Serving the Grail

the dreamers fligt

Serving the Grail


I wait for you as a dreaming blue coyote outside your door

I crack you open with my heaving shimmering summons

Yipping my polyphonic fervor into your telluric fever

Into the cacophony of your alluvial soul

I bring scraps of medicinal words for your dying times

I yip yap my staccato howl

From the grit and grist of the desert you created

Singing into your cave a mellifluous body attunement

May your animal body flourish

With the sounds of creation

The ninety six Sanskrit words for love.

The lost language of raven mantras

The courtship invocation for rain

As second skin to the desert

With my solar breath tendrils in the cavern

Of your darkening skull

With my inner pulsars in your lung

Animating the extinct large cranes of consciousness

Across the tectonic fault lines

Of babble seeking more of itself

Piercing the sleeping veil of sated illusions with alarm calls

Your dark God solvent filling the dusk horizon with sleepless ghosts

Hollow instruments devouring the world

In omega dissolution

I wait like a man with eagle feathered arms

Doing the internal eternal dance

Crying my primeval terraqueous beauty

To crack open your “I” into “we”

Filled with dead friends  and animal deities

Disinterred blood brothers in forced migration

To live inside the other

To live inside the earth

To live inside the Grail

Like four sheep in the belly of a green field

Green field in the belly of the herd

Four crows inside the head of an oak

Waiting for the mollusk moon

To feed your pensive mood

To extract the clever toxins of inflated power

In your center vertex the self takes root and flowering heights

I hurtle like a foliated bell through realities

With your sonic heart beats

Listen how to grow from the composted earth

Replant your corn ears to the ground

Harvest the jeweled multifaceted being inside you


Courting the Spark Inside the Earth


I’m courting the spark inside the earth

Beneath the carboniferous cairns of the glacial valley

Below the oceanic plains of heather, bog and bracken

Beneath the darkness of naiveté’s righteous impermeable thought

The surface image of our being folds in on itself in self prophesying


My eye resurrects the double helix propeller

From its tangled knot of primal needs supplanting our better

Serpent mind coiling over our calcified mirages

Carrying the weight of cold shadows

The winter eclipse satisfies itself

With our barnacle needs attached to the rusted hull


Ossified narcissistic consciousness

Erupting fissures of reality retreating

Space and time leaking itself to zero


I cannot forget my own death ghost story

In the nameless flowerless brambles

Covering the verdant queen of our souls

The smoky baptismal odes

Of spider crossing the heavens

Articulating what we don’t speak about

Or look at the burning Tao light

Needs the darkness for gnosis


Imprinted in our empty sky

The voice of seashells and burning flowers

The paradox of simple answers

In the conch ear primordial memory

Flying over the dead dwellings

In white winged V formations

I come from the crossroads of nowhere and everywhere

With the heraldic bones of swans for guidance

With their drumming sound of ancestral wisdom

Voices of expansion and contraction

Like lung like heart like pulse like universe

Life force of migrating generations

To the beckoning fields of grace


For the ancient grinding of corn I come

For my old word prisoners stay hungry


Hear this communing in the Sidhe inner circle

My ink scrawl divination of ritual words

Syntax summoned from compost decay

For the harvest I speak in palette knife

Into the blank field

For the extinct totemic and the present instant

The future already here now

In the passing bead way station of light

In the broken strand chaos of our time


Back and forth in the palindrome droning of my voice

Seeking with sound word and vision I scout

Far afield remote beyond the pumas

Scrambling over the bodies of flint knife minds

And through the spiral fractures of space

I still see our holy human print in the mud

Mended life growing beside it



Indigenous Burrow

My new space MAN P1040421

At last we have settled in to our new home.  It has been weeks since the logistical obligations have quieted, and now the new home-studio is calling me.  It’s been a long semi-imposed hiatus from art and poetry in the transition – I am finally ready to get painting.. (The poetry comes on its own accord, but I have my ways to coax it forth.)

