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We are the facilitators of our own creative evolution.

quote by Bill Hicks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hothead

Here in the shadows where we, stand watching lady, watching man
Reading the pictures as they roll -
We see the planet lose control
Hothead!
Evolution, nonstop evolution
Hothead!
Hothead!
Evolution, nonstop evolution
(hothead..)
Time, time will change the picture (all the time)
About time!, (all the time)
Time will change the picture
How to change the points of view
bout what is fake and what is true
Blow by blow youre telling me
Youll change the course of history
(chorus)
Bop bop bop bop, bop-bop-bop
Bop bop bop bop, bop-bop-bop
Bop bop bop bop, bop-bop-bop
Bop bop dop bop
Time!, time!
I turn you on you turn me off
Right now Im suffering from this culture shock
You spread confusion wherever you can
With shaking heads and shaking hands
Use propoganda to manipulate
When they make a bust you protect the state
Then the body break and the body tumble -
So you build it up, then you watch it crumble.
Time will change the picture
(evoltion, nonstop evolution)
About time, time will change the picture
(evoltion, nonstop evolution)
About time, time will change the picture
(evoltion, nonstop!)

song performed by Duran Duran
Added by Lucian Velea
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Feeling Obligated

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone is feeling isolated.
When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone else is feeling obligated.
Someone else is feeling obligated.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.
To leave another feeling obligated.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Stream Line Consciousness

Big brother voyeur blimps unidentified spies
uncle sam peeping toms patrolling skies
bird brain police intelligence
remote viewing homeland pest control
pentagon private eye monitoring the public's every move
mass produced micro chips intercepting prayers patrolling citizens from heaven
Bentham's Panopticon NSA
super computer surveillance cameras
world police spying Manhattan streets

'Athens plummets Euro death spiral
suicide rates soar deepening into despair'

haaretz..the post.. the times
blogs tribunes dailies all in a mad gab
headlong headline attention grabbing scramble

'Yugoslavia - Iraq - Egypt - Yemen - Iran - Syria - United States'
bilderberg building blocks New American Century post apocalyptic prophecy

'foreign mercenaries …national guard...DOD
homeland security to amass covert munitions stockpile
Americans on guard anxieties mounting surrounding
the stripping of amendments 1st if you swing to your left
2nd if you stand on the right
whispers of martial law circulate Anarchical reverberations
emanate from internet Alt culture epicenters
bottle necking global tensions'

'common feeling of deepening disappointment...
heightened expectations...
people expecting an explosive situation over the
next few weeks'

...riot police respond 'to preserve public order'
public roads barricaded to 'protect security of citizens'

'blatant act of censorship
western mainstream media staying away
from Myanmar massacres of Mohammedan Angels
further showing strong anti Muslim bias'

'Media blackout Burmese army
seeking coverage under propaganda blankets'

from the middle east throughout the western world
planet consciousness blurring lines between conspiracy/reality
conflicting global network narratives multiply violent scenarios daily
Victims in a world wide scramble
Government Banking Military

[...] Read more

poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Cruci-Fiction In Space

this is evolution
the monkey
the man
and then the gun
if Christ was in Texas
the hammer
the sickle
the only son
this is your creation
the atom of Eden
was a bomb
if Jack was the Baptist
we'd drink wine
from the head

this is evolution
the monkey
the man
and then the gun

I am a revolution
pull my knuckles down
if I could
I am a revelation
and I'm nailed
to the Holy Wood

this is evolution
the monkey
the man
and then the gun

we are dead and tomorrow's canceled
because of things we did yesterday
we are dead and tomorrow's canceled
they crucify us in our space
in our space
in our space

this is evolution
the monkey
the man
and then the gun
flies are waiting

song performed by Marilyn Manson from Holy Wood (In The Shadow Of The Valley Of Death)
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Evolution Orange

Seeing
Seeing is believing
It's the greates feeling
Knowing in your heart

Just trust yourself
Look ahead
Feel the motion growing
Love is where it's going
This is where our real journey starts

