Ask Dr. Druid . Day 37
holokus, hulakus
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Cheney and diseased mind
Rhyme
In this terrible time.
Yet the butterfly’s
Stained glass wings
Remain
Sublime.
…:…:.
A grain of sand
Blooms
Into a pearl,
That world
Where we and dawn
Secretly conspire
To smile,
Transfixed
In that pearl light,
With one another.
Many the grains of sand,
Many the dawns,
Many the conspiracies of smiles.
–:.:—:.:–
Does the River Remember?
Does the River
Remember
The fish who silverly
Swim in it?
Does the air
Remember
The people, the tigers
Who wrathfully
Swim in it?
Are we zebra-striped,
Giraffe-splotched
Braille
To the air?
Does it read us
As we pass
Swarm slither gallop
Amble by?
Can you caress the air
Back
As it zephyrs?
-:-:-:-:-:-
Lead
Would prefer
To make moveable type
More than bullets.
I asked it.
Words
For prayers & dares,
To spell
The spell of love:
Te amo
Not te ammo
For gods’ sakes.
Poor lead Pb82 ..
Millions of words.
Millions of bullets.
Which wins?
-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-
Fortune?
Fortunate in friends?
I am friends with constellations,
Agog at that ceaseless sea
Of stars.
A charmed life?
I am charmed
By a dandelion puff.
Love?
Hither. Yon.
Piffle.
I’d rather remain
Amazed.
…:..:….:..
The Smaller Moons
Only the panthers and I
Were awake
When the smaller moons
Rose.
“Get an orphan
To sing the duets
With the smaller moons,”
Commanded Montezuma
The Wise
Before the bearded
Snakehearted ogres
Shattered our shores,
Our harmony, our hospitality,
Bloodmasked warriors
Sang with the full moon,
Imperious, glorious was she.
The smaller moons
The silver sliver
The quarter moon
Whisper dew of pearl
So kind so soft
A melody
The ice in your heart
Melts
And becomes the rain
Which falls
On flowers and fawns
Again
In the 3rd hour
Before dawn
The orphan
And the smaller moons
Sing this song,
The duet the warriors cannot hear.
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Hide
In
Plain sight
Is Druidry;
And patience
As far
As there are
Stars.
Our patient duty to beauty.
-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-
How?
How can we waste,
Lay waste
To eternity
With our murderous grimaces
Our grim murders
Faux ennobled
By the vainest rhetoric
Where mutilated children
Become disappeared
As collateral damage?
-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-
Mon flotsam,
You wash up
On my beach,
Driftwood,
Smoothed, silver,
Salty, gnarled.
The beach’s treasure
Along with the sanddollars.
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Holoku, hulaku. Hulaku — little dances, gestures of admiration for the way words play, effervesce, coalesce. A formal haiku of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />5/7/5 syllables per line is a single drop of dew on a leaf. An holoku is less formal but no less earnest. It is not confined or refined by the number of syllables but by the dimensions of a notion, a small exploration.
In your log or journal let an image or a notion drift into your mind like an exquisite small cloud. Listen to its story and write down the words. You’ll learn unexpected qualities or narratives about the object or notion. Lead Pb82 enjoys being moveable type and is imprisoned and tortured to be bullets. It never had occurred to me to listen to lead. I had no preconceived notions about lead. Your mind gets this luminous quiet as you listen to the object or the notion fold itself like origami into its own shape which you describe and transcribe.
It helps to get over the stupid modern idea that ‘objects’ don’t talk. I grew up listening to trees as an only child in the country. It wasn’t til I went to school that I learned not to talk about talking to trees. I think all poets consciously or unconsciously know that everything has a story to tell. It all gossips and preens or keens.
One of my druid points is to remind you that we all have the right to the keen and reverent attention that may come naturally to some bards or be trained early in some lucky folk, but that every single person can learn the magic tricks of poetry and attention. You may not get what a friend of mine calls ‘recognized’ or lionized in the celebrity society, but you can get drunk on beauty and fascination. The poetry attention, distilled like honey in your heart, is a sweetness and intoxication that is the birthright of sentients.
I have never figured out how churches etc could con people into casting their hearts to some distant Heaven while right here we are in the middle of a K1 masterpiece sans pareil in the cosmos. Now, in other books to come we can talk about how we have truly distressed the social systems. But that which the painters paint as still lifes, what Van Gogh tore his ear off for, the huge sky Turner wept over in his landscapes, the poet’s ache for the single drop of dew on the leaf. That masterpiece is so present and abundant that you can be full and fierce always to face the fractal challenges of biped interactions. Yet the butterfly’s/Stained glass wings /Remain/Sublime. You can trust that with molecular totality.
….::…:..
Notes:
.. faux (foh) .. false, fake;
.. Basho is a classic haikuist. A lovely one is “Lightning — /Heron’s cry/Stabs the darkness.”
.. sans pareil (sahn par-eye) without parallel or without equal, French;
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Ask Dr. Druid, 66 Days from Lead to Gold, Secrets of Alchemy You Can Use, a druid shaman’s playbook .. Intro; Prologue; Day 1; Days 2 & 3; Day 4; Day 5; Day 6; Day 7; Day 8; Day 9; Day 10; Day 11; Day 12; Day 13; Day 14; day 15 Review 2; Day 16; Day 17; Day 18; Day 19; Day 20; Day 21; Day 22; Day 23; Day 24; Day 25; Day 26; Day 27; Day 28; Day 29; Day 30; Day 31; Day 32; Day 33; Day 34; Day 35; Day 36; Day 37;
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.. keep your heart bright. beauty is rising.
.for bombadilobo & diablobo.
<^>..
the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..
.. if you make $50,000 a year, it’s gone in 4 seconds in Iraq;
.. let’s spend most of the Military-Corporate Budget on education instead ..
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There's nowhere to begin with the intricate delights of these “holokus” except to say that I hate you. Just a joke. I am jealous of the ease and intricacy of the relationship you have with words.
I still will try my own in my journal. Otherwise I would be doing what Mr. Lucky highlighted in his comment on your last chapter–being made passive by the superstars. This is the opposite of what you are insisting that we take the chance to do. So here I go.
Mr. Pogblog,
Actually one of the ways I write is to start with the premise that most objects do have a story locked into them.
I enjoyed the holoku btw.
Temps,
Yes, I am male.
“The duet the warriors cannot hear.” I feel lucky and lovely that I can hear it.
thanks for kind words. Any ease & intricacy is just practise and having kept my vow with The Blue, my amused muse. The vow being that I will write something every day even if it is only “I'm too darn tired to write.” The habit & practise wears away the self-consciousness that afflicts us all in the early going. Do allow yourself sketches and graffiti and doodles in words in your log as well as 'literature.'
cl, I would only add that all objects have a story. It would be a good idea for our friends who are beginning or re-upping with a log or blog to pick an object at random and Ask it, “What is your story?”
esfera, The far futures I visit have healed the disease of slaughter in any K1 dimension.