I have been fortunate enough to have had a variety studios over the years of migration.  Whether the studios were public or private spaces; rustic or more refined; I’ve learned that larger size, more comfortable ergonomics and better lighting had not been enough for my creative spirit to flourish; the sometimes elusive qualities of intimacy and sense of sanctuary has always had the final say.   This particular indigenous burrow, I`m happy to say, carries a good Feng Shui current, and I felt it on first entry when it was empty – getting a good charge.  This space seems to intentionally  support my hermetic cave ritual ways…

I restrain myself from perpetual painting so as not to feel I’m in some repetitive production line.  I`m  not into art for art’s sake and it’s not a capitalist factory.   I have no inclination or notion of clever marketing for notoriety.  Art is work but if this work becomes rote without a passionate deeper communion; the painting is left empty of the mystical fire that is the foundation of my story building.

A rendering with this stimulus conceives a living story.   This story and its inhabitants can enter the dreams or visions of others, inspiring or enlivening the new receiving enthusiast.  That’s what I can hope for, and I have been lucky enough to see and hear such magic transpire.

Months have passed in gestation, I always learn a little more each time I take a break.  There’s a restless incubating for the future creative flow, the charged spontaneity of “art” needs to be cooked in nature: silence, solitude, dream and vision.  I am to fill up with longing and the strange emptiness, gathering the smallest flickers of shadow and light, the animal movements and falling leaves, the feel of stone and wood, earth and rain showers, patches of sun on the damp mountains filled with rogue winds.  I am to have the powerful meeting with the reindeer spirit in dream, and later its offspring.  It is gathering words and the unspoken things said, and sometimes the nameless oracular comes through.   It’s a composting of feeling attunement to the timeless time in the fullness of deep silence, and the minute sounds of nature calling attention forth to movement, in relation with the all.  This is the essence and some of the elements, and nutrients needed to birth a new story in paint or poem.

I am just one of many who must have this relationship with their art.   There is nothing grandiose going on here, nothing created out of an ivory tower, just a creative space I love inside out that allows a quiet simplicity to infuse the work, it is a way of life,  any nature lover would recognize … This is no highfalutin language to elevate the I, but reflections on a relationship with the earth and it’s ever unfolding spirit-how it gets inside and propels me to create like our living earth does.

I am one being in the eternity of cosmologies attending the mystery; often fumbling in the dark, sometimes my work  is enough to spark the sleeping fire in the heart of a wandering soul  – affecting their own inner story.  These fine threads cultivated by paying attention to the subtle nuances of life, have been my nature, witnessing the nature of nature.  Going inward to nature, seeing through my own atmosphere the earth and its inhabitants inside me.  The shape of the lake mirror and the clear reflection she holds inside or passing cloud obscurity.  I welcome the nourishing rain of Eire keeping me inside climbing the mountain of higher vision.  – returning always to ground in the paint and canvas with animal knowing drawn from the roots of trees and branches of my ancestors… With heightened senses I speak  through my heart/soul to the earth and the earth speaks back, and it says all things inside you for your work.  And I am ready now after being impatiently patient – to begin again.