Down through the years
Throughout the stars
Ancient the dream
Future evolves

Shining light
Now in sight
Evolution Orange
Wondrous flight
Now in sight
Evolution Orange

Patience
The healer and the giver

Patience will deliver
Fire from the spark

Just trust yourself
Reach inside
Have no hesitation
Give no explanation
You know who you are

Down through the years
Throughout the stars
Ancient the dream
Future evolves

Shining light
Now in sight
Evolution Orange

Wondrous flight
Now in sight
Evolution Orange

song performed by Earth Wind & Fire
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Evolution Orange

Maurice white, david foster & nan obyrne
Seeing
Seeing is believing
Its the greates feeling
Knowing in your heart
Just trust yourself
Look ahead
Feel the motion growing
Love is where its going
This is where our real journey starts
Down through the years
Throughout the stars
Ancient the dream
Future evolves
Shining light
Now in sight
Evolution orange
Wondrous flight
Now in sight
Evolution orange
Patience
The healer and the giver
Patience will deliver
Fire from the spark
Just trust yourself
Reach inside
Have no hesitation
Give no explanation
You know who you are
Down through the years
Throughout the stars
Ancient the dream
Future evolves
Shining light
Now in sight
Evolution orange
Wondrous flight
Now in sight
Evolution orange

song performed by Earth Wind And Fire
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Intelligent Design

I, dot, would score, scour ocean floor,
you too were dot, not more.
We'd LOOP the LOOP in primaeval soup
our POOL gene POOL core corps.
We'd POLO here, there POLO for
none then knew scoop could droop.
We'd grin, twin core to win encore
no sour sin, hour, no law!
No fairies, flowers' fragrant bower,
nor need, nor greed for power.
No men's omens, hymns, amens dour,
no hymen's Babylonian tower -
no cause because nor clause, paws' claws,
no doors, chores, flaws, no pause.

I'd stoop, you'd swoop, with helluva whoop -
no care, unfair dis....pair.
Above, below, we'd group, regroup
all with no 'mal[e] de mer'.
Amino here, ah me! know there
was troop on troop on troop, -
we'd pair, repair, again prepare
see sea combine with air.

We'd twirl, we'd whirl, like a hoola-hoop
around, around some more,
in tune to moon as cock-a-hoop
we'd twin, to spin restore.
Linked chain would roam upon Time's foam,
off shore s[p]aw[n], sink or soar,
'neath starry dome in mono chrome,
no after, no before!

We'd skirl, we'd swirl, up, down would curl,
ages of practised ease,
we'd furl, unfurl, in endless whorl,
world with no word disease.
When I was girl and you my pearl,

no men, to bend, no knees, -
no need but feed we all agreed
to speed on pretty please!

No peg was round, no hole square found,
when round and round half, whole,
ringed whole half bound by no compound
too stable. Time redoled
quad code surround life force around
niche roles from pole to pole.
Unsound were some, some sound, none crowned

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Evolution of Truths

Experiencing now we are,
The evolution of truths.
Our consciousness can not resist it.
Preventing it is a fruitless pursuit.

All that was done prior to this change,
Has to be forgotten.
Times that are gone can not be relived.
Nor can they be rearranged...
To live a tomorrow expecting the same.

Experiencing now we are,
The evolution of truths.
Realities are not what they were.
Nor are caged animals at the zoo.
Every living thing on Earth is going through this.

If you believed reality was what you perceived it to be...
You are not alone.
You have much company.

The evolution of truths has arrived.
It has come uninvited.
And for anyone unaccustomed to quick changes,
As most are not when gate crashers pop in.
This process we are going through...
Is the difference between keeping a secret limited,
Within the neighborhood of gossips.
With that same secret already announced at Fort Knox.
Many are familiar.
Many wish to stop it.
Or have it blocked from our consciousness.

