Tuesday, December 9, 2014

...waters of the One

To be desirous of light beams captured in a prism's kiss ... held willing captive bright suspension in a morning dew drop on spider's ordered web ... fractal fabrication scattered in some ancients star map all living beings have forgotten ... lest they be in the momentary climax of love's ultimate remembrance ... when union burst force to succor coupling ... fetal fells wrapped about each other in desperation or in surrender ... it is a choice ... either way the same cell of beauty's mouth wet with the sigh of every breath time has released in passion ... it's tattoo illuminating the intellect with stains of enigmatic osmotically scented  love bites ... red- violet indulgent immersions in the waters of the One ... may I meld with you until I am no longer known.

© 2014 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Rights Reserved
Dec. 10, 2014

Thursday, December 4, 2014

The Word for Today is Integrity



From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

For other uses, see Integrity (disambiguation).

Look up integrity in Wiktionary, the free dictionary.
Integrity The quality of being honest and having strong moral principles; moral uprightness.
[Integrity] is a personal choice, an uncompromising and predictably consistent commitment to honor moral, ethical, spiritual and artistic values and principles.[1]
In ethics, integrity is regarded by many people as the honesty and truthfulness or accuracy of one's actions. Integrity can stand in opposition to hypocrisy,[2] in that judging with the standards of integrity involves regarding internal consistency as a virtue, and suggests that parties holding within themselves apparently conflicting values should account for the discrepancy or alter their beliefs.
The word integrity evolved from the Latin adjective integer, meaning whole or complete.[3] In this context, integrity is the inner sense of "wholeness" deriving from qualities such as honesty and consistency of character. As such, one may judge that others "have integrity" to the extent that they act according to the values, beliefs and principles they claim to hold.
A value system's abstraction depth and range of applicable interaction may also function as significant factors in identifying integrity due to their congruence or lack of congruence with observation. A value system may evolve in a while, [4] while retaining integrity if those who espouse the values account for and resolve inconsistencies.[5] ...
Lately, I have been working on my life. I have been writing and creating from a purely artistic standpoint. I tried to re~enter the social structure of the everyday world and quickly realized I was a big blue duck painted in peacock clothing out of the pond of spiritual waters. I am an artist. I was born an artist. I will die an artist. Thank goodness.
I recall reading a number of books when I was, oh probably 15 - 17 years old. They were books about herb gardens, for I grew mighty one's of my own back in those days. Some of the stories therein told of monks and how they used herbs in their daily lives. Rosemary was once so prized it was considered worthy of monetary exchange. I learned how the monks would communicate with each other through the walls of the monastery when no spoken language was allowed. Other books were on the great artists of the world. I marveled at their work and I dabbled in the oils myself. I was a child yes, I always a dreamer and having one foot in the realm of possible reality. I recall how it was told an artist would climb down a ladder into a great pit to harvest the minerals and clays they used to make their own paints. This fascinated me. I remember even making notes of which mineral made which color.
It was in those times of nurturing my young mind and spirit, I believe I was most assured by the universe that the reasons I was here on this Earth and the indignities I was asked to endure would in the end be worth all they required from me. I am to this day being required in spiritual service, happily so I will add, to lend any small part of myself to the conscious growth of one, me, you, another, the One, the All, the Collective, or simply Self.
Integrity is a trait I strive to keep a grasp upon in all things I do and am associated with. When I allow others to take what I have created as an artist as a soul and use it I expect them to also do this with integrity. If they cannot I expect them to do as the definition above states, ...
" and suggests that parties holding within themselves apparently conflicting values should account for the discrepancy or alter their beliefs." ...
  • Some of my work as an artist has been associate with work which was questionable as to it's origins of creation. I cannot begin to express how much I regret the impact of others decisions having been made.concerning their own work and personal conscience. I have obviously made poor decisions in where to place my trust. This does not, however, excuse me for being responsible for my work no matter where it appears.
I want to take this opportunity to publicly apologize for any harm that may have come or will come in the future because of these circumstances. I take copyrights and God given rights, so to speak, of the artist very seriously and I in no way condone or support any ill will towards anyone Please, accept my humblest apologies and be assured I will take every action I can within my power to remedy the situation.
Integrity is the word of the day because my integrity and your integrity at times is all we have as artist out in the world of a sea of people who have forgotten what art is all about. It is about digging minerals the Earth holds from pits standing on a ladder to grind into a powder which will become one of the great masterpieces we today hold so dear and believe we can put into a box of what exactly it was that artist must have realized within their being because of their particular expression. Van Gough cut off his ear and was called a mad man yet, he saw the night like no other man for he saw it with his soul not his eyes and he listened with his heart not his ears. We simply must begin to find our center once again as Beings if we are to end these conflicts. No one has a right to another's art, or their love, or their money. These things like food and comfort are freely given by those who understand what it is to embrace the colors God has blessed us with without fear. I have written this because Love is my strength here. Not fear. I will no doubt suffer reprecussions from this. I will have to face that. I stand up for art and the artist and my fellow ceators who choose to be honorable with each other. I strive constantly for this. I encourage you to do this also. It is what empowerment of the people is all about. If you cannot see this, climb down and join us in the trenches. We have cocoa and blankets to keep you warm .Love and smiles. Yes, we are fiece warriors and we get loud sometimes when we are fighting for our freedoms. At the end of the day we all sit and laugh about how absurd we may have been and how we can do better next time. This is growth. This is where art comes from. This is the movement. This is social progress. This is integrity.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

I have been away ...

I have been away yet my pen still flows from time to time ... perhaps, with this winter's arrival I will stay ...