Life Is Put On Notice

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Teaching me once again

The stellar fire whispers its synapses creations

Through my soul skin

Moving currents of the earth birth neurons

With syllabic micro organisms

Of the primeval alphabet garden

Aflame under the flat stone

Two worlds spiraling neither here nor there

And the first letter created was O for wholeness

Head and tail coming together in writhing contortions

Thieves of dusk in the tattered earth notebook

O in the life circle Ouroboros

Unity of all living things all our relations

In eternal conduit

From the end of the word serpent

Turning the world inside out

To the repeated things

Remembered in the heart beat drum

Twitching eye thrash of vivid dream

Soul lit stories in the blood and brine

In the Rowans berried head

Mostly fallen to the floor

Dropping its deep red of the just past ripe

From its orange leaf best arrested

Branches rush their conversation excited

Hissing in the cellular air

Spine of the Axis Mundi

Vibrating above the graveyard bones

The aged and leaking childlight on the escarpment

Ancient travelers of the deep

Returning again our forgotten sacred words

For the cities built on the ashes of villages

Sterile placated paradigms programmed in the darkness

Coyotes bellowing through the ghost holes

Below the backward tongues of crow babble

Medicine words for the drummer on the canoe bow

Through the glacial valley of presupposition

Jaguar in the water words for reverence

My thoughts splinter into word animals

Finding homes in the earth crust wind and wave

I try touching the place inside me

Where butterfly wingtips meet above their body

A whirl of dried leaves crosses the barren

Trailing the honeybee their souls singing allegiance

To the holy earth spell

Our life is put on notice

With deep seeing into the ash

And fuchsia streams of pollen

Traveling with the Ancestral Spirits

Travelling with the Ancestral Spirits FULL final P1040282

Assimilate the compressed shadow minutes

Of the stone winged heart

Draw in the otherworld nutrients

For soul and soil


With vowed ideograms of light eye go deep

In memory clouds and shallow holes of thought


Anchored but rocking in endless centers

Is the menagerie of life’s lyricism

Made from the fissures of rosary or mala bead

Songs for what is holy lacing the air


Replenish my speech fire old mountain drum

With compass needle beater

Unmoor my skull fossil shell


Fish for eyes in sinew gardens

Of bitter taste and beauty


Full moon of madness swollen with the incoming time

Reverent word mist spread thin over abandoned spirit ports

Laying in the seabed of sighs


Far from the mother tongue of how we were as a people

Banded with all living things

In this wind library of time


Under matted mackerel clouds

My primal conch voice and restless vision

Disperses silver tears in breakers


Rustling the far shore of this pelagic map

Lucid magpies upsurge in gust above the mob static


I beat my skin drum for their bone frozen light

For the animals and trees wind and rain

I see dried up flowers for the haste of our neglected sun

Once held in sanctity crooning behind faded walls

In wildflower weeds a coven of bees


Lure polymorphic vernacular to join in weave honey

Into visceral belief become conscious again

Of our unfinished story splintering blue

On the turtle shell of the earth

Into this mosaic womb shroud shimmering

With our ancestors and angel

Prevailing Home

Ceaselessly Becoming

Prevailing Home


I the eye the primordial consciousness of trade winds

Cartographer of all homes inside and out

Know the pigeon holes, withered flowers and dead anecdotes

The forgotten skeleton keys in the deceptions of autonomy

The madness of the capricious moon both stoic and wild

The bleating chants inside the sheep skull

I the eye map the melting ice, the silences downwind

A feint whistling can be heard in my rolling cloud breath


I keep deer antlers and dawn rising

Listen to raven and pine colluding

Sun bringing insects closer to cosmic thought


Listen listen to this wind of scythes and arrowheads

The meteoric house disintegrates into stratospheres whole

Fragments of memory blending into surroundings

With sensitive antenna the tree moth stares at me

Exhaling this story, brushes the marsh tuft and swamp lump

Bog bracken and brown stream

My calling words live inside the small gestures

Portents for your thoughtful attention

Impelling interrelationship with the unfolding mystery

Between the outworn ghost of yourself and recent unfamiliar

Your prevailing home is a chrysalis and nexus

Incubating in the changing answers


My home is a nascent narrative like yours

With smoke, distances and a few stray birds

Infinite eyes of dead stars beckoning the darkness

Vision highlighting the burning nucleus of your body

To fill the empty corners of existence

The pause between breaths

Stillness of undigested grief


I pull the rusted nail out of your window frame

See sky outdoing itself in spacious thought

I rotate the iron stirring stick in the milky way

Mixing end and beginning together

Now look at your home passing through

Every thought, feeling and season


My door is a storm cloud of your pent up anger

Door handle a rainbow refraction of your reflections

There is a chair inside for you