Experiencing now we are,
The evolution of truths.
Our mentalities can not resist it.
Preventing it is a fruitless pursuit.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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E v o l u t i o n

evolution is no rogue elephant –
crashing blindly through the forests of ignorance
and the rain-forests of mercy, alike –
trampling temples, churches, mosques
in some apparent iconoclasm –
scattering and shattering equipment
in the laboratories of men -
seeking a wise mahout who will tame
and understand its wildness,
or a Darwin who will zoo it,
watch it tenderly, take notes…

no, evolution is a precious golden glimpse
into the mind of – name That as you will –
Paramatman, Jehovah, Jupiter, or God,
Allah, The Creator, World Soul, Intelligent Designer…

who works in subtlety, bound by His own rules..
who works at differing speeds
in our so wonderful human entities…:

to change our body physical, it takes
many many generations to ‘evolve’ –
to grow –let’s say, to take example
at our finger-ends as we work at our computers –
finger-nails fromclaws…

and yet, to evolve in mind, researchers say
- the rearguard in this baggage train,
studying the evidence from the teeming brain –
to evolve the mind may take
one human being just a lifetime,
then pass this capability to a willing child…

and yet again, to evolve
in spirit, being, higher consciousness –
a few years’ work, or months, or days,
and, zap! the favoured ones –
Saint Paul, Eckhart Tolle, dare I instance –
transcend their former level in the twinkling
of Evolution’s eye, and tell the world
what worlds lie waiting in man’s inner man…

evolution whispers its golden secret in our inner ear:
there, where hope and possibility meet and kiss,
we live; on the edge of greatness,
magnificent, glorious; what a piece of work is Man!

poem by Michael Shepherd
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0375 Season of mists and merry mythfulness

You…leave…the…
Pennsylvania classroom at a
quarter to four..
leaving all your Bio. notes
for checking, at the door…

With exquisite timing, a Pennsylvania judge
has ruled that the wonders of biology, as
revealed by the dissection of neatly-pinned frogs
and suchlike squeamy miracles of internal packaging
so cleverly evolved by, uh, ‘Darwinian evolution’,
must not mention - no, not just God, as
Creator - heaven forfend - but even
‘divine intervention’ - like some ‘hey, stop the show
right there! ’, as the alternative to
‘Darwinian evolution’ - so called, by the way, because
it’s only a theory anyway, not yet
a proven law – it’s just a kinda myth..and
with nasty Emperor’s-clothes, whizz kid, questions
sticking their hand up in the classroom –

‘Please, if it all started from two whatsits getting together,
who made the whatsits, and, who made the law that helped this
evolution to evolve? ’…

So, since we’re in the world of myth, which
is said to be the wishes of mankind
formulated into glorious dreams
of might-have-been – then can we give
some thought to alternatives?

No 1 on the list is surely
Santa Claus – that jolly, kindly man who one year
maybe thought it would be fun
to create, simultaneously,
some really super presents, and of course,
someone to give them to – it’s called
a symbiotic relationship – and Santa’s grotto
became – hey presto - the Garden of Eden!

and just to make the whole caboosh more fun, he
added a special family-sized Christmas present –
a Christ to go with Christmas – or
as Shakespeare might have said,
giving to these airy nothings of a dream
a substance and a local habitation…and
thus without much of a hitch, we could re-direct
our prayers and praise to Holy Father Christmas –
I mean, we’re halfway there already…what
are you praying for this Giftmas?

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Shepherd
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You 'Feelin' Me?

Look...
For the record!
I AM a writer.
It is much more than liking it!
I AM it!

I AM this creative being.
I was born this way.
You know how some folks,
Can't make up their minds from time to time?
I don't understand that.
I don't have that problem.
The problem I'm confronted with,
Are those who believe I seek their approval...
Or acceptance.
Or 'tolerance' for my behavior.
And it has taken me years to convince them...
Even 'if' they did not exist,
I'd still be doing 'this'!

Or finding time to compose, act or direct.
Sing or dance or just sit to reflect.
Or write my opinions to submit in response...
To some nonsense I've read in a local newspaper,
Feeding BS to dead heads.
To inject their community hostilities.
That 'game is played all over the place!
This 'business' about fitting 'in' to please...
Has never comforted me personally,
Or my needs, desires or wishes I dream.
I'm not focused into who did what to who...
And got mad as hell!
I thought eyes were meant to roll,
Until my mother said to me...
'Boy, you better stop rolling your eyes at me.
Before I pop 'em right out of your head!
AND look at me when I'm talking to you.'