The white birch is witness in random guard and sentinel fair beside the umber and scotch brown tones of the naked branched fence rows preparing to slumber into the Holly King's reign. The jays and sister crows in the newly barren fields at hasten to find seed or grain left from harvests' tarry turn and speak yet do not  scatter at my passing. Hunger and the wanton drive takes precedence my footfalls and woolen cape flagging the wind. The shy cornflower and mauve of Morning's remains are since muted behind promise resting in the clouds there will be another soft snow tonight. Time huddles the hedgerows in it's arms a deep trundle lullaby will be lent there before Dawn drinks the midnight blue elixir alchemized from stars dipped in eglantine. I turn my head back into the wind's full brunt beginning to make my way back into the safety of the tree line when the first huge buck spots me.  Lowering his huge white velvet rack and pawing at the dry loose grass of the meadow's forgotten summer, the billows of steamy rank breath escape his fully expanded nostrils causing the caution in his eyes to pierce me through and through, I stand frozen knowing it will be my only hope for survival. We are locked in a dangerous game of mundane and beast. Then it happens, with a mighty thrust of his head into the stillness of the thick damp darkening air, he bellows and I break for it. I can hear nothing now except the breaking of the forest floor beneath my boots and the thunderous beating of  decisively justified hooves growing ever closer.   
© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved Nov 18, 2014 

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Stranger Song by Leonard Cohen

At times. music expresses all we are experiencing so succinctly our words would seem the distant disappearing constancy of the train the stranger boards. My mind has been singing this song all day. So, in the transparency of this sharing poetic experience. I am letting Mr. Leonard Cohen speak for me this evening. Perhaps, the haunting of this song will take the train as well. May you all have a most blessed and loving week ahead.
Peace, Carla

Sunday, October 12, 2014

My Angel

My Angel

He is my angel, though he has no real idea why I see him this way. He can't begin to understand where I am or what I deal with in my life. It's my life. I am glad of heart he is blessed in these ways. I do not know how he found me, sitting by the side of the garden as I was, only that God must have pointed him in my direction. It's not that I need saving, I am like everyone else looking for that other half I got separated from when I fell from Heaven. It is that I feel whole when he speaks to me. I know the peace I have sought my entire life when we smile together. I crave his affection. I long for his kisses. I want to overcome myself because he would appreciate the efforts made. I detach myself from fears and I soar beyond limitations. Yet, in a moment I can crash back to Earth and be the volatile woman I am caught in the snares of that which I have not yet overcome. Some of us are blessed. Some of us are burdened. I have received both. I live to balance my loads and my lightness in such a way Maat might allow me to pass someday. It is a fierce battle and I am a spiritual warrior up to the challenge. If only I could do it without his ever having to be touched by the fire and ice needed to conquer and cull. Perhaps, the love of angels was meant for other angels. I am not sure of this. All I know is there is nothing in this world more precious I have ever known.
© 2014 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Rights Reserved

A Broken Doll

A Broken Doll

How do we become these broken dolls?
Unable to glue porcelain piece together again,
We can face the world with china painted smiles,
Yet, in the night they grow so thin and pale.
The cracks in our face revealed by moonlight,
Those the Sun hides beneath powder pressed,
Our cheeky rouge then wilted roses,
The music box unwound. 
© 2014 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Rights Reserved

Friday, October 10, 2014

The Owl Speaks of Change

The Owl Speaks of Change

The owl speaks outside the passing midnight tinged window panes of my water color womb ... the hiss of this Dawn's blood moon still tangled in the hooked prongs of her wing feathers ... all meant to catch our conscience when we ourselves talk in the fitful forgiveness of our sleep ... when we confess blue madness to Morpheus at the foot of his throne ... it is the change she preaches which stops my breath ... which causes leaning and the tilt of flowing soft curls to caress my bare shoulders, brush my breast, my hands cradling my heart ... my memory rifles through the lace ground layers of my silk skirt for clues ... a charm to scent the waterfall and moss to hide my muse safely in ... warm and well nourished ... the circle about me now closing in as wolves will ... wearing down a dainty fawn, heading her to where the alpha waits ... only to relent the first thirst to him alone ... cascading pink snows ... she has flown now, to the birch and the willow of the lakeside, there to sing and share my looking glass lantern fates with all the watchers of the woods. 
© 2014 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Rights Reserved

The last few days I have been bitten bu the Autumn writing bug ... It is the time of year when all blessings seems to flow and aren't necessarily connected to the definition of Who I AM. None the less, it is an amazing experience and I am humbled by it every time I am the vessel.
Brightest Blessings,
Carla Dawn

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Surrendering at the Gates Where Dreams Die

Surrendering at the Gates Where Dreams Die

The brilliance with which the white shone hot moon foretold your retreat was ominously stark in it's crystal bell jar death toll crescendo ... the rarity of it's spoken glass whispers taking me off guard, icicle stakes of filament follicles raising hairs on the back of my neck ... me, stepping out on to the vacant path as I had ... confident in your devotion for me, the stones passing over each other with such ease beneath my weight ... It was the exact form of insanity sworn to through looking glass hazel eye anklets riveted to romance ... a wine goblet tourniquet tubular slow bleed of a real part of the soul your sacred~less salvation will drain dry ... in words... in trust ... in humiliation of the temple harlots you flog at will for their frailty ... Now daunted by day light's candy castle craven to be your lotus blossom ... revealed a petal at a time in the candle of the sky's glow, the grape to know me as child and woman alike ... fruits of the God's lips mingling in suckling songs at morning ... palm pressing painted pain to the river horses' dungeon ... tracing me with every line you had begun to speak and found trailing off to dwell in ice slag havens ... surrendering at the gates where dreams die for lack of believing.

