Barataria

We were like Panza and Quixote, chasing dragons in a land of myth and make-belief The moon held your father in your eyes as your grandmother rose with the sun
Never gone, no not really ever gone… so was the pandemics lament.

In the story, I chose the inner light as I bow before inlet eyes
I was always a far eastern man at the razor’s edge, like Somerset in Paris
This enlightened rogue has not subsided but all things must pass or do they
I still sense the same ten thousand things crying out for understanding.

So remember me at Barataria by the myriad names given call to you
My true love waits for me at Barataria on the bay or by the sound
Waiting for me to find out what it means to miss, to want, to love all in the leaving.
And my leaving precludes any waiting I may possess in my wanting.

© j c

A New Mythology

Snow falling in the Mississippi darkness rolling down to the sea.” –Steve Goodmen

Recent events of the last few months still seem as foreign to me as snow falling on the Mississippi Delta. In as much as these singular events have happened before, they attest to our true colors, which are heroic and also a bit blinding at times. Still in other moments we seem to not be able to find our way home to where we owe at least a semblance of the truth. However these days the gods offer us a strange new set of hero’s… health care providers, nurses, bus drivers, first responders… they are the brave and all too few are left to deal with the aftermath. To all of us who maintain six feet of separation from one another we feel inadequate at our position in the ranks. We’ve built a fortress around our hearts and now the battlements must be set on fire

But through the flames and tears, I hear the laughter of children or is it the sounds of wildlife, a multitude of species teaming through woodland, wetland, town and country alike. Birds of all sizes and colors all returning to ancestral lands. The chemical skies and rivers below begin to clear as smog dissipates from major cities all as recorded by the eternal eye of time and space.

Is it really such a surprise that in our absence, nature is capable of making such a recovery to a time and place she knew in another age yet in the distance of only a month or so? Do we really think that we can go back to things as they were? Or should the so-called ‘new normal’ really be an ambassador to a new way of thinking? An archetype to understanding what was once hidden so deep but is on the verge of becoming. A new mythology for the Earth and its children.

“copyright 2020-09 jc… image by jc”

The Moon Is Hanging Upside Down

And everything under the sun is in tune but the sun is eclipsed by the moon… Pink Floyd

The quote above gives the impression that the moon by way of a solar eclipse can become a bit of a trickster when it comes to situations here on earth. Add to that is the ability to raise and lower the tides or, induce a mystical exsperience from dogs, wolves, and coyotes to howl in her presence. Life would be a little less exciting if not for the earth’s only offspring tethered out there in space by way of gravity… juxtapositioned at an exacts angle which gives us the seasons of the year. Just think of all the books, movies, music, poetry in existence with the moon in character. Life would be dull to say the lease. So just what is it that moves us to romance this cold gray rock of a moon? I beleive that light and love have given us the greatest stories ever told, right here in the night sky above your house, stories that bring the earth, sun, and moon out to perform each evening.

Birth of the Moon

The earth in the heavens, a much younger age, on fire, molten lava, crust solidifying. A meteor crashes into the newly formed planet. It is pushed off axis to 23.5 degrees of tilt. A chunk of earth is sent flying into the heavens, churning, forming, taking orbit around the earth, the moon is born. Because of the impact, metals are left exposed and not buried deep within the earth’s crust ensuring the industrial and technological ages of the earth come into fruition.

The ancients named the sun after the Lion, as its flames are as loud as a lion’s roar. Along the Precession of the Equinox, it’s mystical path around the milky way, everything within the sun’s reach is given light. But trifle with the lion and she could take light away. Thus a solar eclipse is what the first inhabiters of this planet saw, appearing to be the sun growing darker taking light away because of some grievous sin brought upon humankind by the gods.

The sun is eternal, its light is never extinguished whereas the moon sheds its light… it is temporal and is associated with the snake which sheds its skin only to be reborn. The earth and her cohorts, the sun and the moon have evolved thru many different ages and changed in many surprising ways as the great mother she is. And all this is written in the heavens for our enjoyment.

Yes, the moon is hanging upside down, trying to recognize who we are, hoping to see our familiar faces again… jc

*copyright by jc 2020-9 image by pixabay

Song of Amergin

With all that is happening in the world, I think back to the Song of Amergin. Besides being poetic and mysterious in nature, it has endeared itself in the hearts of all who see themselves as one with the earth. On many levels, we are the earth’s people and we have her fate in our hands. For she has nurtured all who inhabit her rivers, mountains, forest, seas, and sky. So maybe it’s time to recite our truth as the poet did on these shores many eon’s ago.

