To A YouTube Video Of Jerry Garcia And David Grisman

Blessed be the Hippie Grandfathers!
Do not forsake us as we have forsaken you.
Blessed be thy presence on YouTube.
Blessed be thy example of old man love.

To that video we beseech you to
Remain on earth as it is in the internet
And heaven, to be thy bounty as long
As we can hold you with our mouse and hearts.

Blessed be the Hippie Grandfathers.
Blessed are we that these two fine hippie gentle-men
Show us again how to talk to each other
With hands and strings and a solid song of justice.

The Winter Gardens

Like an old poet or civil servant.
Is that fluff on your jacket and a
Pen in your breast pocket?
Can I have your autograph?

My elder, my father, on the old
Concrete steps of the Winter Gardens.
Is that a bag in your hand or
Just the way you lean?

Planted there like some old
Shubbery, wherefrom comes your
Elegance? Can I have some?
From the ancestors of my clan?

What bearing becomes you.
Knitted vest like I wore, the
Smart Harris Tweed jackets
Were the smartest on us yet.

The Innocent Pornography Of Alex Grey

When you’re blessed by the vision of a goddess,
Up comes all the shame and guilt and private hell of sexuality.
Wow did that ever send one packing!

One was innocent, to be beset with such a fate,
The blessed vision of the goddess,
Being beset upon by many men.

One can only blame Google Search engines,
Those mechanical masters of synchronistic fate,
That offer such multiple variations of a delight on a plate.

A cornucopia of confessions of delight and love, and yes,
Desire like the fire to the flood of images in my mind,
Alex Grey’s legs spread all over the page.

Being beset upon by many men,
In this succulent narrative
Of possibility in this poem.

When innocence meets greed and the gorgeous
Thought of gorging in that gorge, those lips,
Those breasts, those feet.

The consciousness of the consciousness
That would ever be, ever such a goddess was open to me.
The blessedness of the duality of body and poetry.

And blame it all on Google Search engines if you please.
‘Alex Grey’ is also the artist of spiritual visionary art,
And a grey-haired high priest of the Tantric Arts.

Google ‘Alex Grey sex’ in Google Images if you’d like to now see,
The vision of the goddess as (if) it was revealed to me,
Not in visionary, non-visionary, binary, or any other space,

But simply as the innocence of your screen:
The pornographic multiplicity of sexual imagery, but
This time mixed in with the spiritual sexual art of Alex Grey!

Let it be a meditation of innocence and a goddess,
The inadvertent but very blessed body of Alex Grey.
Assure yourself you stumbled in, admittedly in a different way

By chance or impulse or desire or play, whether by chance
Or fate or synchro-nis-cios…itay! The very blessed body
Of Alex Grey, with Alex Grey’s art mixed in, all in one display!

Whether now a play of poetry or an actual experience
You can see and can now see arrayed, one would still
Have to say, it was worth the time to write and read.

And even to see – now, today – the blessed blending
Of pussy and penis almost seemingly never-ending
blended neverendingly in with the energetically deep-seeing

Visionary art of Alex Grey. Like rainbow, X-ray, hallucinogenic,
Light-wrapped, onion-skin, visionary layers, looking in
To all levels of couples coupling in sexual embrace.

You’d have to see it to believe, if it were there to be seen,
If it were there to be seen on one odd but rather blessed
Google Search engine days.

Lol (as they say), yes, hopefully you’ve guessed
The very innocence of this poem and this fate,
To be blessed by the goddess of goodness and Google.

Alex Grey’s legs spread all over the page, those pornographic
Magazines you had in your day – but here, yes here,
Between the pussy and the penis as Leonard would say:

All over your screen both Alex and Alex vision and visionary
Grey, pornographic goddess and visionary shower of the Way,
All for your delectalment of deliciousness (and wisdom)

All in one day. When one innocently Googles looking for
‘Alex Grey the artist’ but specifically his artwork of sexual
Content. Ah, ‘content’, what a pun, why would one ever be?

Content with such a multiplicity, municipalities, principalities!
Poetic profusions like words spilled all over your page; when
One is one with the Goddess that’s all that’s betrayed.

Good Men At Large

(in the spirit of Leonard Cohen)

 

You see them in conversation,
With open gestures and open hearts.
They’re generous with their attention.
The talking flows: it’s no fits and starts.

The defences are done,
It’s a heartfelt sound,
This dialogue has no camouflage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

They’re standing in their power,
Steady eyes and feet on the ground.
Their bodies are like a watchtower.
And their hearts they shine all around.

They’re sovereign kings
But they don’t need to bring
A bunch of followers or no entourage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

They’re speaking their truth in relationship,
Their voices gentle, kind and strong.
In their loving, it’s not a dictatorship.
They like to listen; they don’t speak too long.

They’re honest and open,
It’s what their women were hopin’
Was the truth – there’s no need for espionage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

These men are generous lovers.
They like to touch, be tender, and smile.
They’re sensitive when under the covers.
And they’re straight-up; there’s no need for guile.

But they’re not P.C.
When they see a sexy
Woman, they like to look at her decolletage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

These men are fierce, with clear boundaries.
They’re warriors and not a walk-over.
With a fiery spirit, they defend with ease/
With a spark, a flame, or supernova.