© 2014 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Joy to the world ...

Life is seldom what you thought it would be having arrived here at this point.
As my spiritual teacher says ...
Expectations are real killers :) 
I still want the same things in many ways as I did as a child,
Love and Peace
Respect and Devotion
Kindness and Care
Compassion and Understanding
Fair Treatment and Acknowledgment
I want to give these things in return
also without prompting from the sincerity of my heart ...
Possibly the most important part and the most difficult for many of us is
Giving and Receiving freely ... something we all need to work on.
Sometimes it simply is a process that is a whole lot of work.
"I never understood a single word he said but I helped him drink his wine "
Consider the "Wine of the Mystics" when listening to this song if you will, please.
My favorite song as a little girl. I would sing it all the time ... :)

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Prayers and Healing

Prayers and Healing
I am late in posting. It was a busy work day and longer than expected. Today was not about me at all and thus this post is not either except as a way of asking all of you to send prayers and loving light to a friend who is ill tonight. I certainly would appreciate it if you could see your way to say and extra prayer or light one more candle at church tomorrow and send it out.  Itt doesn't matter your religion or lack there of healing is healing. Illness of the heart is such a sensitive matter. I have been through many long days and nights with my father when his heart was at risk. The love of family and friends is strong medicine. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
Namaste and Peace my friends.
Brightest Blessings and
Highest Love,
Carla Dawn

Friday, October 3, 2014

No Words

No Words
My sacred chamber must now a cloister be kept,
Never more seen nor scented of man,
His daggers dare the Autumn leaves,
Blush brightly as blood upon bladed trine,
Wedged upon the stones and roses soft,
Whispering ever so blissfully of how care,
Had only come to kiss a dream,
Woven of petal paste and moonbeams,
Ever reaching across the fields of white daisies,
She wore in chains about her crown when she smiled. 
© 2014 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Day Six

Day Six

And on the sixth day I lost all sight of who I thought I was ... my definition of Self dissolved away and melded with another in such a way breathing was an effort at moments ... my hopes became children and grew much too quickly for my liking to leaving home in the late afternoon on a Greyhound bus, so like their Mother ... my desires turning into a hungry lion pride which is still out there somewhere lurking, waiting to pounce on tasty tendrils passing by outside the shadow boxes of the coloring book lines ... my aspirations simply poo~fed into umbrellas and floated off into the sunset across the lake ... the umbrellas were needed to stave off the mild rain showers the fray of fears have conjured up ... I knew the more I let go the more I would find ... Love is always waiting at the end of any day ... if we are only ready or able to let it flow rather than try to define it ... Love needs to be loved.
© 2014 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Rights Reserved

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Spider's Gift

Spider's Gift

Resting for a moment while listening to the rain fall in never before spoken patterns outside study door ... I lean my head back on the chair letting the thunder seek my mind for a moment ... a crab spider is busy walking about on my still partially clinging turquoise rich painted ceiling ... the old hippie weeping glass globe lamp has cast a shadow dance there ... seldom edged ebb and glow of the electric socket's bright ballet ... She, for soon I see she is a web builder ... moves through this stage as if it were a maze of hedge or hay ... keeping to and turning with the light's accord ... crossing possibly a time or two at a dim yet slight cast shadow of partial stay ... a quickening or a lesser doorway across to bridge with Bright and Self again ... after pacing patterned labyrinth prayers ... She turns home to Her corner bound web ... petting it in a manner ... so odd it would seem ... as if presenting a gift to a  child ... I smile ... wondering what must it have been she found ... in our upside down worlds ... on her journey worth to bundle away home ?
© 2014 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Rights Reserved

Awakening Autumn

Awakening Autumn

Through the wild wilderness of the pagan heart ... rides the woman who Autumn has by the hair ... hand fulls of wet and wild potent play ... One kiss brought one by phaery invitation ... claims of coals and candle wax alike ... hoping to become a red stallion between her peachy lips longing chained ... mortals would try to tame and break her ... as if she were a white pony in a fringed bridle ... side saddle and so little known of her ... less the memories of their loins begat in begging ... The Summer Sun turns her hair as copper as the Tin Smith's dreaming dares ... punching into the Netherworld's drawn vapor ... fed flame passing the scent of pregnant Ginko fruit ... through those hidden gates ... yet back it will grow in her belly ... when Winter leaves her bed abandon ... His purple toes between her thighs prying secrets belonging to Sister Spring alone ... Once, when she was young and frail, she mistook this for a sadness ... tho now even as the last of the hummingbirds kiss to sip ... drowning the loss of hours in ever lessening blossoms ... she listens for the sleeping bells toll ... strings her hazelnuts with certain wisdom ... sadness is as sadness does ... and all masters are a slave to their making ... Love of a good woman is forever free ... if forever it is cared for and not forsaken ... As for me ?... My wild heart is fancy still ... yet, taken by mortal, I agree ... Tho', happy, buxom, and bonny am I ... the Lord wanton of me.
© 2014 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Twenty-Five Days of Turning Fifty Day Two

Joyous Journey

Life is a joyous journey even when it seems difficult and we can't find our way to the sunshine. It is a more joyous road to have come along when you snuggle up to half a century old or young. Oh my, yes I am going to be half a century in years in a few weeks. I wasn't supposed to see my sixteenth birthday and here I am about to kiss fifty, "Hello !!"