I am the wind on the sea
I am the wave of the sea
I am the bull of seven battles
I am the eagle on the rock
I am a flash from the sun
I am the most beautiful of plants
I am a strong wild boar
I am a salmon in the water
I am a lake in the plain
I am the word of knowledge I am the head of the spear in battle
I am the God that puts fire in the head
Who spreads light in the gathering on the hills?
Who can tell the ages of the moon?
Who can tell the place where the sun rests? Who but I know the secrets of the unhewn dolmen?*

*unhewn – (of stone especially) … unfinished – not brought to the desired final state.

*dolmen – a Neolithic tomb or monument consisting of a large, flat stone laid across upright stones; cromlech

Mythology
While reciting the Song of Amergin, the poet by the same name which means ‘birth of song’, steps onto the shores of Kenmare Bay in Ireland for the first time, leading the “Men of Mil” into battle against the Tuatha De’ Danann (Fairy Clan). In his recitation of the mystical song, he calms the seas allowing his warrior’s safe passage to defeat the Fairy Clan. Whereupon, he tricks the Tuatha De’ Danann into going to the underworld where they now reside in the sidhes or fairy mounds. In this, the sovereignty of Ireland is laid claim to.

Thus the song subsequently affirms the sacredness and power of the land. It also implies a challenge to the gods in which the Tuatha De Danann are considered; do not interfere and disrupt humanity.

Amairgen’s accepted into the realm of the mystics and joins the spirit of the Cosmos which commands the elements and holds court over the earth and sky.

Conclusion
The Song of Amergin comes to us as a translation into English in 1905. But other copied have surfaced with different emphases as to certain text and meaning. It’s said that the poem should be taught in schools before the Odyssey or even the Canterbury Tales.

To those with an interest in the druids, it’s implied that the poem has an emphasis on being a druid that Amergin was. But he was also a poet and the poet’s lines occupy a space in each of us pointing to our shared humanity. We are all the Song of Amergin.

©jc2017-9 Image by Pixabay

River Song

Tonight we sleep under velvet skies
As we count the days since the caravans have departed in winter’s wake
I find the beloved in a hundred murid images
The clues hiding deep in these crossed roads of a poet’s second-hand notebook.

For those of us left behind to finish with this wayward stroll
The milkiest way is full of light from Andromida’s way star bright
With nights of Blue Moon, Cowboy Junkies, and Sweet Jane
Least we forget the rain, the sky and the Hawk from on high.

Steel on steel will make the rails sing
But tonight my song is for the river the Lakota call Wakan Tanka
Take me into your murky debts amongst the sunken cypress logs
And renew me in the pure water of southern rain.

With great respect and warmth, we bid the day adieu’
May our dreams ever fall true for another nights review
And with my eyes ever-smiling across the waters wide
It’s good to ride the river with you tonight.

©jc2020-9

Image by Pixabay

So This Is Love

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So this is love, of something or other.
Merlin locked in a tree by his one true love.
Kerouac his scroll of the open road unfolding before us as we traverse space and time to the hemispheres where dusk and dawn constantly kiss the sky.
Into the mystic, the slip into the stream sounds like Tupelo Honey… sounds like the love of something or other.
Tolstoy finds the correct words and purpose in the simple life of the lowly peasant…
as he holds Anna’s hand, the train roaring in the distance.
For Poe, its the Raven calling out from his chamber… forevermore, forevermore on that cold Baltimore night leaving a trail of tears and a bottle of cognac.
And yet for others, its pain when it’s honest and it’s honest when its pain.
Stranger things do happen inside the lucid mind where large is small and small is large yet they meet in the narrow inspiring insight and sound in the very words we speak yet we never hear as they catch us bit by bit and surprise us at every turn.

In Silent Lucidity

Deeper issues of a sudden moment seated deep within my soul…quiet… can you hear the stillness? Quiet… can you see it moving? Where? If you have to ask, then you haven’t seen or heard.