My mom had a way of getting my sisters and I
To listen to her!
It was quite a different intimidation than my father's.
He would just fix his eyes on me and not move them,
At all.
Not even blink for minutes.
Or say a word.
He was 'extremely' convincing.

Look...
For the record!
I AM a writer.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The creative and the receptive

To sing is creative; to listen is receptive.
To play is creative; to watch is receptive.
To write is creative; to read is receptive.
In sex, man is creative and woman, receptive.
21.09.2007

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Creative Heart

Where is a creative heart in grave,
all we pray for is acheivement,
ignoring our creative attitude and pure
heart, we keep praying yet our heart are creative in all areas,
can a creative heart be seen by a faded heart?
Indeed no heart is weak.

poem by Senator alufalism
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Creative Mind!

Creative mind!
In the land of the heart of your muse to satisfy me;
But, what about those in the snow?

Creative mind!
Out of love in the land of your muse;
But, are you ready to learn? ! !
For, the muse of this love is all about us.

Creative mind!
Justified by the muse of your love;
And like your works as seen by all,
But, try to be yourself always.

Creative mind!
Love it and enjoy it and play with it;
For, the muse of my love is very fast and very easy! !
And like the joy around you in the land of peace,
But, try to understand my sweet muse of love always.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Those of Creative Inclinations

I love it!
When those who perceive,
My ceative sensibilities...
Exposes a sensitivity,
That implies a character weakness.
Those of creative inclinations are often compared.
With limp wrists and tea cups!

But there are very few I now know or then knew,
Who were shy to tell anyone a thing or two...
Or where to go!
Anyone connected to this creative process knows...
It is not a joke.
Not this process carefully invoked...
To provoke a higher consciousness.

Growing older makes one aware,
Of the strength involved in this!

Nor made of fluff are these creative disciplines.
The only ones who believe they are...
Are those who have unruly children.
And have themselves disconnected...
From the creations of their realities.
Wishing to perceive,
Those of creativity are lazy!
Which for the most part,
Has been reluctantly failures man made!
To get a quick buck.
To find themselves at dead ends...
And out of luck!
Shall I say...
On their 'lazy' butts.

Remove the creative process out of schools...
And the manufacturing of fools are produced.
But then again...
I need not to say that today,
Do I?

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Vivid Imagination

Vivid imagination should expand
Initiative with intuitions shared
Creating strong momentum unimpaired,
Kicking serf's shackles' strong wrongs most minds b[r]and.
Independent spirit seeks no grand
Embroidered mirage where, when fair truth's bared,
K eystone is found unstable, unprepared,
Valueless, - base built from desert sand,
Integrity, rejecting out of hand
Compromise, incompetence declared,
Kidding not! With facts intact compared,
Intelligence rejects cores coarse, mores bland.
Expediency's unhealthy cup of tea,
Key words are: sound, profound, autonomy!

Veracity and clarity combine
Intensely in a mind which hopes for scope,
Creative recognition not soft soap.
Knowledge wide inside retains design
Innate to contemplate true meanings, line
Existence with the will to grow, not mope,
Keeping ideals intact to underline
Vision deep, whose inner light should shine
Incandescent as the heliotrope.
Charming seems surface smile, yet one must cope,
Keel even though some seek to undermine
Innate principles reject weep whine,
Expect top quality not slippery slope,
Karmic energy to intertwine.

Enchanted by an understanding clear,
Awaiting an osmosis warm whose heart
Should share implicitly, ne'er need to start
To challenge for the sake of challenge here.
Creative thinking helps the mind appear
Open free from artificial art,
Arrogance and intolerance which chart
Shipwreck sure, lure siren insincere.
Touched by heart, tomorrow's travels steer,
Gaining trust, towards berth port where part
And whole are one, soul won with Cupid's dart,
Life, laughter, linked as frontiers disappear.
Energy creative shuns despair,
Choice, voice, combined, find mind binds joys hors pair.