It is the greatest of blessings to be a woman who has walked the path I have for 49 years. One can learn great Compassion from being ill and also from caring for other's needs. Deep Understanding of the Courage in warriors from having to draw on Strengths you never knew you have. Gain enormous Appreciation for the beauty of this world when colors are absent. Learn to smile even in the face of seriousness and laugh for no reason at all except the heart set free. Seek warmth with pure lust and give the cold bite of Nature Her proper practicalities. Respect bright eyed, Love leaning in. Regard all as family. Always leave the door unlocked for Peace. Perhaps, most important of all take great care of Intent and Discretion for they are the task masters by which you will make your emotional casualties in this life. Nurse them well with Forgiveness and Abandonment for in all things there is some manner of happiness if we only care to find the love and growth to cling to.

I feel I have been blessed and I am grateful to everyone who has ever taught me along the way. I can write this smiling back at the young lady who would not have understood so many years ago. She was beautiful and an awesome being then as I am now. I love them both. I look forward to the next years, the growth, and the ride down the side of the mountain.  

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Twenty-Five Days on Turning Fifty Day One

Day One                

Lay me beneath the Cypress trees,
Shedding their armor and maile scales,
On the damp rain soaked hummus,
The slick slip of their hillside,
A bed to lie sorrow down with,
Cover me in yellow daisies,
In ocher pallor of sadness strewn,
For we quiet queens lined,
and tombed lead by,
Weave your fish skin to my tendrils,
that I shall be enshroud dread,
Hiding my face from this brutal care,
Which your loss has pierced so,
In my Niecely heart of love and woe.

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

For My Uncle Leo Edward Hayes, Jr. :

My Uncle Junior passed away Feb. 3, of this year. His death affected me very deeply. The process of acceptance both took something very precious away and gave another indescribable measure of determination to my journey. I stayed home so my parents could attend the funeral downstate. This poems was my closure of sorts. He taught me of Peace and the higher callings of Love. I owe so much of who I am to him. We still mourn him though we celebrate him more and more each day. He would have insisted on it. I am sure he enjoys our laughter. 

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Grab the thread ...

Irish Crochet Collar and Cuffs
Photo Credit:  http://patternila.info/irish-crochet-lace-patterns/  patternila.info

How is it when your mind is so full you can't think another thought ... that is when it hits? Inspiration, I mean. Inspiration of the heart. I am less then 16 hours out from an important meeting which will change the lives of generations of young people. My chance to give back as others have given to me. In the meantime, my people are passing away from me and I can't find the thread to grasp to keep it all from unraveling. No, at a time like this, when we just lost him and now she has stage 4 cancer in her hip, her lungs, her liver ... one does not think of their Self ... except I can hear him in the back logs of my mind saying, "This is some bullshit ! That's what this is !" Heaven is passing out swear points tonight but he was always our angel so they'll turn to cake anyway. 
I try to focus and tell myself that I have no right to be angry or hurt. I held my Mam's hand and her head while she cried after she got the news. "It's not fair. I thought she'd have sometime after taking care of him for so long ...", that trailing off to tears again. Her hair is soft nowadays and loosing only the blackness we can recall. I touch her curls and am filled with my Grandma Thomas and My Grandmother, her daughter, my Mother's Mother they are all about me. Their arms holding me up so I can hold her. It's not my time to cry. It's my time to be a daughter. It's my time to be the rock and braid her hair to whiteness. 
The work is always waiting though and she pushes me away. "Go. Do. I am fine." She is. We are. She has my sisters and my father. I gather my work about me again, the light won't come on and I am always so far behind. There is only one of me and a million dots to connect to everyday. As I unscrew the coiled contemporary contraption from the socket of my drawing lamp l am glad to see it go. What happened to light bulbs? Round glass fragile eggs which illuminated our nights. Filament~ed dragonflies you could hum to if you closed your eyes and swallowed hard once to clear your gills. I fetch one of those magical orbs from my secret stash of "What used to be" and impregnate us both with anticipation. Yet, the switch yields nothing more than the same emptiness I have been feeling since my mother got that phone call. I go through the usual human stages of denial that the modern age has ask me to abide without every convenience we have been so very spoiled by. It is automatic when your head is full and your heart is searching.
Then I stop and realize it's not the bulb. It is the lamp itself. I am five years old again in the home my parents made. The only real place that was ever home because they were there. Her brothers. He has brought his new girlfriend home to meet his eldest sister. She has three girls of her own. She talks funny, with a deeper Southern accent than even their Missouri you'all and we all fall in love with her instantly. She has blonde bleached hair and never leaves the bedroom with out her makeup on. 
She and I end up somehow in the dining room with a crochet hook and yarn. "Grab the thread," she tells me and I do. She would teach me to make my first Granny Square that night. She would teach my Grandmother to crochet and many others. I still Grab that thread when things go wrong to find the connection to what is right. To find the rhythm again. To build the fabric back into all the pieces upon the field which have frayed with time. It is an unfortunate practice in this human race not to honor and gather back to ourselves both our purest light and those who have led us to it, while they are still with us. This practice should go the way of all other destruction and violence, to the desolation of false illuminations. 
© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Seeds of Light


The Flow of Stardust …

We are created of the dust of the stars when they die. Their fragmented bodies called back together by a need the universe has come to realize it cannot do without. When they touch our celestial boundaries melding into the Earth’s consciousness … It is then stardust takes the form of the human soul and we begin the journey Home once again.