Into the abyss of situations shedding light on concerns about life itself. There is emptiness, an unsettling knot that tells me there is much more to life than times movement of the hands-on a clock. The things of what I was taught in college, I don’t believe anymore. Or in the catholic church, I don’t trust anymore. In reality, we are ever passionate about all there is and all there is not… the 10,000 things. While waiting for the rhapsody, just as stuck as ever, much too foolish to realize that we are the composer in secret lucidity, ready to begin our personal symphony. Life can seem like one situation after another that comes and goes where one feels unfulfilled to the point of being bored. Material things can’t control me as some may feel relief in inanimate objects. From the Buddha’s 3rd eye’, I learn many things and the first lesson, “unto oneself, be a light.”. But despite this or because of it, still, there is a peacefulness that I witnessed in people, a look of serenity and tranquility. Something that glows from deep within; a look I’ve longed for all of my life. I know that such people discover a deeper sense of being beyond time while living in the mystery of time, in perpetuity. In Silent Lucidity…

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The Love Thats Sleeping There

True to its meaning a chance meeting with synchronicity happened when I arrived home from my latest road trip. I was in a car accident and of all places, just a few miles from where I was living at the time. I wasn’ t hurt, just a bit psychological is all. But it makes me think about the ghost in the back yard and what is he doing while I’m on holiday. So I did what most would not… I bite off a piece of the dragon and took another trip… yes, another trip with long interludes between stops. One could say that this trip was for the drive itself complete with long panoramic vista and questions of life and love and who’s really in control of this vehicle. They say that only a fool would claim to know about love, well I further that. Only a bigger fool would hesitate to ask.

The Pilgrim longs for love lost, misplaced in the halls of the unrequited, buried beneath earthen tones of blues and greens. He’s traveled light years to be in that rich loom within and taken words as truth beyond reproach only to discover that they were fabrications of a continuous dialogue one has with the shadows of the mind. In truth, we conjure such ghosts from time to time but sooner or later on awakening from the dark night of the soul we elect to control these impish apparitions. Will, we learn from these false words that one suffers when the mind goes wrong or is it too late in the garden to grow fresh flowers and free the love thats sleeping there.

*copyright jc 2020-9

October

“All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travelers to walls and fences, hunters to the field, hollow and the lone voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.” -Thomas Wolfe

Looking back over my life, it appears October has been a singular event for me in many ways as the first frost, covers like a blanket of crushed ice across the top of lawns and the roof of houses and barns. And what are some of the things that remind me of October? The end of the harvest… the harvest moon… the music of Bach… sleeping with the windows open… old dogs warming their chilled bones by the fire… geese flying in formation… blackbirds sing in the dead of night… bats waking from the rafters of an old barn heading toward an ageless nocturnal ritual…

The sweet fragrance of gardenias… the delicate colors of pansies… freshly brewed coffee… the season’s first hot chocolate… days of contemplation and wonder. The reflected light from the setting sun… clear and cool nights… the cat sleeps longer… dogs bark louder…hobbits drinking beer in the post-dawn sun… bats returning from a hard day’s night as squirrels gather nuts and acorns for their winter stores… the month of my diagnoses…. red-tailed hawks… walking man singing frost is on the pumpkin and hay is in the barn… my daughters birth… owls… and you are on my mind.

*Copyright-2019-9-JC

Dragonfly

I’m told that your ancestors go back to the mystic mountains of old where there are stories of many a dragons lair teeming with gold. In truth, you’re one of the first creatures to crawl out from the birth waters of Mother Earth. Many years removed from those times not only in size but also in temperament as you witnessed the Bodhi Tree, the Sermon on the Mount, the first singing of the Veda’s. With translucent wings, you fly over a tranquil pond untouched by ripples, as your mind is calm and untroubled by the dance of time and space, going beyond the known world; fluid, poised and powerful as a dancer of ballet.


Either from the gods of old or from the universe as claimed by modernity, His is the method of our forefathers that you lay secret too, where one’s connection to one’s ground of being is one with all there is.

You are the harbinger of change and maturity mining from a deeper well. A red-tailed hawk in your service flies upward to the sky, retrieving a message from the west wind destined for you.

Like a still point, you hover, meditating in your quiet way, for the awareness of an enlighten Heaven and Earth. Then to fly with wings interdependent to the six directions, across land and sea as you give witness to Gaia. Is she doomed for giving life to her less than noble children? Is it time for Shiva’s dance of fire? But alas the destroyer is also the creator, a continuum of divine proportions.For you are the very epitome of change, as you make your way through the very air you call home, onward to time evermore.

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