tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41082782669293735862024-03-12T21:29:56.255-04:00War ChildSo peeling back the onion of my life is not to reveal a child, but rather a person filling a hole in some one else's life... which were you to know, in a sense means<br>I do not exist.Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-72092007386369743812011-04-04T10:02:00.002-04:002011-04-04T10:06:12.701-04:00Springtime... maybe.Hi there.<br /><br />Well, these are trying times... and so I am trying. <br /><br />I am reminded of certain passages from Gibbons’ work The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. But I try not to reminisce too much. Mostly.<br /><br />Not so easy since I decided to take my Moody Monday cartoon strip off-site. One of those ideas that seemed to be time. <br /><br />But you know how it goes… the only thing that does not change is the need for change… or to re-arrange the furniture. Looking at that this year. Maybe get a new couch? Not sure. Maybe get a new Prime Minister? I would like that… <br /><br />Sure sign of spring is taking the bikes in to get them tuned up and ready to roll. Jen fired them up in the garage to make sure that they at least started. Talk about a Happy Girl… she was grinnin’ wild… and had that far away look in her eyes. <br /><br /><em>Somewhere on a desert highway<br />She rides a Harley-Davidson<br />Her long blonde hair<br />flyin' in the wind<br />She's been runnin' half her life<br />The chrome and steel she rides<br />Collidin' with<br />the very air she breathes...</em><br /><br />Then we had the surprise snow… but the bikes are still going in to get ready. It’s been a long winter… and it is time for a change. <br /><br /><em>Open your arms, opens your arms, <br />Open your arms, baby, let my love come running in. <br />It's been a long time, been a long time, <br />Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time.</em> <br /><br />All of my love<br />SkySkycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-49948362357329795982011-04-01T11:51:00.003-04:002011-04-01T11:53:50.813-04:00Ok...Yeppers... today is "ok"...<br /><br />I like the weather... got a slow melt to the snow though some one shound clean up the park a bit... dogs do what dogs do. <em>**hurr hurr hurr**</em><br /><br />Still hammerring away at getting all the Moody Mondays set up and posted. Not a big fan at reformatting it, but had to be done. So that's ok...<br /><br />Yeppers... today is ok.<br /><br />All my love<br />SkySkycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-52075301499172262032011-03-31T20:24:00.004-04:002011-03-31T20:36:01.523-04:00I'm not deadWow… shit happens and the next thing you know you are like a million miles away from where you thought that you would be or should be. <br /><br />So I ran into a pile of bricks and have floundered… sorry to be gone so long… but I am not dead. Just been not 100%… But doing well now… got over both a round of physical unwellness and the accompanying mental stress of it all… sure, we are all mortal… but we all react differently to being totally reminded of that fact. <br /><br />I started posting my cartoons here… see “<a href="http://skyclad-moodymonday.blogspot.com/">Moody Monday</a>” in my other blogs… <br /><br />All my love <br />SkySkycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-28445328036103080702009-12-30T11:28:00.001-05:002009-12-30T11:28:44.261-05:00St Joan...Joan of Arc was burnt alive. Absolutely toasted…<br /><br />Did she hear the voice of God?<br />Was she a gross sinner?<br />A heretic?<br />Could she do math?<br />Was she a witch?<br /><br />No… she was burnt alive for being a cross-dresser and a general pain in the ass to the "State"… not her own "State" either... some one else's. Joan was French but it was the English who toasted her.<br /><br />So yeah… what does it that mean? Things are not all that different today... the "State" is getting irrationally in the way...<br /><br />Where are we going?<br />How are we going to get there?<br /><br />Fact is though that we are not all going to arrive… which leads to the question – does it matter to you if we do not all arrive?Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-83778233147506547292009-12-30T11:25:00.000-05:002009-12-30T11:27:17.091-05:00It is really just this simple2009 is closing and some antique ideas persist...<br /><br />I am so tired of the whole “Feminist” debate over who is or can be a feminist… so here it is set out simply…<br /><br />True or False?<br /><br />Women are equal human beings to men and entitled to equal opportunity, equal respect, and equal remuneration.<br /><br />If you say True you are a feminist…<br />Men can be feminists…<br />your gender does not matter. <br /><br />If you say False then you are a misogynist… <br />and again your gender does not matter…<br />women can be misogynists.<br /><br />The rest of the blather is just cheap excuses.Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-50295801820281919352009-12-28T22:10:00.000-05:002009-12-28T22:13:26.049-05:00ResolutionsI don’t like “resolutions”… it is impossible for me to trust in that sort of change… to wake up and suddenly be different… I can’t trust that… deeds count; words don’t… the act makes the fact.<br /><br />“Resolutions” are a fairy tale’s promise… to be suddenly richer… to be suddenly wiser… to be suddenly beautiful… all at a word… it’s a magic spell without the discipline of learning how to do it. <br /><br />It does not take a “resolution” to quit smoking or cheating or whatever you are after… look, if the fairy tale witch made a resolution to quit poisoning apples would you take the fruit? Could you believe that much over words? <br /><br />You want to change and be a better person… that’s fine… a worthy goal... I got no problem with that... just don’t announce it before you do it... there are enough broke promises already.Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-19461065514055109242009-09-30T22:45:00.000-04:002009-09-30T22:47:19.049-04:00Geists<div align="justify">You just can not talk ghosts with some people… cause they want to talk about ghouls and the like. I have never seen a ghoul, though I have seen plenty of ghosts. Last night a friend was telling me of a cat poltergeist, which I frankly have never heard of before. Haunting… not quite as strange as some may wish it to be. The dude with the cat geist though did not like my suggestion that haunting works both ways. Some remain due to unfinished business, other remain because we simply will not let them go. </div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-53801321016407068692009-09-28T20:58:00.001-04:002009-09-28T21:02:09.168-04:00I am waiting... I am waiting.. oh yeah... oh yeah<div align="justify">Sitting back in my chair I had the chance to enjoy the quiet and look out my window at the trees. Sure, there is a city back there somewhere, but all I can see out the window is the trees, the birds, and the calm tranquility of the forest which surrounds the house and lawns. There is a world out there but today I am not a part of it.<br /><br />It might be selfish really to withdraw and be apart from things, but then the truth is that a lot of things are wearing me out. I get to feeling faded like an old photograph left outside too long.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimAOPZYy9XU3F0fwvnbinXwKHmwnvOObiS2Rde334P14Zu6yNe9XRgog7Tb8j96QWU7p6WB1P7Kaw8aoH_IWkZzGuShRpb9BpkhyphenhyphenQBktHqM708j3et2S85xIfbfwm4KUVY1ibS721zfbuJ/s1600-h/july09jj.