I
If the Universe came into being Itself
As a quantum vacuum
Which is never totally empty
Never devoid of all particles and energy
Then, one-actor is the Source
Of everything there is!
If all it takes is energy to gather
Then enough mass will create!
Be it star, sun, or life -- human or other
II
You are the one actor on stage
The universal stage
Shakespeare got a hint of it
One actor in his time plays many parts
Like plasma, protoplasmic, slow flow
Go, go, go, through each galaxy
Like a Midas touch for life miracles ...
There is no Other! All self, the Universal Self
As Jesus prayed, lived, played
Out: Exeunt stage Right
Scripture: Gospel of John, see Jesus' talk on Holy Spirit, and His high priestly prayer, Jn.17
The female calendar
The night cosmos opens the earth to moisture,
germination of the moonlight rejoice.
Tenderizing the ground to reach the underwater sight,
mist of luminous Moon light from the pull of monthly tide.
Moon phases of the great cosmic dance,
fertilization in the ovum of darkness to advance.
Circulation of blood and sap in plants,
the mother calendar naturally grants.
More difficult to observe the orbit of the Moon,
then that of the earth around the Sun.
The earth spirit as transformer by protoplasmic intention,
capable of reciprocal relation with all its creation.
It is cosmos to those who know the way,
and chaos to those who lose it by rational stray.
The female live in the lunar circle of body,
becoming and changing the order of everybody.
The secret time keeper and its flowing,
the witnessing of the body growing.
Moon, mind, calendar, menstruation, month,
Honeymoon, fortnight, fertility crunch.
When the paradox splits into dualism,
the act of natures consciousness as prism.
I see the oven lit from the center of the earth
The heat forcing apart the egg's brittle shell
And into the liquid sea of wrath, like mad birds
Diving for the fish by gravity's default, the crust
In scraps dissolved as things fall apart. Another scene
The towers falling amidst the dismal grey.
Babel is more than confusion, much, much more
The citadels of the human heart that roar and roar
Where the wind thresh in them, the howling winds
Of our eternal emptiness. After the towers were gone
I remember clog after clog of protoplasmic ash
Moving frantically like bubbles when flood waters churn
And there was no distinction with humanity again,
For class and creed was dissolved in pandemonium and fear
And we were barely specters in the livid air.
Worse, worse, the final coming of the curse
The beast out of the waters bowels making travail
Then the silence, the dark barren chaos of silence
Water upon water and land and mountains gone
And the water like the great football of the cosmos
Shuddering like another Leda for deity's coming
And the fire muted, blind, crippled, annihilated
And the morning stars singing sweetly that new song.
.
There on the canvas
a chaos of dazzling colors
pulsates as a blinding blur
of tints and tinges.
At an angle, it throbs
as a soft, slow-mo swirl
of a mute, intergalactic
explosion of hues.
From another, it flows
as a fluid light from a prism
into the depths of a micro-
protoplasmic sea.
Is it a glorious sunrise
or a sad sunset, perhaps?
Or mere myriads of refracted
thoughts and feelings?
The mood and temper
of the art beholder,
the ultimate judge, hard-
headed and fickle:
Does the absent artist
make any sense in what
was or wasn't painted?
Or does that matter?
.
Creeks in your heart flower the moss that stagnates
blood is red rubied and frozen dead
it is protoplasmic is my guess
rooted deep check with floss
slights and rejects have numbed you sad
emotional rocks and hearty shocks
have slithered in snakey and they are sinking glad
poison is sinewed and wide spread
if there is anything sourer than sour
then it is you my lad!
any sharp look pierces in like broken glass
onlooker is enemy that you wished were dead
down eyed not syndromed so you live
breaths do come and go-life does not
violence builds in grey not escaping
though you wish with impotent futility
to give them all back
dear boy! hold on to all you got
here is another SACK!
over the brink and good gaud (with him yeah) solid dead!
An interplay of vibrant colors on canvas
pulsates as a bright blur
of tinges and tints;
at an angle, it's a throbbing, intergalactic
slow-mo swirl, a mute
explosion of hues;
at another, it's fluid light from a prism
in the depths of a micro-
protoplasmic sea;
a glorious sunrise, a sad sunset, perhaps,
myriads of refracted throughts
and feelings;
the mood and temper of the beholder,
the ultimate judge, hard-
headed and fickle:
does the absent artist make sense in what
was or wasn't painted,
or does that matter?
Kate.
Catherine Wheel.
Left only char-mark traces on
this dirty laundry line post;
unrequited love so brightly shone
scarred by a pyrotechnical ghost.
Spun.
Vibrant fire.
White hot with turquoise spangled eyes,
burnt, exploded, rattled death;
as tails of auburn fireflies
blew kisses of fleeting gossamer breath.
Flash.
Sudden dark.
Spectral afterburn, protoplasmic and cold
then nothing save a vacant space;
dreams and youth fell numb and old
in the vacuum of a lost embrace.
Kate.
Catherine Wheel.
Spent firework, beckons yet she warns
burnt offerings are the end of it;
a heart may ache and forever mourn,
some things should never be re-lit.
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