Farewell Blessings

Don't cry Mother,
I see your tears in the leaves
as they fall.

You have to go, don't you -
I can see your trees
standing tired & bare,

You're growing old, from a
young spring to this
beautiful golden red
and orange autumnal
krone.

What was once an aire
so sweet with cherry &
lilac and lavender,
now so rich and beautiful,
a loamy ground now covered
in the quilt of colors you
make every year for Samhain.

Dear Mother, Sweet Goddess Mother,
you've come so far, from
waxing love, to full life,
and now to weaning age,
it is only normal; sweet Mother...

Soon, you too will die, your
trees will grow cold and quiet,
your petals closed and unflowered,
the lang covered in white cleansing
snow,
the sun will go a little cold -

But fret not, sweet beautiful Mother,
all hope is surely not lost -
even as your death saddens us,
we know how soon a new breath
of life will be breathed into you;

We know how soon you will be
young and sensual, and
fruitful you will be
again...

Sweet Mother, dear Goddess Mother,
it's nigh time for you to die,
oh Mother, Autumnal Mother,
I now breathe this year's
goodbye.

Diving off Writer's Block into Poet's Madness

You asked me if you should leave,

if you're distracting me from writing, 

if I need to take time to think -

No. Nooo! 

I need the opposite actually.

Keep talking to me, at me, with me, towards me -

distract me! 

Make me think about other things, weird things,

nonsensical phantasmagoria things -

throw cats at my window carrying kettles,

make me teach turtles to juggle giant seagulls -

anything other than leave me alone to sit here

and play patty cake with my writer's block - why?

It cheats, horribly you see,

it knows my every next move, 

a patty cake grand master, 

grand hamster, 

grand honey ham, 

mango honey fruit,

paint-stripping mango rum - 

stop staring, I'm letting my mind run with it!

You look at me, incredulous and palming a 

pepper spray in case I foam at the mouth -

Everyone is different, you say, I didn't know.

It's alright m'love,

when I see a writer's block, I have to inspect it,

analyze it, kick it, taste it, lick it, maybe sit on it to

think, think, think.

I know I'm a loony, I know I'm a mad hatter,

but I can't help it, when the block won't move - 

it stares at me and doesn't give a fuck.

How selcouth, you vulgar common plebeian of a man"

oh shush, you old crone! You're as bad as the rest in here - 

you stifle his mind, you bend him to your will, why don't 

you let him run a little wild among the trees - it won't harm

anyone else, no one lives in here except me, you, and old Mephistopheles.

You look at me incredulous, grinning,

"My dear" you expectorate, "I do believe you're mad,"

"Which is good, because that's just what the block doesn't want."

My eyes open, a cacophony of sounds and images,

of maids in roller skates going through Escher paintings,

of tea cups swallowing sugar cubes and spoons,

of a baby grand piano with hamsters for wheels -

oh, my mind is open again...

"You, my dear, are an antique, 

nostalgic,

mephistophelean old gypsy soul

that I've been searching for for all

my life."

No wonder we're so connected - 

we're mad just the same.

A Lesser Prize of Fantasy

The night came fast and loose,
how was a man, that man,
the slaughtered man to see that he was

To become part of the nightly news?

Charles Oliver never wanted anything more in life than to
just retire and open up his shop, an antique shop on the
corners of High Avenue and LeRaye Boulevard.

True to how Fate plays the game of Life,
the rules were changed,
the reward switched to a lesser prize of fantasy
and recognition among the watchers of the 8 o'clock
news.

Last night a man died, no one knew this man, no one
knew what was to become of him before his death,
no one sure how he died. Last night a man died
in the dark and quiet of night in his own home,
no force or entry present, no place or spot blemished
with fingerprints other than Charles Oliver's.

With night fast approaching, there was no where for anyone
to go but to go to bed, to wish that night would end soon,
that morning would come fast and loose, lost among
the sea of others on the streets of the big city.

The night came fast and loose,
how was a man, that man, the slaughtered man to see
that he was now to become part of the city lights, the
city nights, part of the city itself,
with his death.

Kleine Vogel - Little Bird

Kleine Vogel, kleine Vogel,
warum weinen Sie?

Kleine Vogel, kleine Vogel,
warum willst du nicht fliegen?

Kleine Vogel, kleine Vogel,
breite deine Flügel und fliegt weg,
in ein Land der Sonne und
klaren Himmel!

Kleine Vogel, kleine Vogel,
komm zurück zu mir bald, schöne Vogel,
und Erzählen Sie mir Ihre
Märchen!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Little bird, little bird
why are you crying?

Little bird, little bird,
why won't you fly?

Little bird, little bird,
spread your wings and fly away,
to a land of sun and clear sky!

Little bird, little bird,
come back to me soon,
beautiful bird,
and tell me your fairy tales!

Unter die Sterne / Under the Stars

Unter die Sterne, ich lag und warte.
Meine Liebe ist weit weg.
Wie soll ich so lieben,
wenn meine Liebe lebt unter den Göttern,
und Kosmos?

Unter der Himmel, ich bleibe und zu bete.
Jeder Tag ist harter als die letzte.
Mit jedem Atemzug meine Liebe nähert nah,
bald werde ich in einer traumhaft sein
umarmen unserer himmlischen Leidenschaft.

Unter der Sterne, wir laien und leben,
beiden Liebenden umschlungen,
teilen eine Seele zwischen
zwei personen - eine Liebe,
ein Wesen, eine Seele.

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Under the stars, I lay and wait.
My love is far away.
How am I supposed to love,
if my love lives among the gods,
and the cosmos?

Under the sky, I stay and pray.
Every day is harder than the last.
With every breath my love close approaches,
soon I'm going to be fantastic in a
embrace of our heavenly passion.

Under the stars, we lay and live,
two lovers entwined,
share a soul between
two persons - one love,
a being, a soul.