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386688268961113634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 132px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimAOPZYy9XU3F0fwvnbinXwKHmwnvOObiS2Rde334P14Zu6yNe9XRgog7Tb8j96QWU7p6WB1P7Kaw8aoH_IWkZzGuShRpb9BpkhyphenhyphenQBktHqM708j3et2S85xIfbfwm4KUVY1ibS721zfbuJ/s320/july09jj.jpg" border="0" /></a>October is looming up quickly and with it the new medical tests. I was talking with my life partner about this, about how tired I am of the whole thing, and how I would so dearly love just to not do this anymore. I know, how difficult it must be for her to hear that, and yet there she is supporting me through this still. My Jenny is my mountain.<br /><br />I am going to miss some writing deadlines at Pan Historia. These were self imposed and though I normally would move heaven and earth not to miss my own deadlines, I shall this time. The works will not be the way that I want them to be in time, and I do not think that I will sacrifice my time with Jenny to complete them. Some call it priorities, I call it sanity.<br /><br />The University is now in full swing, and I have filled my allotment of students. The task ahead is rather pleasing to me, though I find myself missing being the student. It is far different being the tutor. I am not sure that I like it as much. What I am hopeful of is that the pleasure of success from the students will transfer to me as well. Education is a team sport. I wonder if this is how an athlete feels when they must give up playing and become the coach? Are they trying to get back the high that they once knew?<br /></div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-50686123882443921592009-09-20T20:11:00.004-04:002009-09-20T20:43:04.856-04:00GOTHPERA test version<span style="font-size:180%;">GOTHPERA<br /></span><br /><br /><em><U>the birds</U><br /></em><br /><br />the summer I got sick they thought it was mono<br /><br />fatigue and persistent pain<br />bed rest watching the world pass away in brief spells<br />day dreams<br />I found it impossible to sleep and could not stay awake<br />I hovered on the edges of between<br />reading became an impossible repetition of pages and paragraphs<br />hushed voice stripped of meaning<br />the message reverted into droning buzzes<br />lost behind the empty gestures of comfort and tranquility<br />I slipped beneath a veneer of life<br /><br />the sunshine slides across the floor<br />don’t open the door<br />let the dust dance<br />the flecks smiling in the sunshine<br />it’s just fine<br />inside<br /><br />the days poured out of the mornings<br />into the bright blinding noontime<br />hunger is a memory<br />I knew that I should be hungry<br />I was not<br />the coffee ignored beside the bed<br />grown cold buttered toast abandoned<br />all we have at the end in the longing<br />the desire to recall eating as pleasure<br />the warmth of food with aroma<br />in the absence of flavor<br />desire dies<br /><br />let the bird sing in through the open window<br />stream into the room with the prayer<br />the birds never promise<br />the emptiness of tomorrow is absent<br />shadow fingers across the lawn<br />around the corner<br />outside<br />but I am asleep<br />dreaming of palm trees wavering over the waves<br />of the blue ocean surge<br />the singing of birds<br /><br />Pandora’s silent scream weighs like lead after the fleeing began<br />her trembling hand half hide her face<br />and her beauty was lost to the world<br />replaced by the discipline of tough love<br />border lines drawn on paper in seclusion<br />an old man speaks to a dog in park<br />barks in commands<br />there, slow motion dancers practice martial arts<br />the meaning of the story is jumbled<br />becomes lost<br />then hides<br /><br />the truth is that I watch you<br />living the flashes of life that you bring<br />through the closed window<br />silent movements across the lawn<br />remembering the song<br />that birds sang<br />do they sing<br />anymore?<br /><br /><br /><em><U>doubt</U></em><br /><br /><br />as we stand upon the precipice, the eternal silence of god speaks louder than the texts taught and the unfailing conclusion is that the root foundation for this absence can be nothing short of the actual nonattendance in both the person and the being of a creator<br /><br />to be undecided or skeptical about<br />to tend to disbelieve<br />to distrust<br />to regard as unlikely<br />to suspect<br />to know fear<br /><br /><br /><em><U>hope</U></em><br /><br /><br />hope escapes last only because we so choose it to be<br />afterwards there is nothing but the resounding calmness<br />the swirling chaos of non existence ceases to be feared<br />but becomes that which we embrace<br />the purpose in pointlessness is to cease to seek utility<br />and to function where no purpose is to be found.<br /><br /><br /><em><U>time</U></em> <br /><br /><br />there is a past<br />unreachable but amendable<br />there is a present<br />immutable<br />but there is no future<br />there is only silence.<br /><br /><br /><em><U>growth</U></em> <br /><br /><br />grass grows uncontrolled in thick clumps of shaggy green waiting for the evening breeze<br />the slap of plastic chord on sidewalk cement induces a chant of wordless wonder<br />this is how girls learn to sing<br />rhythmic incantations<br />spells<br />and then the laughter<br /><br />through the glass windows it rises muffled<br />a strangely forbidden language<br />it is a code of separation<br />initiation<br />on the grass even the slapping plastic transmutes into the tribal beat of distant drums<br /><br />I remember it raining as condensed mists looking pout into the grey fog<br />or the night perforated by yellow lamps<br />only the sunlight light days are clear<br />liberated from the murk and the mire of oppressiveness<br />and still the gnawing teeth of boredom chewed through the walls<br />mind aching listless boredom<br /><br /><br /><em><U>question</U></em><br /><br /><br />an expression of inquiry that invites or calls for a reply.<br />an interrogative sentence, phrase, or gesture.<br />a subject or point open to controversy<br />a proposition brought up for consideration by an assembly.<br />the act of bringing a proposal to vote.<br />uncertainty<br />to doubt<br /><br /><br /><em><U>believe</U></em><br /><br /><br />to accept as true or real<br />to credit with veracity<br />to expect or suppose<br />to think<br />to have firm faith<br />to have faith, confidence, or trust<br />to have confidence in the truth or value of something<br />to have an opinion; think<br /><br /><br /><em><U>the time of forgetting</U></em><br /><br /><br />I’m not your answer. I’m not your solution.<br />I’m not here to offer you absolution.<br />you misunderstood me right from the beginning<br />you misunderstood why your head it was swimming<br />you’re drowning in tears of your own sweet creation<br />you’ll die from your fears, your loves and hesitation<br /><br />tomorrow there’ll be one less infirmity.<br />tomorrow you’re free from your life’s agony.<br />yes, I won’t remember the long and forgotten,<br />the dearly departed in the ground lying rotten.<br />the sky it is bleeding. the sun it is setting<br />the night as it comes is the time of forgetting<br /><br /><br /><em><U>the name</U></em><br /><br /><br />the room was dim<br />in the corner the strange priest dressed in black played with sanguinary rosary beads<br />blood clots<br />nodules and nodes along the strand of life<br />ending in self immolation<br />sacrifice flowing through his pallid fingers<br />the puffy dry lips mumbling phrases in Latin<br />the dead language<br />the language of the dead<br />thirsting for a taste of wine<br />roses held in the shadows as the darkness<br />whispers chuckled and spoke through silence<br />the dreaded name<br />fear held all other voices at bay in silent reverence<br />cancer<br /><br /><br /><em><U>feel</U> </em><br /><br /><br />to perceive through the sense of touch<br />to perceive as a physical sensation<br />to touch.