Long Tribal Poems
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What is the difference between a Rescuer
and a Facilitator?
A codependent
and a resilient health-enabler?
Why?
If we insist we must have at least one,
What is a difference
between a pan-sectarian Messiah/Bodhisattva,
a co-inviter into health-fertile mutual service
And, a compassioned co-facilitator,
an eco/ego-therapist,
An Other/Self-cooperative healer?
As for the first,
I look for a distinction,
unconscious or not,
between LeftEgo's self-dominant intent
for internal wealth-serving service,
growing more fame and less infamy,
more adoration and less apathy,
self-rescuing from an anonymous pit
of unprominent history;
On the other hand,
the Facilitator is an equal opportunity rescuer
for both Ego and Ego's healthy EcoHabitat,
including planet,
animals and plants and people,
foreign forests and HereNow complex technocratic cities,
far away deserts and internal oceans of motion,
former golden days and still perpetual nights,
past nutrition and future health,
ancient tribes and future families.
As for differences
between sacred CoMessiahs
and eco-over-ego secular therapists,
perhaps the difference between an integral spirit of abundant faith
and a robust soul for healthy and humble HereNow agnosticism,
like John Rawls' vulnerable veil of self/other unknowing,
perhaps this is one of those distinctions between metaphysical identities
without a RealTime physical nature difference,
The dubious difference between non-violent sacred communication
and enthymematic,
nondual-WinWin,
secular co-passionate discernment,
between LeftBrain active hope
for future cooperative healthy-wealth understanding,
and RightBrain historical faith
in ancient wealthy-health tribal experience
DNA's secular/sacred nonsectarian history
of rescuing ourselves
from dubious
dead-end
unhealthy differences.
What's the difference between what's metaphysically uplifting
and what's physically integral,
interdependent,
synergetic?
Maybe both are heavier
and one promises to co-arise lighter?
Which key should I put this song in?
I sing in G Ionian/major comfortably,
Likewise the relative E Aeolian/minor scale.
Plus those guitar chords are easy as sin.
I could choose a scale that’s more exotic -
D Mixolydian has the same notes and chords.
Hungarian or Roumanian minor, Spanish Gypsy.
Or another scale derived from minor harmonic.
Keep it simple – let’s start with the G Major scale.
Should I do a basic 1-4-5 with major G/C/D chords?
Or a jazzy 2-5-1 with A minor/D/G ending on the tonic?
Let’s do a bluesy 1-4-5 with a turn-around at the tail!
Just major and minor triad chords are boring.
Major, minor, and dominant sevenths can be cool;
But I’m rather partial to suspended seconds and fourths.
My sliding E diminished flat 7th will keep the fans from snoring!
What can I do to add even more pizzazz and glitz?
Slowly build the dynamic and rhythmic complexity.
Give the crowd a tribal chorus they can sing to.
Add a spanking hot hook throughout that never quits!
It was the trophy hunt that played you out
In deafening degrees,
This video-invention of yourself revealed –
A theatrical display that formed the day,
A message of power, the plug-and-play
Of your most infamous hour
There was no prelude, no tribal peace
You ruled the jungle – you, the King
Of all the living things
Fools that they were, yet still they had the means
To foil the brimming scheme
So spectacular to its day – your grand
Safari of ambition, ranger man
The hunt was in your hands
Taking cover in a stand you scoped the prey
– the kill was underway
Stalking from afar you teased them out
And played them all for rubes –
Accomplishing an arsenal without a clue
You kept them in the dark, while you
Enlightened your black heart
And idly stoked your gleaming tools
You sprang from your blind
And moved in quick with claws extended
– soon your lust for blood was ended
Then time slowed down as lightning flash
As you became the bullet to the glass
Whose fragile peace was shattered in a rout
The day you let the lion out –
This is the end!
Like the Adele's song in “Skyfall”
Walter rests there near slain
like a warrior deserted in a battle
in blood, sweat and pain.
His memories sling on,
his fall, his defeat, and triumph,
too many wrong deeds, too many stumbles.
He welcomes death, the ultimate price he pays.
Why do people die for their families?
Is it a basic tribal instinct?
Is it a sequel of human evolutionary process?
Or is there something beyond eternal bliss?
Walter cannot answer that question.
His last wish! Only thing for he craves,
Junior could have deemed his words
“I didn't kill your uncle Hank.
Please believe me my son.”
But it is too late,
Walter knows he slit his son’s trust and faith.
It is harrowing for Walter to accept.
He raised his fading eyes and asked
why was God so cruel and unjust?
A gale blows, it chills his mind and wound.
The lulling smile of his baby Holly gleams
and it him reminds,
there is water for her to bathe
there is air for her to breathe
the Sun will light her fresh life to bloom.
For that he thanks God in his dying gloom
and he smiles before he folds for good.
A Sitka Sunset
Mute wind chimes on the Totem Trail
Ring through purple mists in
Platinum testimony to evergreens adorned in dusk
And leftovers from raindrops splashing from totem beaks,
Cedar poles rise from dense fogs
Of myths and warriors and family lore
Shrouding thunderbirds in legends as day retreats.
Life cycles carved in family crests on tribal poles,
Guardians of the lodge with ancient ancestry
In pounding drums of blue-violet
Borrowed from aurora’s glistening breath -
Neon rose from realms of the faithful midnight sun.
Wide eyed, the trickster’s face looks
Upon long violet hours of summer nightfall,
A borealis golden glow on still waters
Recalls the carvers awl and plane
Tools that capture crystal enchantment
Like newborn waves from Orca’s fluke.
