angels speak

Angels speak a middle language not entirely of this world and not entirely of another. Middle language is a prayer to the nuisance of what is. The writer and the poet speak not to the world but for the world. Middle language is the eruption of flaming emotion doused by chards of frozen, winter ice. Matter informs consciousness and consciousness informs matter at the cosmic level of interaction.The internal landscape is as vast as our external universe. It is the world of the eternal kingdom that comes to save humankind from its own self-destructive powers; it comes to show the way of Nature. Words help to construct incomplete images, one psychiatrist says words trigger photographic tin-type images that hold the key to a memory, a joy, or a trauma. We write to see clearly. We are reporters of life as it transforms itself, first in middle earth and with deliberate awareness in our souls. It attaches and moves through everything as waves and particles of energy. We know we are alive. We can feel emotion in the body. We can even move emotions through concentrated breathwork. Words are to humankind what song is to morning birds. They provide directions and choices, choices that come from our multiple authenticities. We are fragmentations of right things, floating in weightless space or a flowing river. The same river is always different, water is a metaphor for life, a poetic image of mountain springs, and frozen glacial ponds. We are puzzle pieces until we finish arranging and re-arranging our animate inner landscape, one piece at a time into a coherent self, a linguistically and intuitively aware connectivity to body and mind of our multiple authenticities. 



(Freud, 1912, p.115)

“The analyst must turn his own unconscious like a 

receptive organ toward the transmitting unconscious

of the patient.” (Freud, 1912, p.15)


I know it’s Freud, but lets give him credit, (1912).

A segway from the unconscious… unconditional love emerges. 

Tune your internal landscape to open,  and 

allow for whatever the universe is emitting to enter 

wholeheartedly, let her in unconditionally.  “Turn your

receptive organ toward the transmitting unconscious.”

Language Acquisition is to human what flight is to bird.

I forgive you,

I thank you, 

I’m sorry,

I love you!

Unsoluble love, Unrequited, Unconditional love,

floating on the wings of a bird, 

effortlessly emerging as

wisdom becomes brighter than knowledge.

“How infinite in reason.” said, Hamlet.

A Paragon of Animals, Like the rise and fall of the 3rd reich, 

   Was Michael the Archangel originally from Ukraine?

I plant white pines.

I help them along,  when I see a bare spot I tuck a sapling in the ground 

not far from where the grandfather stands and will be laid to rest someday. 

Preserving the kingdom for evolution,

my bones will decompose here among the

native furs.

A nazi symbol attaches to a hammer and sickle. 

White clouds and willows rustle in the wind.  

The War of the Roses

Those unconditional cousins 

of the English Monarchy.  

Was it envy, was it greed, was it one of her parts

that killed Mary and not Elizabeth herself that

murdered the Scot. 

Magnificence only goes so far. 

Unconquerable  Love, 

Lust-less love, unfailing love; 

   –unsalvagable love 

Ukraine Love, Unconditional

Blue and Yellow love 

sewed in the liberal pride flag.  

To thee, I sing. 

another Ink-Ling of human development

This Day

Collected Sabbath Poems & New, 1979-2013,

Wendell Berry

1985 (the first and last stanza) FOR: MEL

Not again in this flesh will I see

the old trees stand as they did,

weighty creatures made of light, delight

of their making straight in them and well,

whatever blight our blindness was or made,

however thought or act might fail.

Though blindness may yet detonate in light,

ruining all, after all the years, great right

subsumed at last in paltry wrong,

what do we know? Still

the Presence that we come into with song

is here, shaping the seasons of His wild will.

I had an ink ling. It sounded like an Ode to Spring, so I
played with lines and squiggles instead of words.

April has been everything it can be. I found Wendell Berry someplace in my precious library, and I just love his old American way of hanging on to Transcendendtalism long after the cultural was fashion in America, at its best of years. But, by 1985 Berry saw the evolution of humanity trying to keep up with the evolution of Corporate Capitalism. A new guilded age was being ushered-in by the Tea-Party, twenty-five years later it is inevitable: the corn fields and the wheat fields are turning into sub-urban malls designed to have a short life, left to decay. Not like you, or i, or an old barn returning from Dust to Dust, rather, like steal beams rusting into asbestos and cement seaping through the tar and dripping with toxic paints.

Please Wabi-Saii show me the beauty in this decay. I want to see it. I want to touch it and feel it the way I did when I was ten.

I saw that boy recently. He was four years old. He was gifted to me by a spirit guide named Mel. All I know about her is her given name, Mel. She narrated me down a rabit hole and I fell into my inner landscape, I love it it ther. He was so small, just walking down the side porch stairs leading to a gravel yard (stone, screws, nails and glass) a car park area for the Canadian Style triple-decker that is iconic of the early 20th century.

He was wearing a three-quarter herringbone coat with a matching herringbone hat with a very small visor and, also of herringbone button smack on top of his hat. He was heading toward his friends house and I saw his face light up with a glow when he saw him come down the steps that led from his house to the dirt road between them. .

We played in the, Italian Field, among oily street run-off water, the rag-weed and the golden-rods. I remember a bow and arrow, and the arrows had rubber suction cups and you knew you could not possibly hurt yourself or your friend. It was all so safe and innocent.

Then I opened my eyes back into the outer-landscape. I like it in both places.