<br />to examine by touching<br />to test or explore with caution<br />to undergo the experience of.<br />to be aware of; sense<br />to be emotionally affected by<br />to be persuaded of something on the basis of intuition, emotion,<br />indefinite grounds<br />to believe; think<br /><br /><br /><em><U>milk</U> </em><br /><br /><br />it becomes uncomfortable because they can not truly believe in any other outcome<br />it haunts them<br />a form of failure<br />out of order<br />if we had just<br />if they could just<br />then silence<br />if we just ignore<br /><br />families are hardest<br />the aching want<br />the pressed silence<br />denial<br />maybe<br />hope<br />there is no hope<br />thin veils tossed aside easily<br />there is comfort and hiding<br />don’t upset your aunt<br />the secret<br />I become the family secret<br /><br />there are so many secrets<br />whispered conferences behind closed doors and pregnant pauses<br />school?<br />what’s the point?<br />the point is that I do not want him here all day<br />the point is that I can not cope<br />wouldn’t it be possible?<br />if only<br />if we just<br />if they could just<br />do you know what that would cost?<br /><br />I do not recall when or why I stopped sleeping<br />and started to wander the house at night<br />relishing the silence<br />the dark cool halls<br />carpet soft against the soles of my feet<br />the brash charge of the cold linoleum<br />I was conquering comfort<br />building tolerances<br />searching the darkness<br /><br />if only<br />if just<br />her voice breaks down<br />he is drinking all the milk<br />but he will not eat<br />she is breaking done<br />he wants chocolate milk<br />oh for Christ’s sake<br />what is happening to us?<br /><br />and there it is<br />what is happening to them…<br /><br />I stop drinking the milk<br /><br /><br /><em><U>let go</U></em><br /><br /><br />let go!<br />let go!<br />I’ll never know until you let go.<br /><br />let go!<br />let go!<br />you’ll never know until I let go.<br /><br />let go!<br />let go!<br />when we let go we’ll know<br /><br /><br /><em><U>I didn’t want to tell you</U></em><br /><br /><br />I didn’t want to tell you this.<br />I didn’t want to make you cry.<br />I thought that it was just a cyst,<br />but now it seems I’m going to die.<br /><br />I understand that it’s frightening<br />but there is nothing you can do<br />life went fast and it’s quickening<br />the end will come and then it’s through<br /><br />and the clouds are falling from the sun<br />and if we try to run there is no where to go<br />even though we know there is nothing we can do<br />still I think of you.<br /><br /><br /><em><U>virulence</U></em><br /><br /><br />this isn’t the plague<br />though people avoid you<br />yet it’s more than they say<br />they’re trying to elude you<br /><br />take a nap.<br />have a rest.<br />do your best.<br />avoid stress.<br />don’t die.<br /><br />breathe in<br />breathe out<br />try not to<br />toss about<br /><br />it is just an infection<br />escaping detection<br />it isn’t the plague<br />it only seems that way.<br /><br /><br /><em><U>flesh</U></em><br /><br /><br />the other self stands naked in reverse reflection<br />a refraction of the self grinning back<br />recognition is not an identification but an error in discernment<br />we are the inhabitants of living flesh that is not our own<br /><br /><br /><em><U>the picnic</U></em><br /><br /><br />they would drive into the country along back roads as anonymous strangers<br />walking with metal cooler boxes and folding chairs<br />never questioning the worn path’s existence<br />this was their private place<br />the picnic place<br />it was escape<br /><br />here she would walk along the beach twenty pound lighter in perception<br />her present self absent<br />a taste of freedom<br />he shirtless would fuse and fiddle with the portable fire<br />his flesh sweating in the heat and burning in the sunlight<br />in sandals his socks dark anchors<br />heavy leaden leads<br />even on vacation he was chained to employment<br />life had narrowed and eroded him<br /><br />in youth they had come here naked<br />splashing diamonds emerging from the water<br />wrapped in intricate emotional embrace<br />they were laughter<br />enticingly erotic<br />now she stops at bra and panties<br />the grayness of age over powering the bleach and advertised brightness<br />her anchors and chains a confinement denying escaped<br />she is shaped<br />she sees through the critical eye of judgement discerning failure<br />his eyes see the sweeping expanse of picnic<br />an allotment of time boxed off<br /><br /><br /><em><U>walking</U> </em><br /><br /><br />she stepped off the sidewalk into the smooth reflective surface of the puddle<br />her eyes steeled, looking ahead<br />she knew but made no sign to indicate that the cold water had in anyway been unexpected or unwanted<br />a determined walk across the street<br />she was a motion through changes in shade and shadow<br />she disappeared into the small variety store<br />people disappear across the city into and out of doorways<br />a moment there then they are gone<br />like car keys left in the bowl by the door<br />sometimes they return<br />steam rises in streamers up from the grates and we wait for the magician to perform once again<br />an awkward silence and stillness rips a hole in time<br />the steady unwinding regardless of the hands the watch stops and I walk into deeper gray<br />only I do not know if I am walking away or towards<br /><br /><br /><em><U>the garage sale</U></em><br /><br /><br />they held a garage sale<br />tables on the lawn<br />for a moment they were swept away in the event<br />memories diminished amid the excitement<br />it was a recognition subderma of the future<br />or rather it was the recognition of the abeyance of future...<br />a form of role play abrogation of position and standing<br />survival is discarding<br />to dispatch<br />dispose<br />and jettison weight<br /><br /><br /><em><U>the doctor</U></em><br /><br /><br />in transition the changing amalgamation of cells erupts into a chaotic infusion as the immune system begins to execute indiscriminately. during the mitotic process eukaryotic cell mutations beneficial to survival are prevalent in superior numbers amongst the cancerous formations. biology is a numbers game without house rules, score cards or a timer. when it is over, it is over.<br /><br /><br /><em><U>decomposition</U></em><br /><br /><br />she smiled and with an out-stretched hand introduced herself<br />I am glomerulonephritis<br />you are leukemia i presume<br />that which infects our lives becomes us<br />consumes us<br />we were born dead<br />we are plague.<br /><br />I can not eat the candies<br />and the flowers slowly wilt<br />they fade after the visitors have gone<br />the television chatters like a monkey<br />inanely flashing irrelevancies<br />distortions and distractions...<br />watching talk shows is like having a brain tumor<br />there is no meaning<br />just voices talking<br />saying nothing<br />meaning nothing.<br /><br /><br /><em><U>the laughing girl</U></em><br /><br /><br />she comes in through the darkness<br />a smile and barefoot<br />it is 2 o’clock<br />darkness tells me it is night<br />her presence tells me it is night<br />she sings softly without words<br />beckons<br />then evaporates.