Made from a tornadoes broken home

My bed is made of lightning for vivid dreams

For the loneliness that can’t be held


Some days I idle about on my porch

Lazy and restless at the same time

I hurtle my strange feelings onto the earth

Encountering insecure confident ones

Who tell their confused haunted stories

Holy stunt diversions to get me howling

Ciphers in an epic poem


Try fishing with your patterned rationale of regurgitated explanation

There’s no tangible sea bottom without the pressure of deep sea diving

Consider every expanding and shrinking shadow on a moonless night

The myriad subtle nuances that escape your awareness

Within our shared world maybe it would be easier

If a sky spouse miraculously birthed you a new home

Where everything is comfortably known in a flat line to the end


A meaningful mutable life carries a homesickness you attune with

Some people choose the end without knowing it

Communion  with death is nondenominational

Keep your home clear and I will mine

Don’t expect anyone or anything

To do your cleaning or take away your refuse

There’s a reclamation of dross before moving forward

There’s an advisory at the gate

Creaking wooden sign with paint chip words

Avarice is a short trip to a long fall

Arduous climb for those seeking a way out of the abyss

See the shadow of  your grizzled warden on the way out

He has the self made prison key you left him in the fall


Before the screen blacks out

I should mention a story you can relate to

There was a time when I argued with rain pelting

Thunder got involved and we cracked our mirror

But we exhausted ourselves into compromise before anyone got hurt

Sometimes that’s the nature of close encounter

Guests to one another’s life’s answers in passing bye


I’d like to say I know rain as much as I know my cousin winds

But I don’t know where rain camps when it’s not visiting

I followed it up one day to invisible aqueous vapor

I am a nomad too but you can generally feel me around

Its fall vanishes when I visit the desert

Issues with solar flares in interstellar equilibrium


We elemental’s get tangled in each other’s personal affairs

It’s our spontaneous spirit adding purpose and meaning

We have complex moods, but not the havoc and ruin of your crude tribes

Vainglorious creatures we find hard to address


Rain comes through my roof without knocking

Like bird dive and fin splash

Says it couldn’t resist passing by

Wants me to know my high ceiling crack needs maintenance

Got a hungry look at my polished living room floor

Wants a puddle there for a quick respite


We watch a storm moving in a movie I have on

Hey it showers moving closer and further away

In drained disillusionment

That storm is a cunning impersonator

It knows nothing of dark light

And we sighed at life’s folly

Call Call Out Of Your Sleeping


I write into the caged ribs of the night

So others might see their arrested light

Inscribe amnesia’s void with my moonlit ink stroke

Scrawl wandering into dawns wavering line

Unraveling indoctrination’s that put you under the spell of the dead

Your ghost heart peers through the mask of its uncooked soul


Pretending who you are it’s true I can see inside you

Pretense building up defenses but not fast enough


Conqueror who fell climbing the center stage

I was the steppingstone that let loose

Understand falling to learn the depths of ascent


You the chisel the ax and the hammer

I the scapegoat with no remorse

The seas murmuring consciousness

You the clicking of a trillion beach pebbles

No one can separate us


I the tailor made raiment’s for your death song submission

You the buried oracular bones

If you were the sage still born

I was the midwife that carried the wisdom


A whorl eternal the fingerprint of a ghost

Before the earth was born

You the modern detective

Who searches for my story


In the emissions of exhausted time scattered tribes and cosmologies


Narcissistic  neighbors rolling over one another in fear and grandiosity


Eradicated names and cultures in cycles of counterfeit power


Empire of human dross playing unconscious pawns into cunning siege


Manipulating  perceptions of success into your identity mirage


I the tired old man digesting all this before I was born

I called and called from the dark tide

Until my other self took me in


No longer was I a passing stranger

My way inward was away from the outer predator

Emptying the secular into the law of nature

Primeval vapor swirls through my material body now

A disappearing Qi into my bird like source


I know these are not easy words to live through

These out of print words from an invisible source

High cost of shipping words from a dead author

Words that know their own stems

Were torn from the softened earth’s crust


May your conscience ferry the bleeding sap trails through the terminus

Clear the long custom lines between us

The suspended black dot under my question mark

Weary in its reflection


I see through your transparencies

Uncomfortable thoughts at the end of a long sentence

Fissures of your sublunary world are quickening

Penetrating the withered deity of all horizons


With one wing floating on the water

Who will revive her

She who is your other

In the pain body’s eclipse

Malleable porous cells of reality

Call call out of your sleeping