The Lamp Girl sat by the seedling pool as she has everyday of her existence. Before she was a human being, she had been one half of each reason ask to come together in the name of her very own creation. She knew the story by heart before it was ever realized in her Mother’s and Father’s journeys of self willed though often blinded fate and chosen destinies. Some souls come to this field of perceptive possibility seeking to play such a significant part in culling the clock hands of conscious compassion they are confused as to why they are truly here and yet, they never realize in timely countenance their pain is, in truth, the greatest blessing they will ever receive.

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Unrequited Love

I was asked to speak to this subject. Seldom does anyone actually, ask me ... so, I am inclined to do thusly...for @Khattakx as per request.

Between the slanting eye of air ... I watch for you at the bridge you travel ... 'cross each other day or so ... I am the constant ever ... a fixed Self ... a key whole hung in waiting ... only I can fit an eye to ... tunnel visions summarily collected ... welcomed salts ... build crystal caverns on the lash tides ... my soul's wicked window pains ... lips falling reluctant in open subservience ... slight parse to feline hunger ... the infectious swatch ... palette play of how exotic you must taste ... simply to stand beside ... feather hairs seeking an invitation ... to plug into your sidewalk sockets ... left in each bruised footstep ... the syllables of your heels ... the only voice dance shares ... beneath glass ceilings ... the days between when I dare this unspoken shipwreck ... my dreams dammed ... and drums savage songs throbbing ... skin for vacant press in pinned guard of blindness  ... cast me down instead ... weak in your sublime glory ... today I will follow you to the shore ... and we shall walk ... together in the rising tide ... all be it ... I ... a mile ever behind ... 

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Good Night, Darling

Suppress the Sun, my Love, and borrow the Moon from Her duty dance ... that your dreams might be as gloaming as you wish ... I've been to the maiden's pool to wash pulling the clouds about my nakedness to clothe me ...  have you hung the stars on the wishing knob sky ... lit the wonder wicks about our crystal cavern catacombs, where dusty dreams rise to canopy desires ... as a bed, as a blanket, as a pillow for your longing head ...  we will crush the oil of a million roses beneath acts of love ... until our flesh becomes stained pink with the kisses each petal stole from the dewy lust on our lips ... then let us sleep until the morning ask for Her light back again ... and you may wake with me free of all wound or worry ... this is my prayer for you tonight ... Sleep well, my darling and good night.  

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Monday, June 30, 2014

Wasted Beauty

It is my longing to ask the flowers how the sidewalk cracks are wasted ... could not the rain and moss marry to fill their emptiness with rapture ... if the humans cared to see the trees as brother and sister once more ... if they would delve for the stone of remembrance lying at the bottom of their dreaming pools ... holding the knowledge once more in their palms that dreams were once a bright birth also ... as they seek the surface air forgetting ancient gills would heal lung and heart alike through will ... in how the same dusty stars now recycle to feed the poet's soul ... in the essential desires of these flowers looking on.

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Earlier in June

The catfish are slow as sleeping submarines today ... black gray orbiting intentions beneath the lake's glassy surface shadows ... the breeze breaks in sheets of gathered cumber buns in rippled tight dancing laced light ... dissolving into unseen reflections of greedy green graciousness ... being held puzzle locked in this spell of Monet mirrors only by seldom cloud perfected patience of the cautious blue sky ... a proud buck  has come to quench his thirst at the wild fork of Hazel brush across the fullest length of the lake ... there pollen and sun strung steaming ribbons dance together in matte and highlight islands of paradox play ... the red willows have begun to leaf seeming underwater coral ... bluegill and sunfish to flirt about preparing for the coming June rituals ... the curling willow feeding new and tender branches for the swallows to lite upon ... assured safety before stamping the mud bank with their thirst or mouthfuls of nest mending cement ... a blue heron's approach from the north east causes the girl pup to resound a warning on my behalf ... the flying fossil pays her littleness no mind ... continuous in it's unspoken grace and ever silent gliding path above my head ... I marvel at the blessings of sights this given afternoon at Wren Haven ... where the songbirds keep times with the work of the ladder backs ... the wind makes love the every tree living or dead ... the sky seldom knows it is possible to be imperfect ... and loosing your way is a choice you allow others to make for you in moments of weakness ... taken by Her beauty ... yet still there is no sign of Mr. Pong today ... perhaps tomorrow he will show himself to the eyes of the Mother ...  

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Saturday, June 21, 2014

The Mathisen Corollary: Summer solstice, 2014

The Mathisen Corollary: Summer solstice, 2014: image: Summer solstice sunrise behind heel stone, Stonehenge (2005).  Andrew Dunn.  Wikimedia commons ( link )...


SUMMER SOLSTICE - Twice per year, the planet literally tilts on its axis, from one extreme to another. Winter solstice is the shortest day ...

Friday, June 13, 2014

Scent of Heaven

Photo Credit Carla Dunlap 
© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

It was a Friday the Thirteenth, like today, to be exact when they laid her to rest. My cousin Mona making sure there were Iris in the coffin quilt, for the moon was as full and white as it is this very night. She is a good daughter of the Goddess after all and knows the ways of Selene and Pheobe alike. I had called the florists to inquire as to the availability of the delicate flora. Upon finding they had all been reserved, I was a bit sad. I wasn't going to be able to gift my Grandmother with the soul scent on which she would be carried to Heaven for this is what the magnificent Iris does. Their iridescent nose gay alone in all the beauteous mentions God gave to the flower, the Iris has this power to carry the soul to Heaven on it scent. I was  unable to attend her funeral for I lived so far away at the time. It seemed the least I could do for her. I should have known, as I would learn later, it had been my own family who had horded every available Iris in Butler County that week. They all would grace the coffin of Iva Mae to send her home once again to be with our Grandfather. He had gone on before her by forty some years. Perhaps, the most ironic and fitting coincidence was that a butterfly had taken her from us.