<br /><br />if I follow I find that I can not find her<br />I have grown slow<br />or she has grown fast<br />I laugh at the madness<br />I decide to walk<br />bare feet on linoleum<br />passed the now quiet common room of fretting parents and frightened children<br />passed the lies of sleep<br />I pick up a small stuffed cat<br />ragged tatters of a toy<br />looking into the dead glass eyes<br />remembering the forgotten<br /><br />her laughter startles me to instinctually hold the toy as if it were alive<br />a hand gently soothing that which has had no life<br />her hand is small, pale<br />she gently reaches to the cat which I clutch tighter<br />the thought of mine banishes all other thoughts<br />a gentle pet and a smile<br />along my spine the warmth runs<br /><br />sparks of affection<br />the tenderness long escaped floods<br />a river of kindness erupts through the dams<br />and I am crying<br />weeping with exultation<br />her smile shines<br />a star brilliant in the darkest night<br />she glows and radiates within me<br />alive<br />my god I am alive<br /><br />the coolness of her palm upon my glistening cheek<br />the earnest searching of her eyes<br />the wavering tenderness as a breeze blows across me<br />her wordless song fills with meaning<br />a heart beat<br />two hearts beat<br />in my hand a stuffed child’s toy squirms and mewls<br /><br />oh darkness my eyes have seen the light<br />oh darkness my eyes have seen the light<br />oh darkness<br /><br />alone<br />silence<br />but the tears upon my cheeks cool their fire<br />and I smile<br />she is here.<br /><br /><br /><em><U>it’s so very quiet</U></em><br /><br /><br />it’s so very quiet<br />I hear the blood squish running through my veins<br /><br />it’s so very quiet<br />the clock? time just hammering on the wall<br /><br />I feel I want to riot<br />I’d rather go insane<br />than be the ghost, the pallor walking in the hall<br /><br />but when the sun goes down<br />when the night clouds rise<br />I can see again<br />but I realize<br />it is only the toxin wearing off.<br /><br />it’s so very quiet<br />and there is nothing here really for me to do<br />I sleep all in sedative<br />and dream all night of different times with whom?<br /><br />but when the sun goes down<br />when the night clouds rise<br />I can be again<br />but I recognize<br />it is only the venom wearing thin.<br /><br />it’s so very quiet<br />and I think I’m rather tired<br />and the sunlight is burning in my eyes<br />it’s so very quiet<br />and I am glad you came to visit<br />I know this must be very hard on you<br /><br />but when the sun goes down<br />when the night clouds rise<br />I can be again<br />but I identify<br />it is only poison beneath my skin.<br /><br /><br /><em><U>infectious</U> </em><br /><br /><br />I did not expect to fall in love<br />facing death tends to alter the way that you look at people<br />they become even more temporary<br />you know that they will abandon you<br />you don’t want to get close like that<br />but she just kept coming<br />it was like I had no choice<br />or that she would not listen<br /><br />Some people are like that<br />but she was infectious<br />tiring<br />but when she was not there it was colder<br />and I would find myself waiting for her<br />but I wanted her to listen to me too<br />I did not realize that I had been silent for so long<br />so long I had forgotten how to speak<br /><br />Silence<br />Forgetfulness<br />Isolation<br />and then a contagion of a person<br />an infection in a smile<br />a laugh<br />even a touch<br />how could I understand her?<br />I would look at her from a different world<br />Universe<br />I did not know<br />how could anyone have known?<br /><br /><br /><em><U>nocturnal wanderer</U></em><br /><br /><br />Her eyes shine in wet virtues<br />I could believe in those eyes<br />she had the knowledge<br />the secret rituals complete with the meanings of the rhymes<br />it was upon her lips to chant down<br />to incant<br />she could invoke the ancient nature<br />but she only laughs<br />a mumbling murmur of laughter<br /><br />I am dreaming I think<br />the flaxen hair in halo swiftly through the corridors<br />the songs of the radiator<br />the click and clack expansion and contraction<br />clocks measure in tics and tocks but time is expansion and contraction<br />it moves like the grass grows - in clumps<br />swift as we run<br />agonizingly slowly as we wait<br /><br />The girl exists<br />she is genuine<br />it is the nocturnal wanderings<br />the lightness of her step<br />the hint of her laughter in the dreaded spells of silence<br />barefoot her progressions is the soft beat of the heart of the missing rain<br /><br /><br /><em><U>supernova</U></em><br /><br /><br />star light star bright<br />the first star I be tonight<br />I wish I may, I wish I might<br />supernova<br /><br />to burst violently as a result of internal pressure.<br />to shatter with a loud noise:<br />to make an emotional outburst:<br />to increase suddenly, sharply, and without control:<br />to change state or appearance suddenly:<br /><br /><br /><em><U>clarity</U> </em><br /><br /><br />a statement conveying fundamental character.<br />a statement of the meaning of a word,<br />the act or process of stating a precise meaning or significance;<br />formulation of a meaning.<br /><br />the act of making clear and distinct:<br />the state of being closely outlined or determined:<br />a determination of outline, extent, or limits:<br /><br />the clarity of detail;<br />the degree of clarity<br /><br /><br /><em><U>nowhere</U></em><br /><br /><br />this is a body out of mind syndrome<br />it is like a well<br />a deep dark well<br />I imagine it to be bottomless<br />featureless in the dark space between sight and sleep<br />confined and defined by an absence<br />an emptiness of features<br />this well features no features<br /><br />the pinpoint is the circle of light receding<br />no thing survives here<br />at this depth<br />even the cold can not exist here<br />this is nowhere.Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-90294690190335277112009-09-17T22:09:00.003-04:002009-09-18T21:42:32.383-04:00the endless sea<em><span style="font-size:85%;">for Susan</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">and those who have lost a love</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">death defeats only those who forget</span></em><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><br /><br />bowed low beneath the onset of the north wind,<br />shuddering,<br />the sweet banshee’s howls scrape at the heavy moon low on the horizon,<br />drifting upon the sea<br />the scent of Bermudan flowers on the gales<br />a taste from far away<br />amid the torments of the pounding rain<br />into the endless sea of fear…<br /><br />the loneliness is deep-rooted in cold soil<br />dawning<br />drowning<br />a darkness that cultivates a life in repose<br />the rain hides the tears in staring eyes<br />the halo of hair kiting on the sea of stars<br />reflection of the endless sea of fear….<br /><br />we are mocked by foolish storms<br />the sky’s filled chalice runneth over<br />weeping<br />seeping<br />the day lost to the dreams of night<br />everything and everyone lies below the endless waves<br />sweeping<br />waving<br />in the endless sea of fear...<br /><br />when it cuts,<br />deep as pain<br />lightning flash<br />falling<br />shattering<br />thunder…<br />then the tranquility of emptiness<br />the endless sea of fear…<br /><br />thought in perpetual dead reason.