Voice for choice in this decisive year
Important is as effervescent mind
Calls for conditions which can leave behind
Kennelled spirits, steer solutions clear,
Interactive, shared. Ambitions dear

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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What Is From Them Expected

Busy are they kept
The minds of those creative
Without sleep to say hours have been slept
Tools they are used
And lives lived blessed

Few who have identified
Their creative connections
Can say they are motivated
By something they do
They themselves initiate

Busy are they kept
The minds of those creative
Without sleep to say hours have been slept
Tools they are used
And lives lived blessed

With a doing done for them selected
And not much of a choice
To leave behind to neglect or forget

Few who have identified
Their creative connections
Can say they are motivated
By something they do
They themselves initiate

Those with gifts and talents given
Will confess from birth
They have known from within
What is from them expected
With a doing done from them to complete next

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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All These Busy Busy Entrepreneurial Poets

All these busy, busy entrepreneurial poets
trying to substitute their usefulness for talent.
If you can't sing well enough to bear your own voice
to get lovers and applause on your own merits,
manage a band, control those who can,
network like gyspy moths in a Dutch elm,
take two creative writing courses
from a narcissistic mystagogue projecting
the fraud of the Wizard of Oz on the unsuspecting
listening to a firefly of talent talking like a starmap
about shining, about black holes and supernovas
dark energy and gravitational eyes, and the myriad galaxies
he teaches on the lower rung of a swing
in an institutionalized aviary of higher learning
as if the closest he's ever been to the light
was a dead starfish among the usual relics of a low tide
or sodden firecrackers of insight on a Halloween night.
He teaches you to take out whatever there was never much of
to put in. To strike the definite article
like crab grass out of your well-mown lawn
so you ending up writing in the patois of a robot.

Listen to this swarming starcluster of gnats
in the sunset of the word that's wondering
where all the songbirds went. Maybe it's me
and I've grown reactionary without knowing it
into a vicious old age but I swear my stomach
can't turn another page of a saddle-stitched chapbook
that reads the tea leaves in the broken skull-cup of the moon
like a bowl of soggy cornflakes that taste like breakfast haikus.
You can't live like a maggot and write
like a wounded dragon of the soul. You can't
paint a tsunami in watercolours and claim you know
what it's like to be caught up in the emotional undertow
of a tidal pool that threatened to sweep you out to sea
until your guru or your shrink reminded you like a tugboat
you have to sink before you can call yourself a shipwreck.

I think of Van Gogh. I think of the intensity of a man
of immense humanity, and it occurs to me if he were sitting
on your saffron sectional in your coffee-book living room,
going on obsessively about the nutritional value of cadmium yellow
you'd commit the same sin of omission and condemn him
to his solitude like an asylum for the underfed
listening to the voices in their head telling them
they're better off mad or dead than living on
the aesthetically modified junkfood
you dropp in their begging bowls like chump change.
And, o yes, wouldn't you just be the exception to the rule
who knew how to tell the difference between a sad joke

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Magpie, My Keeper, Is Flying - Upon Freeing the Gift of Creativity Turned Inward

.
for Elaine Bellezza, Beloved Anima-as-Fate

'There is only one real deprivation, I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one's gift to those one loves most...The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.' - May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

This afternoon while still somewhat hungover from last night's rich meal and several glasses of strong red wine, I stumbled as one does when hungover, only today without feet but with eyes, upon the above quote by May Sarton. I had awakened this morning with fragments of a dream, repetitive of other dreams the past few months, where I am carrying something precious and just cannot put it down in any old place or upon just any available surface. I cannot put it down until I find the right surface and location.

These dreams are full of torrential flood waters, or backed up, stagnant water, toilets full of filth and pungent bright orange dark urine days old and fermenting. I cannot unhand the burden even though the urge to pee or flee or drive a car away or into flood waters is strong. I must not put down the burden odd as it is; it is my laptop carrying case made of canvas. It is large enough to carry not only my laptop but also many books with which I cannot, will not be parted from as they are the must-have-with-me-always 'bread', my staple and stability in a given to me world out of balance.