Eagle, bear and beaver, with sentient eyes,
Bathed in fragile rose of a waxing strawberry moon,
Follow long sunbeams wending through forest trails
In twilight colored prisms
For silent storytellers,
Prophetic voices chant through days of midnight
And frail twilights
On the Totem’s Trail as sunset rises.
5-24-23
Contest: Sitka Alaska Sunset
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
In Alaskan folktales the Raven is the trickster
Thunderbirds, bears, orcas, beavers, eagles are prominent on totem poles made of cedar.
In Sitka there is a park displaying totem poles.
In case of article fourteen
Quite a problem could have been
Solved completely, setting free
All from tribal pedigree
No prejudice would take place
Based on nation or the race
No one meets with deprivation
Well protected by convention
Be it truth, we could have been
Living in most fairiest dream
Ever dreamt about, or heard
Magic of the written word
Would reach out the moral height
For the sake of human rights
But of course it’s just a joke
Article fourteen evokes
Well known habit to proclaim
Vaguely written rules of game
That’s not law, but just convention
Paving hell with good intention
Fence the road, and change some slabs
Re-elect old fags and hags
No one reads conventions, man
Wishful thinking is a damn
That’s innate with human race
I would really be amazed
If the article fourteen
Meant to be a real thing.
I suspect mercy may be more resiliently empowering
for optimizing multicultural health and safety
as compared to uniform law
and ordered, cookie-cutter, justice
unresponsive to ubiquitous mitigating circumstances
of unique spaces
and relentlessly changing times.
Mercy recognizes society's environmental
historical contributions to loss,
to absence of equitable justice
more aware of each individual perpetrator's responsibility
to society,
to family,
to local community
Society's justice,
without nurturing
restorative mercy,
speaks decontextualized
un-nuanced authority of capital-measured economic systems
including reasonable and fair expectations
of retributive law,
imprisoning neglect
and sometimes violently punishing order.
I wonder if both justice and mercy
improve therapeutic co-arising potency
restoring merciful justice
AND
revising metaphysically just
equitable
reuniting mercy,
co-redemptively resolving
what Earth has positively conjoined
in thoughtful truth
and felt beauty
Breathing,
re-animating,
enspiriting
inspiring nature's in and out climates
of seasonal development,
undevelopment,
redevelopment,
anti-development,
pro-development,
fractal phases of leftbrain space
mercifully greeting,
halfway meeting,
bilateral rightbrain TaoTime
With merciful multicultural anticipation,
so less competitive room
for monoculturing white justice anxiety
about sufficient health and tribal safety
for all EarthTribe's resilient health.
Rock salted fields hard-by thwacking sea's
shorelines of wave-shaved boulders
a fluidity that mimics an oceans alien speech.
The fractured artifacts of tribal migrations
roll in the surf as grains of an ancient sand,
there are hints and a sense of raw faiths,
of the obscure paint of submerged visages,
facets only visible
through the eroded lens of a former doom.
On these shifting margins,
insipient nations as naked as any roaming wind
declined amidst their own young bones,
laying down to wither away in exhausted camps.
Rinsed by a ceaseless ebb and flow,
the stonewashed threads of the bygone
suggest landscaped formations
of humanity.
We have seen the rise and fall of the scattered,
their cultures a supposition of burnt offerings,
yet we should also
confess to a towering significance:
one that we estranged settlers
will eventually leave as a jigsaw of watermarks,
or as further innocent signs
of our own barbaric existence.
He plays a song passed down for centuries,
By a nation that exists no more;
On a flute carved from a sycamore tree,
While sitting on the forest floor.
His father was a tribal chief,
For a people who once were great;
Now living on welfare relief -
His punishment for being born too late.
Holding fast to his cultural ties,
He is the last of a dying breed;
Not succumbing to a history of lies;
Warnings to fit in, he does not heed.
At home by himself in the thick of the woods,
Under a full moon in the quiet breeze;
He lives his life the way that he should -
The last to play this melody.
by, Joe Flach for Constance's "Tell His Story" Contest
All you do
All you say
All you write
In the jasmine garden
Is a frenzied drum
Bludgeoning me to dumb
Intensely numb
I feel
As I reel
Yes
As you come
Rising on tides
Passion overflowing
Deluge in the veins
In a hurricane
You dominate
You violate
You annihilate
My stability
My balance
My tranquility
My nonchalance
You seek to
Sweep me off my feet
I resist
To be devastatingly kissed
Who does want
A plundered restaurant
I hold breath
But you hit underneath
With your tremendous vigour
A wild rigour
Breaking all norm
Of rhythm and form
You become
The fierce Atlantic storm
From head to toe
Fast or slow
Everything you claim
You monster hurricane
In a primitive joy
You destroy
Spears and arrows you employ
Pull down and enjoy
In a poor coordination
I reach my limitation
And surrender
Before your violence
And horror
Frantically you tear
All the roses there
The tendrils of hair
The hymns of prayer
Whether in Florida
Or in Miami
Riding on reckless liberty
Everywhere the same misery
Either Katrina or Irene
Harvey or Irma
The same surging ocean
The same commotion
You flood me with
I groan beneath
I have to writhe
And wriggle as fiercely you breathe
Well now as you are quieted
Having deconstructed
All my emotions
Are now back to the ocean
Give me your resilience
The ocean’s brilliance
Let me reconstruct and create
My new cup and chocolate
My balance
In the new circumstance
In future if you need to come
Come with tribal drum
Played by striking with sticks
In the nerves crimson kicks
Come in drizzling ice and gentle rains
Not in tornadoes and hurricanes
Please …