Like a spitfire plane,
They’re true with their aim.
There’s a tally of scores on the fuselage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

These pioneering men are changing the times.
You wouldn’t know it if you watched the T.V.
But if you’re out on the land, you would see the signs,
At the gathering: GOTC

Get Off The Concrete!
Don’t be a donkey!
If you’re thirsty, try it, it’s not a mirage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

Feb 2012

Radical Revision

Thomas undertook a radical revision of his life.
His life he felt to be a fiction unread by most men.
By ‘most men’ he reckoned anyone unacquainted with strife.
With strife at his roots, is there anyone who could not understand,
Not understand more than a superficial gloss or first glance?
“First glances won’t tell a thing about me”, he declared.
He declared to himself a radical revision the only chance,
The only chance to be read where the level of fact was bared.
Was bared and naked of fictions the place where he’d see?
He’d see if the answer was to be found at the roots.
The roots were where no words could capture such truth.
Such truth was not the various versions of him it suits…
“It ‘suits’ of others, yes!” he said, “but not of me.
Of me they know so little. Deep at my core is pain.
Is pain and strife the ‘fact’ of my deep enquiry?
Deep enquiry then is at least a form of vision I gain.”
I gainsay you’ll guess the insight that occurred to Thomas.
To Thomas was given a gift when indeed he saw again.
A gain begotten when the light of awareness is on us.
On us the onus to clear the path of our life of the slain.
The slain are the dead-eyed men we see ourselves as,
Ourselves as lonely and unwitnessed by others at the core.
The core in truth has always possessed the light that it has.
It has been covered by a fear that it’s only ourselves that we saw.
We saw that without others loneliness seems to win.
To win new eyes to see we must give up one more view.
More view in fact that to see only ourselves here is to sin.
To sin is to see the ‘I’ and not become the ‘Eye’ that’s all of you.
  
16-5-10

Meditation On A Photo Of Red Cloud

Grace falls from heaven.
This healing grief.
My throat catches.
I cannot express the way
This crosses my heart.
The suffering that bleeds
Into the plains.
The rivulets that run into the earth.
They are channels
Like the grooves of my forehead.
From the diamond centre
I am pierced like an arrow to the depths of me.
What has happened to my people?
  
17 -3 – 96

The Holy Masculine

Bagpiper stands at the top of a hill,
And he’s calling to his clan:
I’ll find my art and perfect this craft,
Til I know the holy masculine.

And a poet prays til he falls silent,
And trusts his words again.
Then writes of things that touch his heart,
Til he knows the holy masculine.

And both alone they travel home,
To communities of other men.
To play their songs and share their words,
And embrace the holy masculine.

Balls

I remember the day,
Down at the site of the sweatlodge,
When squatting naked, I had the realization
That I don’t sit down in my balls.

It was after the fire was out.
Around the rim of the firepit, it was wet.
And going deep inside, I felt my cock relaxing,
But I still wasn’t down in my balls.

I was moved to spread my thighs wider open,
And really sit down on my haunches.
My knees pushed the muscles of my biceps wide
As I tried to feel down into my balls.

I felt like some long-limbed frog,
My feet feeling the suction of the mud,
As I leaned slightly back and nearly sat down,
And my balls touched the cold of the ground!

Electric eels could do no more!
But soon the cool mud pressed around,
And relaxing further, I discovered I was able,
Heels against the bones of my arse, to sit stable.

And the frog became an ancient toad.
I sat there for nearly an hour,
And pondered life on the edge of the pond,
Sitting down in my balls and my power.

 

Rage

We hated those men then,
With all we could muster,
Who bore down above us,
With blades bloody-lustred.
Who tore us from land,
And forced us here into danger,
Where the heart beats on fire
At the hands of a stranger.

In our rage we were hardened,
To confront the dark lords,
Those steel eyes of requirement
To submit to their swords.
Though our hearts lay wide open
To the rivers of blood,
In our anger-filled frames,
We were as large as the gods.

And our chests grew like furnaces
Roaring with logs,
And our cries were the ravings
Of wolves and wild dogs.
And our teeth showed their edges,
And our brows ran with sweat,
As we fixed on our foe,
And knew blood must be let.

In a wave of defiance,
We ran forward to fight.
And our fierce pride dared them
To question our might.
Arms and hearts reaching upwards,
We exploded in red,
Yet our anger declared
We’ll not be of the dead.

For our hearts harboured children,
And wives and kinfolk.
In our crazed cries of courage,
It was for them that we spoke.
So we called on the gods
Of rage, weapons and war,
To put fire in our chests,
And burn brave evermore.

21 – 02 – 05

A Very Rare Fear

A very rare fear
Make bear hide half a year,
Hibe burn nate ting in dark of his cave.

Scar rred by this fate
In lair bare but for hair,
Lies the bear head hear ring him bear rate.

Hear him bare his bear soul
Hate of self for the fear most,
Lost to whol worl dark goes in his mind.

Bury in side his bear hide
Feel here hole in his side,
Paws and sole of his feet same dull ache.

Have hurt seep ping at best
Home call him take king a rest,
Fear not I wont hunt you I am one of your kind.