<br />the blade kisses the night<br />there is no life for me watching the sea<br />waiting for he<br />this is no life for me watching the sea<br />waiting for he<br />the tears that i have bleed for thee<br />into the endless sea of fear…<br /><br />and of love?<br />the harvest is a dark pool of blackness<br />ripping<br />dripping<br />devilish and cruel<br />forever in the night waiting<br />the rush of the dream is the sweetest pain<br />the clock is made of flowing tides<br />the endless sea of fear<br />helpless<br />endless<br />lonelySkycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-26341697146072381272009-09-16T10:54:00.003-04:002009-09-16T10:59:54.314-04:00The Conspiracy Channel<div align="justify"><span style="font-size:180%;">TONIGHT</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">On The Conspiracy Channel</span><br /><br />What is behind the massive Tea Bag protests in the United States. Is it because they are round? Is it because of the number of perforations? Or is it just because ever since the Boston Tea Party no nation on earth has had such crappy tea?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3BNnkJMu0MndHyFHk_YgToVo24NPNma-0AMXrsVMBFgdn9PrfYJ4qUvFN7JECqOCf2JMmKjB_g_7Uhcp-qnqfZl8Faasys_K_TxZRi1sj5aTMYk7_bDeWNU4wsZGJVC5ircyrOC20fJX/s1600-h/teacup.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382079596773617634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 179px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 250px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3BNnkJMu0MndHyFHk_YgToVo24NPNma-0AMXrsVMBFgdn9PrfYJ4qUvFN7JECqOCf2JMmKjB_g_7Uhcp-qnqfZl8Faasys_K_TxZRi1sj5aTMYk7_bDeWNU4wsZGJVC5ircyrOC20fJX/s320/teacup.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>“I am a typical American and I went to England and their tea is just so much better than ours. I think I got addicted to it because when I got home and make a pot of American Tea I thought that I was going to puke. I had the shakes. It was awful. I went to Emerge and they charged me $700 for a Coca Cola enema. I'm not paying for that! Who is going to pay my medical bills? Not Tea, that's for sure.”</em><br /><br />What is behind this? We here at Conspiracy TV will take you behind the scenes to a typical Tea Plantation where you will see for yourselves that the tea producing nations are deliberately shipping inferior tea to the United States of America to sap our political will and resolve. You will be shocked. And stunned. Very stunned.<br /><br />A Republican Rep who wishes to stay anonymous said, <em>“Just say No to Tea. At this point in time there are reasonable grounds to believe that coffee is safer. Tea drinkers voted Obama into office. Clearly tea affects one’s political judgement. Just say NO to Tea and vote Republican to save the United States from this International conspiracy.”</em><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">That's TEA<br />on <span style="font-size:180%;">Conspiracy</span><br /></span>Don't you dare miss it.<br />Your future is at stake!</div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-91537611696780406302009-09-15T21:40:00.004-04:002009-09-15T21:48:29.467-04:00the harvest of the morning<em><span style="color:#ccccff;">Since the early poem posted today was a little depressing I figured that I would share one that was a little more joyful. I wrote this for a friendly competition at</span><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong> </strong></span></em><a href="http://www.panhistoria.com/"><em><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong>Pan Historia</strong></span></em></a><em><span style="color:#ccccff;"><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong>.</strong></span><br /></span></em><br /><br />the boasting river canyon roars sleepily<br />seeping with blackened desire<br />and sneering darkly in happiness<br /><br />autumn's sun appears slowly into the morning<br />as time decays with tenacity<br />the dawn paints indigo flushes<br /><br />fruit ripens<br />and the stars twinkle through the fading night sky<br /><br />the yearning butterfly sighs lightly<br />flailing with bloated longing<br />heavy with mirth<br /><br />autumn kneels into chilly air<br />when nature retires with ease<br />each dewdrop sparkles in jealous green streaks<br /><br />rising up<br />as the sun burns through the cloudless sky<br /><br />a drifting autumn breeze soars cordially<br />wishing with burnt pain<br />and calling darkly towards summer<br /><br />summer bows then glistening<br />the beams teasing filigree of melting frost<br />sunrise awakens across the horizon<br /><br />a single drop swirls mockingly<br />moaning in outright splendor<br />and thrusting gently in love<br /><br />autumn sun sighs softly into the wind<br />whilst night dreams in spontaneity<br /><br />the sky pasted magenta mottles<br />a dew drop falls from a solitary leaf<br />as the harvest of the morningSkycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-59326001406961672402009-09-15T19:42:00.002-04:002009-09-15T19:47:23.578-04:00the washroom mirroras you watch in the mirror <br />you see life growing clearer <br />slowing down, going by frame by frame<br /><br />yes the silence comes after<br />the peals of their laughter<br />you’ve forgotten the rules of the game<br /><br />so you raise up your voice<br />in a last desperate chorus<br />and let out your anguishing cry<br /><br />through the hollow of heaven<br />but you never break even<br />it is not in the throw of the dieSkycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-67525071080402744272009-09-12T18:05:00.003-04:002009-09-12T18:10:35.283-04:00Yes, I am really unreal.<div align="justify">Every thing begins with a stray comment and I often believe that if there is a God the Universe began as a mere slip of the lip. In the beginning there was the Word… and then after that nothing but attempts to take it back…<br /><br />The matter at hand is the question of what is the “REAL PERSON” rather than what is the mask we wear. Oddly in my life, it is the men who ask these questions. Who are you? Why do you dress that way? Is that your “real” name? Etc.<br /><br />First off, yes, it is my legal name. Good enough for the banks and for my driver’s license. And yes… I have been known by many names.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0oG2zenBWeDiNeqm_ID-SsArvImS6ioHAnNaPrUHXBLBtNiuBANatqgnNdHvg12HeUeRAIZhoSmnDBSoV2CbdWPclpBF-O-V6hILvUSs_5I06MMmaFkw7uCbda0hXKh07YHxOFDO67BP/s1600-h/a01ab.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380706042735738738" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 77px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 132px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0oG2zenBWeDiNeqm_ID-SsArvImS6ioHAnNaPrUHXBLBtNiuBANatqgnNdHvg12HeUeRAIZhoSmnDBSoV2CbdWPclpBF-O-V6hILvUSs_5I06MMmaFkw7uCbda0hXKh07YHxOFDO67BP/s320/a01ab.jpg" border="0" /></a>I watch people… it is my hobby, my passion and my fixation. People are very strange and do the most intriguing things. They never act as you might expect, and seldom seem to know why they are the way that they are. To date though I have never met a “real” person, nor for that matter an “unreal” person. I have simply met people.<br /><br />There are customs and practices that I don’t agree with and would never adopt for my own. I don’t particularly like talking about the past. True, when I meet old friends after a spell of absence we do quickly catch up… though the key there is quickly. If we face the facts what happened while apart is not riveting tales usually… unless they were arrested… but that is not often the case any more. As people age they are less likely to be arrested and even less likely to be incarcerated. The point is that we live now, and ought to not pine for that which we can never return to. Memories are fine until they become all there is.