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Note: My Grandmother passed of a Butterfly Glioblastoma brain tumor. She was 91 years old and lived alone being active until 3 weeks before her death. She had a wonderful life really. 

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Lonely Warrior

Image from Kaleidoscope China

No one cannot seek peace more than the lonely warriors
 who sit at the greatest Earthly gates ever ready to defend them.
They are both the reason the gates are needed and the cause for the defense. 
For if they were to lay down their arms and open the gates ...
their battle would be brought to an end without triumphant struggle.
There are no winners in such struggle and there are no losers, 
only willing participants.
In a struggle to the death, the only challenge is a desire to overcome the need for such.
The question of what actions would be honored beyond those gates is another matter entirely. 
It is a matter for us all ... for we are all warriors in our own life.
© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved
I dreamed of pink negligees with black trim and you ... in your copper black skin ... holding me ... belly to belly by whisper's soft collection ... arms of positive glance gloving my shell blank balance ... as banyan vines of sweet cocoa weave across my back ... I had been missing you for far too long ...  

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Per Chance

Photo and Art Credit: Carla Dunlap © 2014 All Rights Reserved

Fill my dreams with the tales you will sing to me ... you in your deep plum robes before the tall open windows where the night breezes of Arabian air blow the violet sheers on shadow sands of magic carpet rides ... I stand before you, washed and willing ... palms up, in yellow dress and veils ... eyes closed, heart open the ancient voices speaking through you dangling from my fingertips as tendrils we wove from forbidden~ness ... fill me ... my heart is stained with a warmth only the removal of sin could press as candle wax seals upon obedience ... eyes falling to eyes, ears begging for a moment more, smiles sent winged from angel's gardens, and laughter ... Oh the sweet simpleness of laughter being the gift it is ... when centuries lie between ... how you see reality and I know my illusions to be formed ... of sandalwood smoke and cardamom biscuits ... summer tea pressed from violet flowers gathered at nightfall ... and ... your ability to turn me away ... if need be ... without ever having touched your lips to mine beneath the weeping Moon's white light ... 

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Spent Blossoms

I crush your violet~red petals, the yellow, and the blue ... slow streams of yesterday's juicy rain residing in their hues ... gathering themselves together as all wishes will to water ... the lesser being taken over by the cardinal color's merriment ... sunshine and sky yielding to majesty ... I did trail with your pigmented joy, running down my hand from the tributaries my fingers made ... marking now my battle scars as islands in the smooth summer land of frail taunt flesh ... veins raised at the ready and vigilant ...  this purple ink staining the finest  map in my wrinkled edges and knuckle ponds of closed fist fusion ... sinew telling tapestries elbow bound ... an open palm print plant for the Indian fortune teller and star map magician on the corner ... left parchment pressed clues to pale onion skins addressing ... such Vedic key turns in my locked time tomb... I am never quite sure I have the dignity to receive with proper honors. 

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

"Love is the only reality and it is not a mere sentiment. It is the ultimate truth that lies at the heart of creation" 
Rabindranath Tagore 

Flowers of Peace by Philopoiet Lina Ru

This is a beautiful and heartfelt poem offered by the extra ~ordinary writer Lina Ru
Please visit her site and support her work it is vital.


Wednesday, May 28, 2014

They Are Coming

I heard a voice yesterday ... it was as plain and clear as the water I used to watch the Sun Perch through as a child in the creek which ran beside our white house the flood filled with mud and memories ... my dress all bunched up in hot little hands not so much to keep it dry as to make sure I could see my toes ... the sand was sienna and sandalwood with streaks of black the slate and coal made on it's occasions to wash off the trailings the mines had left behind ... it was their whispers beneath the babbling .. the only story anyone wanted to remember anymore ... except for the shadow the mill cast each day for five minutes while the fire fell from the sky ... that shadow lived to hear the stories ... this was it's very purpose, it's only purpose now ... it's only way back to the sound of the soul beating on thrashing grain bins ... gunny sack sacraments the dust could still taste ... my toes danced to see the black flecks unsettle from the sandy silt and float away down stream with fantasy filled destinations my child's imagination giggled into existence ... places I longed to escape to ... even then ... I felt small and cotton topped, hazel eyed, speech impaired, touched by that stare I seemed to have come equipped with ... when I heard the news ... " They are coming " ... I didn't ask who ... I didn't have to ... just made sure I could see my toes and had a clear eye on the flow ahead of me ... I wonder where we are going to go ?  

