Rainbow Connection 2020

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Rising

Dreams,
undeferred,
coupled with Hope,
that thing unfettered,
to keep us company
and warm our solitude,
as we stumble bravely
through a long night’s journey
into the bated gospel
of days rising to claim us.
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Paper Trail

Jigsaw geography of a novel in progress (The Last Furies).

novel

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Floodlights

We
are the keepers of the sacred fire,
the shapeshifters
and purveyors of starstuff undivided,
We,
tending to flocks of light and clouds,
understand that, come rain or come shine,
the founting marvels
from God’s lips, and breadth,
are a flagless scape
containing a ringed inheritance of gospel and blues,
a testimony to grace,
with love our code
and the immutable core nugget
through which we face our shadow
while turned toward the sun,
stepping boldly and bravely
into the glaring unknown.
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Word-Pray

Please understand that words matter.
This, in no way is meant to belittle,
diminish or dismiss the power of action,
but rather, to add “words” to the conversation
as a sort of auxiliary spiritual sibling,
or bolts in a timeless bridge.
And when I say “words,”
I am specifically referring to those
born of fire, forged from the crucible,
those that have cut their way through the frozen lake within
to emerge into the light,
words which have carried on their backs in flights to find voice the timbre and residue of good golden silence.
Words like beads of prayer stung together on invisible glowing bands,
words that hold themselves in tender glimmering thrall to dreams.
When I say words, I mean the grace-pop of Langston Hughes,
or the fire-ringed gospel of James Baldwin,
I am talking about the givers of voice and breath and being to stories and poems,
to legacies of literature making reverent the twin beats of Beauty and Sadness
as the cornerstones of our human saga upon this earth.
There are poems that whisper secrets in your veins,
or provoke seismic rumbles in the hollows of your ribcage,
there are stories that snake their way like liquid thunder
into the crevices of your soul only to become warm winged echoes
that carry you time and again through dark and troubled nights.
Language is a place-holder for our spirit’s cries, for its need to wonder.
In finding, and coming to feel the words behind the words,
openness is required, sensitivity to receive, vulnerability, a desire to experience, in scorched hints,
the burn and dream-life of another’s soul.
So, yes, words matter a hell of a lot.
They are, when you really get to know them, and experience them with naked and trembling intimacy,
alive, unflagged, organic energetic extensions of who we are, who we are not, who we dream or long to be, what we are made from.
They are our presences and absences stitched together in patterns modeling the thinnest of veils.
Words matter.
Or they don’t.
You choose your relationship with the world around you, with its sea of voices and all our clumsily wonderful mortal attempts at symmetry.
But there is, I guarantee, a world within you that matches and mirrors the world within others,
who have taken the time and care,
who were possessed or compelled,
to put down in words what it felt like to be human,
and how they didn’t defer their dreams to a life unimagined,
or left to silence.
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Butterfly, in Black and White

Yesterday,
before the fist-prints
made their way onto the walls
of the gallery as a show of solidarity,
there was a moment,
one of those small simple yet powerful
moments which are easily dismissed or overlooked.
Me, and my partner,
were waiting for the people to arrive,
to literally lend their hands
as a testament to love and support,
when I saw a gorgeous black and white
butterfly
dancing in flight in front of the gallery.
I felt thrilled and touched by sighting of this beauty,
by its gentle breezy coronation of what was going to happen.
Its visit lasted about twenty seconds,
as it would flutter away, then circle back,
and out of all the photos I would snap
on this day, this one I didn’t,
which I’m now glad of,
as the incident scoreditself in my heart,
a moment, a revelation, the seeds of a poem
waiting to know itself.
When the butterfly left,
I had no idea what the rest of the day
would bring, or be like,
but I felt good inside, as if a secret had been implanted within,
owed to this living sacred symbol of metamorphosis.
Listen: Metamorphosis is hard.
And painful.
It hurts like hell
to let go of parts
to which we feel fiercely attached,
protective of, or to which we cling
in maintaining conditions and a fixed identity.
Transformation is no walk in the park.
And yet, it brings with it necessary ceding,
and room for true breathing.
That is why, you can look to the person next to you,
or the person next to them, or someone a state or country or lifetime away,
you can look within, and say—Fuck, metamorphosis is kicking my ass,
but we’re in this together, right?
Know these words as a seal, as a sacrosanct bond and rhyme.
And get on with it.
Same as that black and white butterfly
which started as caterpillar,
that age-old story and legacy of metamorphosis
that speaks to us all in terms clearly understandable.
Caterpillar to butterfly.
Divided to united.
It sounds like a crazy dream,
but that’s what makes it so damned marvelous,
it asks more of us
than what me might be telling ourselves
is real or possible.
And if that black and white butterfly
that graced our event of solidarity yesterday
can somehow hear this poem,
I want to say—
Thank you for showing up,
as a blessing undisguised.
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Reflections of Solidarity

This gallery contains 7 photos.

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The Rainbow Connection 2020

It truly is
staring us right in the face,
under our noses—
We are the makers
of the new myths
and shifts in being,
We, the shapers of legacy,
and dawn’s graced breaking.
It is not someone
or somewhere else,
it is you,
it is me,
it is us,
right here, right now.
One gilded step at a time,
and let me assure you—
Light, is a supremely kickass guide,
when it comes to territories unknown or uncharted,
parts and aspects unclaimed,
when it comes to sparking much-needed bravery
during scary and tumultuous times.
It is okay to be scared, it is okay,
same as it is important to remember
the wise words of F.D.R., “Courage is not the absence of fear,
but rather the assessment that something else is more
important than fear.”
In other words,
when walking through a storm,
holding hands with another,
a sister, a brother, a lover, a friend,
the world itself, as extended family and bridge,
seals a bond of strength
in glowing togetherness.
And so we walk.
Hand in hand,
through a storm,
bearers of light
and torch songs
for this marvelous world, turning,
with us, upon it,
the lovers, the dreamers,
and groundbreaking sowers of seeds
in new plots of earth.
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Harmony

We, the people,
the portal-jumpers,
re-seeding
our modes of vision
and being,
to score
the heart’s greening bounty,
as if notes to a torch song,
buried and nearly forgotten,
and now being recalled
to give Grace her due
and amazing take
on harmony
as a most sacred fuse
and guiding principle.
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Weather Report

In the climate change
of one’s heart,
a weathervane,
doubling as compass,
pointing to true north,
as we, the wandering
homesick orphans,
are called forth
to brave the wilds
of a new breaking dawn.
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