to an elongation.
Upon rising, awakened by
ripening scent teasing my nose,
trilling my lips and tongue, – my taste buds opening
to bird-like songs as dawn's light breathes new life
and hope into my journey, so begins
a fresh flutter of time, an extending
run of exclamatory chirps and wing-full
stretching –
Muse beckons, yielding to artist'
pen and eye – we are co-authors, exchanging
thoughtful leafs and sun-dipped pages; mingling natures,
swapping poetic voice, reversing positions of artist vs model –
conjuring word-images and interactive, painted-canvases – confounding our seasons of
blossoming and harvest, embracing God's budding voice and fruitful manifestations,
His nectar-ed, figurative language, blending human with Divine senses....
displaying contrasts that stimulate exploratory forming
and transitory shading – clearing and clouding
affects both inside and on my outside, as the clutter of
yesterday, and promise of a spring-like showers soak
crusty sediments with saturating, fertile possibilities;
all taking bows – the theater that of spiritual mastery –
Mystery is
my source, my echo, my chambered growth.
My resources, exploitable enclaves of poetic walls, primed,
awaiting both solid and abstract vibrations, energizing
experimental blurbs, those planned and random into searchable
articulations, grasping, too often vainly, for fantastical alliteration
of sterile, common-place views –
I am deepened and ready to let air
we are each our best audience
my left-hand meeting your right
for a brisk clap of inspiration followed
by riotous applause....
The crust which formed 4 billion years ago,
Only came at the extinction of the molten,
And the microbial mat fossils keenly found
From 3.48bn years ago, came from graphite!
Over 99% of all known species are extinct,
Vital life is just a specification of yourself,
You will influence others for better or worse,
Life is ours and not god’s to mould or sculpt.
Those who are by you truly most inspired,
Will inevitably become strong, bit like you,
To supersede, to survive in another’s place,
Such that humankind is becoming better.
Speciation by niche events is very beautiful,
It codes life by behaviour and not by speech,
Inherited genes are based on action, deed,
Rather than on religious articulations devious.
Mass extinction is not normal, ending comes
To every species of any kind in every society:
Up to half of today’s plant and animal species,
Will be extinct by 2100 without question, doubt.
Death is ok, universal, and happens to us all,
It’s normal, and from it comes something good:
From death’s non-entity, speciation happens,
Which allows life’s structures to flow vibrantly.
Evolution does not exclude anyone, no one,
Not the week, not the disabled, not a starfish,
Every individual’s struggle and pride matter,
And the fit, moral, are modelled and mimicked.