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Sunday, May 18, 2014

My Kingdom in an Apple Seed

The tower dragons are flying again tonight as news of our Jade Sky reached land before the Sun tore the green tainted depths from the sea's evaporating expansion of breath along the shoreline ... the fields of Jasmine have turned from lyrics the wind's whisper carried away to wrap about the falling strands of evening rain ran pillar for the offerings Buddha might know a warm bath in the pool beside the lilies of his birthing bed ... milk, honey, and the daughters of Mara ever at his service ...  to bitter nubs their sweet scents  brown hash haunts now for the watering mouths of the Opium Kings roasted to fragrant resins by the sky scalding beasts in flight above ... It was in the few hours we were afforded, before myth drew sword and blood upon man and monsters bore talons to tear the piercing fabric shade's claim .. beginning their certain destruction that we made our way deep in to the calm care of Her secret womb ... I took my love for you, wrapping it in your Grandmother's finest blue silk and placed the bundle in the Swan Chest you had given me thirty moons ago ... when we sat coiled about each other and drew blood binding us, one to the other forever, under the Great Turtle Eclipse ... Chang offered a seed of his Golden Apple to hide us away until we could, if possibly, once again be reunited ... I graciously agreed and the Priestess blessed us with Her light to guide you should I not return ... As the Golden Apple held all the treasures of the world we were leaving behind it began to sing the songs of our world as we made our descent into the caves below the temple walls ... beyond the fruiting gardens Spring had kissed in anticipation of Summer's Crane Harvest Festival ... yet to come ... We could hear the breaking of the roof tiles none the less, over It's championing songs as we could witness the bones of our Masters being crushed as they served us one last time in their lives ... they will now know the rewards of Nirvana ... we will know many years of darkness, yet be held in the fullness of Her womb awaiting these seeds to be reborn again ... I am empty of your love ... though I am it's protector ... and if I were ask if I was ever worthy of such a dignity in that world, this world, or in the world to come ... I would not know how to answer ... for how can such a thing fit inside an apple seed, when conceived to be silk swaddled and Swan laddened ... I do know, love is tangible, love has the energy of a thousand suns, love is  beyond any evil man or beast can send to destroy it ... and though I may have had to hide you away ... let dragon scorch the Earth ... our Jade Sky will live again someway when this seed sees the Dawn of a new day ... the temples of our people rebuilt and Chang's apple brings forth a new fruit ...  for peace lives in us all when we dare to care for our love of another.

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Where seeking sought souls ...

Limbered frost hung even in the bud cost first strands of morning this May daybreak ... the Ironwood trees refuse to leaf even so as much as the morels keep hidden smuggled safe beneath decays careful blanket ... in the meadow the whitetail test the pure honesty of Dawn's tribunal ... filling their Winter dreams with the first new shoots of eventual autumn hay ... culling their lust for the coming rut too soon upon the mind of thickening velvet ... a midst the splendor present ... observer ... apart ... at one and witness still ... to where seeking sought souls ...

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Your Kindness Touched Me Deeply

Somehow, meeting you has silk screened your pastel presence of who I can finally see my Self to be, deep beneath the Summer sidewalk snow cone melt sugar stain I had been Rorschach~ing all these years, indelibly on my mind ... A Shaktipat sepia negative nitrate slow burning rose incense of beauty which nearly brings me to tears when I let it open the temple of my heart and breathe for me ... Though, I did promise you not to cry, the sadness planted in my eyes so many memories ago washes ever so lightly in the ocean of hour glassed salt water confessions now stolen from Self ... I am found in the garden beyond All Heavens named Kindness, where love may still be the sacred stem on which a blossom lives it's life of glory ...

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Friday, May 9, 2014

Is it possible ...

Is it possible our concept of existence has nothing to do with what we see in each other's eyes, ever ?  ... That souls memorize the pulse patterns of the way those windows handle a curtain, race relating to the breeze, more than how the Sun washes the dye year after year? ... Why is it the color red has to possess our blood because it kisses the air our brains need to feed upon ? ... Is it not blue until they meet beyond the confines of the encapsulated human heart safe, pumping, true, and un~witnessed ? ... How can light be swam in, walked, and waded, yet darkness still stalk us so ? ... Where is that higher love, hooded illumination, and miracle walkway ? ... How will we come to know the tangent pull palm play blessings of peace, if we close our eyes to our own destruction ? ... Trembled air on the wings of  those very white doves are begging for the children to to be made kings. 

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Thursday, May 8, 2014

A Letter to the King of Pangaea ...

It is sorrowful you chose to leave so soon ... when life was just getting ready to say yes for the first time ... in the most real of ways you could ever have imagined ... Oh, God I know, it puts the  fear to your heart like a  glowing red coal to dry summer meadow grass ... Whoosh, with a kiss so hot we'll do anything to outrun it to the river ... take a short cut through anger screaming all the while it wasn't us ... climb up obstinace  and leap across a great divide ... barely catching by our toes arms flailing like a wonky bird for balance ... knowing looking back is sure failure yet, we have to find it in ourselves to fall forward so we can ... we are taught it's our saving grace, we are taught wrong, baby ... it is the drink that drives us ... through brambles and disillusions, we seek the stone sobering cool of the water ... sink our feet in and drink deep ... roll up our pants legs or hike up our dress tail and take in a good cold victory of out running it all ... and just when we are starting to get comfortable is when it is time to go ... we all have to leave those shores for the house at some point ... if we be laying on the cold ground that night or in the bed .... it's all the same ... we are staring at the same face when that darkness folds fleece around us ... might as well turn and face it head on from the start and save our energy for the work to be done ... we all have our own way to do things though ... we all have our own path to walk ... there ain't no shame in that either ... if it is raining we are going to get wet and be all rights we should be thankful for that glory water  ... that'll give us the flowers for the graves next month, baby ... I guess what I am trying to tell you is ... there ain't no shame in anything unless you are trying to hurt others ... hurt just happen sometimes ... I do it ... you do it ... we all do it ... it ain't nothing all that big ... Love is what is big ... we all make mistakes and we all need to be growing ... but if we run out into the pastures every time a door flies open ... sometimes they close while we are down here with our feet in the water feeling proud ... sometimes it simply gets too late, not by anyone's fault neither ... then the real pain starts ... you just think about that awhile and maybe we will see you back at the house before it gets too dark, ok ... 

from "Voice of the Grandmothers Vol 2"
© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Serving the Yellow Buddha