I have understood the dreams only a little - something within the psyche is flooding up, over-spilling or has already, has not been adequately canalized, channeled, streamed and guided, shaped and formed. Or flushed. I knew that eventually, as dreams do when one sits consciously, patiently, persistently with them, they would yield their messages to me, and upon revelation these must be obeyed, brought out into the world, Carl Jung having said that one has a moral responsibility to dreams once they are kenned and must be conscientiously acted upon in the outer world. Just dreaming is not enough. Everyone dreams but not very many know to dream them out into the world, to let their messages unfurl, flood and flow to bring forth new consciousness, to reshape old forms no longer adequate to self, place and time into symbol and their sense, usually not literal.

And thus, only just now, upon opening up haphazardly in a book about Dostoevsky and his struggle with addictions which mirror the profound compulsion to create at any cost perhaps beyond one's capacities to renew oneself, I find May Sarton's quote and suddenly the dreams clarify and sharpen into focus; I understand them as the burden of creativity too long turned inward, the burden of writing, the burden of poetry which I have carried heavily for most of my life since middle school when I was 11 or 12 years old when books became my lifeline, my link to existence that I could live on in spite of not wanting to do so. Written words, books, kept me from disappearing though I was and remain a mostly invisible word.

And thus the floods. One cannot ignore them. Alphabets tumble and roil. One dare not ignore them. One must see them without a choice to not see them. In them I am suddenly made visible, bright orange p*ss pots and all. I am both appalled and pleased. My burden is upon my knees.

The backed up water, the urine, is creativity. A somewhat odd symbol of creativity, there is more than enough evidence that urination is symbolic of self expression which is creativity. In ancient Rome the highly valued dirt from the urinals of boys' schools was collected to be used as a cosmetic in order to restore youthful energy and looks. A young boy, or puer in Latin, is an archetypal symbol of ongoing creativity and inspiration, the puer aeternas, the eternal youth, well springs of ongoing creativity still imaged in solid fountains of the world where eternal waters flow from the peni of cherubic youth.

I have struggled my entire life with a strong urge to create, to write, to express in words that creative daemon within which torments no matter the completion of a poem or essay, a lecture, a psalm. And now my dreams have had me consciously, urgently seeking a place to put the burden down, to perhaps come to it anew. I imagine that landing the burden means bringing it down to earth, manifesting creativity all the more by bringing my efforts to others for the strongest part of the compulsive urge in my creativity has been to contribute one good thing, one good poem or piece of writing which in some way might further the culture even if only by a flea's leg length.

The dreams urge me to let the urine flow, to let the flood waters indeed flood over, to be less self conscious of what I write and say but to have at it all and to say my say. And to let whatever waves there are crest and break upon ever receptive banks and shores whose duty it is to allow what may come from motion without complaint, the more compliant toward as yet to be fully formed purposes as yet to be scored.

Synchronistically, a few days ago I listened to a lecture by poet Allen Ginsberg about Walt Whitman and his imitators, those who were goodly influenced by his effulgent, self indulgent style, his garrulous poems which presumed to express the very expansiveness of the North American continent over-flooded by a plague of itinerant, persistent poachers and prophets from Europe to Eastern disembarkation and then inland and Westward, compelled to overtake land and native peoples in their possessed, pushed wake. Ginsberg imagined himself to be a timely extension of this unruly school, as savage as the projected upon land and justly-resistant, resident humanity stretched beyond known bounds and sounds. Blood drowned and pounded the god-hounded land even now is flooded by unleashed mighty rivers seeking, if rivers seek at all, to undo and renew in horse shoe and other shapes the crimes of consciousness compelled to overtake while leaving it up to human souls to repent and repair, to prepare for more powerful insurgencies of land and Self ever seeking new and nower expressions of dirt and deity. There's enough history beneath layers to support the scarp and scrape of momentary yet monumental motions finally given mouths to utter what lies both beneath and within the heaping huzzahs of here here here full and deep. As in my dream, it is hard to steer in such surpassing tides and currents. Still, I am searching for holy campground that I may lay my burden down.