<br /><br />What I wear and how I behave are of course contrived when you look at it in the clear light of motivation. My appearance is a selection of choice. What I choose to wear reflects a conscious wearing of a mask. Even should I choose to go nude… that too is a conscious selection of mask. It all creates an atmosphere, mood or condition in which I am the center of the storm that surrounds me. Fact is simple, so are you the center of the storm that surrounds you. Neither can escape this... that is what is real. We wear masks all the time. There is no reality since it is all in our heads.<br /><br />Oh, but I hear you ask “But what if you are asleep?” To this I say that there is nothing real about sleep. The body is there, no different than a corpse in some regards, but the “I” is absent. I am not there. How then can that be real?<br /><br />I am expressed to you in symbols… in a secret code that is meant to be intriguing… interesting and awaken in you a desire to be included into my life… into my storm. It’s electrifying n’est pas?<br /><br />Alternatively, not. There are those who can never get used to my sense of drama. It is then that the worst me emerges… the literal analytical me… emotionless and anchored to the facts that we share in common. We then talk of nothing but the passed past and have no “real” connection in the present. This abolishes any thought of the future. </div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-4694433484207569572009-09-09T16:48:00.002-04:002009-09-09T16:56:46.930-04:00News & Views<div align="justify">It feels like a secret identity at times to live several very distinct lives… the heavy expectations of others are a crippling onus at times… and none more so than the expectations that I have for myself.<br /><br />Spent a few days setting up my office, stocking the shelves with the correct books (course loads, not affectations) when it was made clear to me that where furniture is placed matters. There is a psychological effect. The school provided chairs, which though nice and new, just were not comfortable. Useless for those moments when I want to be close and at hand… I need comfortable chairs set around a coffee table for that. I do not wish to intimidate the undergrads. I will save intimidation for others.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7oKoLOT-WY86bYRyGTjG7jV7Z45X3txHt0xWutTk1ltQEHYykHh9_YbZGUBbIBPguoP18TlQiwrbMxDR__Me3Wn0-VUsqnL1BdewGaft-kWaadA_a954GkF29Ygsj_rLH3_yUKgFPDgCS/s1600-h/Tosha.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379574410890960434" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 160px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7oKoLOT-WY86bYRyGTjG7jV7Z45X3txHt0xWutTk1ltQEHYykHh9_YbZGUBbIBPguoP18TlQiwrbMxDR__Me3Wn0-VUsqnL1BdewGaft-kWaadA_a954GkF29Ygsj_rLH3_yUKgFPDgCS/s320/Tosha.jpg" border="0" /></a>Then there is the desk, the brutal throwback to the industrial revolution. It acts as a barrier as much as anything else. Set to the side it dominates a corner of the room. I imagine my meetings with the faculty to be held over that desk… that impressive edifice of strength and position. Instead of diplomas, I will hang pictures taken for a few of my more “outrageous” readings. Costumes and Drama. Poetry is not for the weak of will.<br /><br />Still, though I know that this me… I shall feel at times like a phony. Yet, so help me, I am so happy to be back at the University. I hate teaching, but I love the feel of the place. </div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-19805819280195452032009-09-09T16:32:00.000-04:002009-09-09T16:33:37.180-04:00wet dreams<div align="justify">she’s the pickle of love… the affectionate wave…. yet she fits like a glove… when the road is fresh paved… when she’s off in a car… she wears a hat for the shade… she is just like a smile… at the side of the grave… with malicious intention… she pulls you down to the fire… when you’re starting to shiver… she fills your heart with desire… but you know that she’s gone… though it feels just the same… you never get to meet her… she left before you came… and you have to hold on… hold on tight for the ride… yes you have to hold on… or you will dry up inside… hold on to your dreams… they are all that you get… hold on to your dreams… or you just might forget… just who you are… or you may fade away… and when there is no one left… there is nothing to say.</div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-68620016999024312082009-08-29T09:56:00.006-04:002009-08-29T10:10:53.957-04:00sea dreams<div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;">sea dreams</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1DsPgzMtMVZwts2_iqM3VD6A3JMGcfPRR4NeoPjNg4XL4ZiaqGJ_nwMxDYjuEiKIVkpTowCFtKMBJ0tKTDLK3nkDlMsKAZftGjkpLVnJ_FHhhyxbJg0J9ThvlPBI6NpjM7c7_yJFXZVJ/s1600-h/GothSetsToSea.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375386390841259362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 234px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1DsPgzMtMVZwts2_iqM3VD6A3JMGcfPRR4NeoPjNg4XL4ZiaqGJ_nwMxDYjuEiKIVkpTowCFtKMBJ0tKTDLK3nkDlMsKAZftGjkpLVnJ_FHhhyxbJg0J9ThvlPBI6NpjM7c7_yJFXZVJ/s320/GothSetsToSea.jpg" border="0" /> </a><p align="center"><br /><br />dark starless skies loom<br />weaving a fretful night of shades and shadows<br />one can sense the fish in their schools<br />making their ill-fated deep sea run for freedom<br />while on shore<br />rocks wait patiently<br />for the rain above the tide lines<br /><br />the sea waves a timeless greeting<br />whispered conversation and deep secrets<br />unfathomable<br />an embrace and kiss farewell<br />melancholic tears stain the rain<br />the ship in the bottle<br />and illusions of a dream. </p>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-52693314504789037842009-08-28T08:56:00.004-04:002009-08-28T09:13:41.801-04:00my dinosaurs<div align="justify">The monitor screens glow…the clicks of micro circuits barely perceptible… the hard drives switch over… a fan starts… the CD players is on… just before the music begins there is a static crackle… then the sound… I am silent at that moment, fingers hovering over the keys… anticipation…<br /><br />Books are scaly dinosaurs climbing the wall with evolutionary intent escaping their revolutionary ways… messenger RNA knocks at the door where in another time the pizza delivery person will stand… their rictus grins in statuary dignity… you were here they tell me… your eyes glancing across their hidden secrets… your fingers tantalizingly brushes their spines… you were here in blindness… a mute amongst my demoniac cabal…<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAN8y-S0vDddOMABs_F5ZqEuClW_leLozG5H-Zr5Xf7NwZRx9ZlSTf4ANOeGXKPVIXRHpowZG36cUnnUplEnCjSjhJuCRBRhKJ1ZBITj023S_ujFF4Vh7RgTRTkjZACA1nz0sHLOsjG8SP/s1600-h/G6097.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374999290880565954" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 160px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAN8y-S0vDddOMABs_F5ZqEuClW_leLozG5H-Zr5Xf7NwZRx9ZlSTf4ANOeGXKPVIXRHpowZG36cUnnUplEnCjSjhJuCRBRhKJ1ZBITj023S_ujFF4Vh7RgTRTkjZACA1nz0sHLOsjG8SP/s320/G6097.jpg" border="0" /></a>The Muse On Line is plugged in…</div><div align="justify">the past is present…</div><div align="justify">the future an immutable possibility on the edge of eternity…<br />if I open the window shall I soar into the thermals…<br />there to scrape against the frozen face of the sky…<br />across the icy altitudes...