The wild plums stand curtsy curve in scattered spray about the red brown hummus healthy oak essence airy hillsides .... their moss brown baskets filling all the while with the membrane net flesh of hollow stemmed Phea and Perry countenance ... as if they were some wandering troop of Geisha orphans too beautiful for Winter to have contained any longer ... and thus in It's melting they were revealed ... freed of some ancient hag's curse, to have been in full blossom as long as they have been in this very forest ... it was the sadness of Mother Earth which has brought them here ... making their way to a hidden Shinto shrine of the Yellow Buddha ... He had once been worshiped and thus protected by an army of most fierce and feline warriors of the calico persuasion ... the white flowers of the plums will be nearly fruit by the time they reach the shrine ... their tall slender bodies prepared and heavy laden with blessings for the Prince ... the Spring red buds which guard these powder puff delicacy dancers themselves are bonsai bodyguards ... sealing out  the perimeters of human habitation ... where mythologies no longer hold ... not for a fascination for communing or exchanging changelings for brides and bouncing babes ...  legend says, the manx are nearby plotting for the skins of the calicos ... like the orphans they have no defensive skin of their own and must fight for their Winter coat to the death ... or become the helmet of a calico and give him the right to never be challenged again ... all players are most patient ... some play for understanding what it is to become ... others what it is to fulfill an accepted destiny ... then there are those who either loose their skin or loose their head ... no one wins in that game ... yet, the One sits silently, yellow as the Sun waiting for us to finish our play ... He is the Buddha ... he knows we will find our way ...

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Rumpelstiltskin Wings

I've spun wax wings with the bobbins of Rumpelstiltskin's bridal wheel ... from the butter stub candle nubs left burnt into my window panes ... from wanton midnight wishing spells for you ... they are not brittle as crumble be the paraffin a year old ... holding the bees balmy craft of pollinating berry stews upon last summer's jam ... nor are they light as the butterfly come to drink sweet the sipping song ... from rose or lily, poppy and full fragrant beauty bush heavy with the daylight's dripping dawn ... they are wound on stems of light I spied across the darkest night ... when stars lay hidden from my view shaming even the moon to bear not her face ... for all knew the blackness was ushering you to me ... woven between with spider dust gathered gossip of how anticipation would learn of itself ... in the way a woman comes to realize the depth of love she is willing to bear out ... through her own convicted lust and strength to not be swayed from her heart ... in the moment our lips at last opened to each other ... the galaxy granted yawn spent humbling weakness true surrender of sanctification can only give ... and in the pouring gloom grained rains of what ever may come to be ... these wings of your heaven ... I held bosom to belly ... sleepless to slumbers ... sweet repose shall be all that are not drenched in the inks and oils of knowing ... what it is to thirst for you in utter constancy ... 

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Sister Ophelia

I dream my body's life away ... I wander in the grey plains and verde golden hills of my mind ... I saunter about the fields of heather far back away from the cottage where in I find you sleeping ... I dare not wake you ... for waking is when you see me, waking is when you know me, waking is when the quill is broken ... the heather knows of whispering love's lilac kisses I have left upon your cheeks ... the stream leaves apertures of desire upon the rushing rock face ... carrying lullabies home for your slumber filtered from every color we could think of when we met dreaming spells and spindle rails to keep time from folding the night away again ... then I am a spider caught in the web of the Wahoo tree until the Moon wishes me well once more ... and Ophelia walks this hollow haunt the missing heart of one ... we share her posies and spy you through the window panes ... How my hand ever finds it's way to my mouth ... my forefinger and thumb caressing my bottom lip ... lost in the sight of you baking bread or scribbling on some napkin which was handy ... only the nibble, the tiny bite on myself, brings me back ... I am lost in you ... standing tip toe beside my sister in your flowerbeds of thorny roses and fragrant iris ... our toes cold on the red brick borders ... our hearts eternally warm ...

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Six poems short ...

I leave you here ... six poems short of reality ... perhaps next April I will try my hand again ... Bright Blessings ...

NaPoWriMo #24

I have listened to the song of my soul in the wind lisped rain playing on rooftop and window panes ... the glass chime lull and wood thud content trains of the night voices speaking the many names of those who have passed though me ... none catching on the thorns of my heart as his has ... I am lost to myself for those moments I am held by  his words ... yet, find I belong only in the folded texture and wonder lust colors of scent beneath them ... for they are his arms ... I am grateful for the rains coming in this Spring ... then I may hide away regain what I have lost ... loose what I must ... hope to find hope once again ... and perhaps dream ... dare to dream again ... 

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

NaPoWriMo #23

So slight was the vision you rode into my soul ... the space of jagged cracked sick glass in the ancient widow I live behind ... broken and split in the baked molecules of sand time consistency informing that fragile notion ... you had seen me in the sea of others we swim about drowning daily ... grasping for those root holds less smooth ... allow fingerling tendrils to sink supple fingers and lips about ... to sooth ... to sate ... to calm and cause water tides to ebb and flow not crash and tear us limb for limb ...  if only for those moments you could bear to be with me ... if only for those moments ... I could be a rock, a shelf of Earth, a root nearby to wrap yourself about and sink your body and blood into ... I would if you'd only let me ... for there is no denying you live in me ... to vacate you would be to loose a part of myself ... a refraction thought you may be ... you are now too deeply rooted ... love is love ... it grows where it is planted ... love is welcome in the garden of my soul ... as is your rain, your Sunshine, Moonlight and her darkness, the wind, the snow, and yes, the flowers you grow ... 

© 2014 C.D.D. All Rights Reserved