I have no wish to imitate Whitman nor Ginsberg - though both are easily imitated since they did so themselves, an occupational hazard for writers - but only to be obedient to the daemon, that urgent, emergent, creative force within. It rushes within and against me. No matter whether derived of the grandiose American continent and the even more grandiose sky or not, I have all too successfully braced against it in fear of failure, reprisal or, worse, complete indifference from others. My dreams now urge floods and resultant coagulations, they bring creative splurges to ground from hand to the hard world. And Nature, too, is indifferent but begs none the less and all the more to be given utterance and response.

Respondeo ergo sum. I respond, therefore I am. I respond, therefore the other, earth, all her ants, is as long as there are eyes, ears, and scanning minds to acknowledge and touch, wrestle, caress, shape - some in scansions - outer from inner, inner from outer, landscapes to be all too quickly discarded in time for what is sung just ahead. And seen. Or hoped, all praise to telescopes. We would be they, so addicted to horizons, to bring them close.

Something there is needs completion via coagulation, forming, shaping, and sharing with whomever may be open to clods delivered. If not, rivers will, as they will without reason, continue to overrun their banks and insist upon covering designated previous cultivations. Let then excess of creativity have its say, play out, and leave the critical post-considerations to others. I will surely sit and ponder spent what spills forth, to shape, to edit, to discard. And watch my little yard sink beneath needed and needy floods.

I will have done with deprivation and bring myself, what I have shaped and misshapen, to the world. These things, this burden, have I most loved and felt responsible for, have born the shame of. I have fought and have failed utterly again and again though my attempts have been, and still are, sincere though not blameless. Fear has been my encampment, a longing beneath knowing feet in secret cellars just beyond reach of contracted hands forever spelling hunger. I know open bastion doors and windows to now fling beyond embankments what has been wrung out of my floes and woes though hands wither from too much turning against and inward. What a relief to burst beyond boundaries too long successfully restraining.

I recently wrote a poem about much too too solid bastions of self, of forceful puer energy ramming through and over and into long buried storms and petrified forms, of passion mangling the delusion of 'norms' ignoring too sensitive alarms. Given May Sarton's May revelation this morning I now understand that the poem is about more than eros, it is about that powerful creative/destructive force, the daemon/tyro that ever urges outward intent on making and staking Self in new land and at least one aging man wrenched and rendered from dried and calcified encrustations. I am, to borrow from the insistent dream image, beginning to leak. And to break open.

Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'

That this old ground yields to plow stuns.
What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.

Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.

All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves

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poem by Warren Falcon
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Late Spring Snow

Late spring snow on its way.
Dead ochres and colourless greys
that have never heard of the impressionists.
It's a landscape
it's a mindscape
but it behaves like a still life.
I've been staying up late
trying to paint my way
out of my life
until dawn every morning.
The windowpane a ripening phthalo blue.
It's compositionally deranged
to hear the birds singing
when you're totally exhausted.
Mentally physically spiritually emotionally financially
gone gone gone altogether gone beyond.
All my happy endings orphaned.
A sum of depletions.
I'm living this creative life
scribbling down the notes of the picture-music
that doesn't just run through my mind
but is my mind
colours and words
down on canvas and paper.
When I'm writing
when I'm painting
when I've wholly disappeared into what I'm doing
for a few holy hours of life
immensities open up like the multiverse
and I've got a window a wormhole
I can fly through
and out out out among the starfields
with the evanescence of smoke
or a bird
putting itself in the picture
as a finishing touch to the sky.
And I am free to explore the intensities
of my own creative peace
as I keep saying to myself
one eureka moment after another
turning into a mantra
no no I can't leave that.
I've got to bring that back and show them.
They'll be delighted with that.
They won't believe it.
You've got to write and paint with an open hand.
Let the brush hold you.
Let the pen.
Then you're the meaning
of what the words are trying to say

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poem by Patrick White
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