<br />to gaze down in forgetfulness…</div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-75574183946187382342009-08-25T19:00:00.001-04:002009-08-25T19:05:32.526-04:00Who I follow in poetryHis name is Mubarakin and what he writes sometimes just grips me.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#ffff99;">Is it diamonds and gold<br />in the rainbow folds<br />or just the tears of angels?<br /><br />If hell fire's hot<br />then is heaven cold,<br />is there any weather?<br /><br />Are we standing around<br />on sacred ground,<br />do we have any choices?<br /><br />Do bells peal the news<br />to the Cathedral pews,<br />or can it come on voices?<br /></span></em><br />For more of his works he writes at <a href="http://panhistoria.com">Pan Historia</a>.Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-61062265306244284602009-08-23T21:18:00.004-04:002009-08-23T23:42:54.549-04:00Ragnarök<div align="justify">You know the debate is not really about Health Care, Gay Marriage, Equality, Foreign Policy or any of the other myriad of handy dandy catch phrase issues that the every day citizen is grappling with. There is no debate or discussion going on and there has not been for a long long time. All civility displayed is a false veneer waiting for the snapping point to arrive. This is the Hate nurtured at the breast of the Left/Right divide of the Politics of Fear.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxSl4an5aKyA-11nSH9YjGeT8U7bEaZ0AXU7yQ66DMLSIgjZ9AKTmOQmFUp2soLEK-t5mVNajd8b1WIGeXfYQlwx8jc26leRmlX8WUG9UdfUUCARI5DCxBHh5-QSIVa_hyzHmFzJJJRYN/s1600-h/ava.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373334345621893682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 160px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxSl4an5aKyA-11nSH9YjGeT8U7bEaZ0AXU7yQ66DMLSIgjZ9AKTmOQmFUp2soLEK-t5mVNajd8b1WIGeXfYQlwx8jc26leRmlX8WUG9UdfUUCARI5DCxBHh5-QSIVa_hyzHmFzJJJRYN/s320/ava.jpg" border="0" /></a>The Ecstasy of War has come home to roost. The War on Terror, The War on Drugs, The War on Drunk Drivers, The War on What-Ever-You-Like amid the threats of reasonable cause for fear. The poison pours out of the media and pollutes the minds… Good versus Evil! This is Religion. This is a wholly made in America Jihad.<br /><br />“Give Me Victory or Give Me Death <span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(preferably yours)</em></span>”<br /><br />This is the Cancer of creeping mendacity permitted to go unchecked, the secretion of secrecy; this is the Serpent amid the Flock while the calls of Wolf ring out in panic. When the importance of truth was surrendered I shall leave to historians, but suffice it to say that truth has long since been abandoned for Position, Wealth and Power.<br /><br />This is, from abroad, the American Way. Truth and Justice abandoned for Victory regardless of the cost. In this the cost shall be the whole of it. All. Everything.<br /><br />I can think of no better symbolism than that of an American Ragnarök.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><span style="color:#ccffff;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Ragnarök</strong></span><br /><br /><em>by Micha F. Lindemans</em><br /><br />Ragnarok ("Doom of the Gods"), also called Gotterdammerung, means the end of the cosmos in Norse mythology. It will be preceded by Fimbulvetr, the winter of winters. Three such winters will follow each other with no summers in between. Conflicts and feuds will break out, even between families, and all morality will disappear. This is the beginning of the end.<br /><br />The wolf Skoll will finally devour the sun, and his brother Hati will eat the moon, plunging the earth [into] darkness. The stars will vanish from the sky. The cock Fjalar will crow to the giants and the golden cock Gullinkambi will crow to the gods. A third cock will raise the dead.<br /><br />The earth will shudder with earthquakes, and every bond and fetter will burst, freeing the terrible wolf Fenrir. The sea will rear up because Jormungand, the Midgard Serpent, is twisting and writhing in fury as he makes his way toward the land. With every breath, Jormungand will stain the soil and the sky with his poison. The waves caused by the serpent's emerging will set free the ship Naglfar, and with the giant Hymir as their commander, the giants will sail towards the battlefield. From the realm of the dead a second ship will set sail, and this ship carries the inhabitants of hell, with Loki as their helmsman. The fire giants, led by the giant Surt, will leave Muspell in the south to join against the gods. Surt, carrying a sword that blazes like the sun itself, will scorch the earth.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Heimdall will sound his horn, calling the sons of Odin and the heroes to the battlefield. From all the corners of the world, gods, giants, dwarves, demons and elves will ride towards the huge plain of Vigrid ("battle shaker") where the last battle will be fought. Odin will engage Fenrir in battle, and Thor will attack Jormungand. Thor will be victorious, but the serpent's poison will gradually kill the god of thunder. Surt will seek out the swordless Freyr, who will quickly succumb to the giant. The one-handed Tyr will fight the monstrous hound Garm and they will kill each other. Loki and Heimdall, age-old enemies, will meet for a final time, and neither will survive their encounter. The fight between Odin and Fenrir will rage for a long time, but finally Fenrir will seize Odin and swallow him. Odin's son Vidar will at once leap towards the wolf and kill him with his bare hands, ripping the wolf's jaws apart.<br /><br />Then Surt will fling fire in every direction. The nine worlds will burn, and friends and foes alike will perish. The earth will sink into the sea.<br /><br />After the destruction, a new and idyllic world will arise from the sea and will be filled with abundant supplies. Some of the gods will survive, others will be reborn. Wickedness and misery will no longer exist and gods and men will live happily together. The descendants of Lif and Lifthrasir will inhabit this earth. </span><br /><br />***<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglkPAlKBbS_vGWsccPnPP8EXVbTz2jyLLT6AkGrEF_ZiKND1B6XycQWaWknOdPATiaWnhakNLIJLCBT8Q_n9_Tq8z8EPSXeVGuB_ACNWhA87h_DjPyUJuiXZ7s-ofQda99BoKsrTCvJe1U/s1600-h/july09jj.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373336311128255522" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 132px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglkPAlKBbS_vGWsccPnPP8EXVbTz2jyLLT6AkGrEF_ZiKND1B6XycQWaWknOdPATiaWnhakNLIJLCBT8Q_n9_Tq8z8EPSXeVGuB_ACNWhA87h_DjPyUJuiXZ7s-ofQda99BoKsrTCvJe1U/s320/july09jj.jpg" border="0" /></a>As a poet the symbolism of Sarah Palin (<span style="font-size:85%;">pit bull with lipstick</span>) and the Wolves is inescapable. Where more likely than from the frozen wastes of Alaska? Micha F. Lindemans description of Ragnarök is easily super-imposed upon the current state of American Political and Social affairs. </div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-18440373659145689222009-08-23T10:10:00.002-04:002009-08-23T10:54:55.318-04:00why I am not writing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJI2hswGs1ltqJpQCxxKGg30aTeMWKm77Zqozu6138AV8facnDaeMzo0mI5lvIEI9B3CU6eWrK2nEuu6M95S7_S8CD7VaMIoZgj2FioZMuOuot293EwYi3XFJRak-l8-Rrhg_Km318zIJq/s1600-h/july09jj.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373161793901475458" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 132px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJI2hswGs1ltqJpQCxxKGg30aTeMWKm77Zqozu6138AV8facnDaeMzo0mI5lvIEI9B3CU6eWrK2nEuu6M95S7_S8CD7VaMIoZgj2FioZMuOuot293EwYi3XFJRak-l8-Rrhg_Km318zIJq/s320/july09jj.jpg" border="0" /></a><div align="justify">An apprehensive looms across the horizon and I go walking through the roses… late August blooms and the blushing of the hips… the cool dew beneath my feet hints at frosts to come… the morning is poetry if you look at it right… the quiet solitude, hot mug of tea and time for reflection…<br /><br />I often wonder if I make the right the decisions…<br /><br />We have had a friend staying with us and many conversations seem to turn to past lives… who we were before we are who we are… the memories that we have and more the shards of memories that are not complete… like little pieces of glass just waiting to be stepped on… Laura listens quietly… taking it in and asking penetrating questions… leaping along the threads to grasp the entire picture.<br /><br />My creative writing has all dried up again… and though I have ideas, then the lethargy of ennui takes hold. I realize that I want something different but I can not define it enough to ask for it. </div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-54003659767134151532009-08-20T22:38:00.003-04:002009-08-20T22:44:16.458-04:00Back...<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOm8-j0r6obnuYMHBF9NAj4NIiA5B8ALCTYRpFBTCHC0zD1JhlvpQc__H6o3TyCGfonrJuqj1BLGEJdpPTk8_ZFCx54AHLcwxmGPEz1Gn_xWlJpD-p6awzjjbjUDDhichYzEGWdNSbhQ4y/s1600-h/ihavetheplague.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372241622754912706" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOm8-j0r6obnuYMHBF9NAj4NIiA5B8ALCTYRpFBTCHC0zD1JhlvpQc__H6o3TyCGfonrJuqj1BLGEJdpPTk8_ZFCx54AHLcwxmGPEz1Gn_xWlJpD-p6awzjjbjUDDhichYzEGWdNSbhQ4y/s320/ihavetheplague.jpg" border="0" /></a>Shopping went flawlessly and a few days at a summer resort aided the soul.<br /><br />Been attacking a longer poem while I was on the road and remarkably I was able to read most of my own printing. Not too shabby that though the word processor is telling me that the poem is seven pages long… maybe just a little too wordy to post at one.<br /><br />Getting really pissed off at the “debate” (more like children fighting) coming from south of the border over health care. Weird that… I don’t understand why they are behaving that way at all…<br /><br />Glad to be back and reading up on all that I missed while away. It was not easy at first to leave all the electronics behind, but it was a good idea to be totally absent for a while to refresh and recharge the soul.<br /><br />And now dear friends, once more into the breach…</div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-5138055631410439462009-08-07T18:31:00.005-04:002009-08-07T21:12:14.006-04:00A Mother's Passing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JGC6DpMmyAY1cMoC7qM6dzw9luxtHOH-2Em63co1i4XgXVr7r86bPZ2ju_VgibbMyp8dnAzzDKkUmacdz3hiKwN7eV8IKZtpptCqHY2327YoLubBzsHbuDXCuvAl8q5sidEHOqEJizqw/s1600-h/ava.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367354047430232258" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 160px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JGC6DpMmyAY1cMoC7qM6dzw9luxtHOH-2Em63co1i4XgXVr7r86bPZ2ju_VgibbMyp8dnAzzDKkUmacdz3hiKwN7eV8IKZtpptCqHY2327YoLubBzsHbuDXCuvAl8q5sidEHOqEJizqw/s320/ava.jpg" border="0" /></a><div align="justify">I spend a good portion of my free writing time online at <a href="http://panhistoria.com/">PanHistoria.com </a>which is a form of Community based upon writing play as it were. The opportunities for both creative writing and social writing are amazing. Once in a while events occur in people’s lives which touch us all, for that is the nature of empathy and friendship.<br /><br />This morning, a friend’s mother passed on. Though I grieve with her for the loss, I rejoice in the strength and compassion that she shared with me of the love between people.<br /><br />*****<br /><br />Because you have shared with us, and with me, I would like to express what that means to me. Though I never met your mother, I too have been touched by the power of the love that you two shared. It is a bond that even in passing can not be broken. I can not understate what a beautiful thing it was that you did for your mother, and in that to know what a beautiful person your mother must have been to have been so well reflected in you. Mere words are all I have… and I give them to you freely in thanks for your sharing of that beauty.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc99;">She nurtured in the soft failing light<br />with dignity and gentle grace<br />And there in heart she brought forth love<br />which shone as bright as to displace<br />the shadows of the coming night.<br /><br />A touch of sorrow and muted loss,<br />how empty seems the heart at last<br />Yet love does yet draw forth the light<br />for in my heart I hear her laugh<br />beyond the shadows of the night.<br /><br />From you who learned the art of love<br />compassion forged with dignity<br />Whose strength of love speaks testament<br />have shared your mother’s love with me<br />to push against the edge of night. </span></div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-89879174625178971572009-08-05T19:44:00.003-04:002009-08-05T20:00:39.152-04:00Going on the road...<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrEkxasUFuSMqxOfjxTbI1_BKYMmCbYkz4VFECrJTdi-dVBt4cXFGoWRBZQPB0j1yjoHTZ8bL8a3kXAJmvlwyocu2Y9Srr-BpbEo3w-neQ32r5yspQ3qCjsJwKAkR6jfuBoeZddvhydcF/s1600-h/delhivf5.jpeg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366633764754795282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 225px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrEkxasUFuSMqxOfjxTbI1_BKYMmCbYkz4VFECrJTdi-dVBt4cXFGoWRBZQPB0j1yjoHTZ8bL8a3kXAJmvlwyocu2Y9Srr-BpbEo3w-neQ32r5yspQ3qCjsJwKAkR6jfuBoeZddvhydcF/s320/delhivf5.jpeg" border="0" /></a>Simcoe Day long weekend was a gas... picnics and beaches were great... and that leads to the big surprise announcement… I shall be going shopping. Big news as we shall be taking to the road for a week or so and heading into the heartland of Quebec. As a French speaking Canadian it is like going home, though I was raised outside of Quebec. This leads me to be able to speak fluently, though I can not read nor write in French properly. It is amusing to be illiterate in my mother tongue.<br /><br />So naturally I will be off line during this since I have promised to be social and go to clubs at night. Jen has already made an appointment for me at a dressmaker so there is great promise in that. Montreal for shoes, Quebec City for a dress… I am very excited about this. More so, I know that Jen is. Maybe this time we shall go through Ottawa. That shall be up to the driver. I am the passenger.<br /><br />Spent the day loading in the chips of music for the trip. Looks like a lot of Bob Dylan, Neil Young and Joni Mitchell this time. </div>Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4108278266929373586.post-61071812328768680962009-07-29T21:26:00.002-04:002009-07-29T21:30:05.381-04:00Night comes onAs night comes on the heat of the day shimmers and dances above the lawn… the sun sets rouge upon the roses, the lilies waver… homeward bound from their day the birds settle to their nests and the bees to their hives… at night the cool winds brush through the trees, sweep across my balcony and caresses me… whispers in my ear… and from far away the soft trilling of a child’s laughter drifts and settles over me from the stars.<br /><br />Just wanted to share a moment of peace... the time to see, to feel, to breathe... the start of a dream.Skycladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778509040637172061noreply@blogger.com3