Thursday, January 28, 2010

Bad Cess

Here is a disgruntled poem. Where I came from, bewildered rebel driven by spirit, sure how wounded, how wrong it all must be, hoping the awakening was true enough to actually mean something, from this stance on the board, I've been scudding before the wave of mortal terror, hanging ten in defiance, hoping to make a difference somehow, calling us all back home.

One of my musical mentors is Bruce Cockburn who has figured out how to make music from the disfigured visions of war.

This is too big for anger.
It’s too big for blame.
We stumble through history
so humanly lame.

So I bow down my head,
say a prayer for us all
that we don’t fear the spirit
when it comes to call.

That’s the chorus from “Postcards From Cambodia”. Jesus.

Pray for Michelle, my Australian friend. She has had to say farewell to her mother. I weep.

Bad Cess

Not original
sin, is not original
blessing either, no.
It's original
sanity that drives me on.
This yearning within
me is wanting worlds
that match my earliest sight.
Since that sure won't fly
I trim me away
until I fit what they say's real.
This gives me bad cess.

Now I feel crazy.

March 23, 2009 11:23 AM


  1. Born angels and lose a feather every day until we're fully shorn.

  2. And naked stand in the sight of God, sharing in the truth shorn with us.

    No more poses and postures, no more preening and keening, only light to light, only self judging self.

    Thus light to light, we decide in the fullness of time what comes next.

    That's when I had better know how to love, how to forgive.

  3. It's sad in a way, this pruning to fit in the garden. Sometimes I want to grow wild, fit nowhere, unstoppable. Then I reign me in a clip branches and leaves...hoping at least one blossom will be left, one fragrent flower to leave a trace of me.

  4. The trimming away is awful. I watch it in my children now -- mostly my son. My daughter defies trimming :) She has never cut her hair, it is past her knees. For her it is a symbol, I think, of refusing to fit into the mold. Wish that I had been so brave....

    And yes, I wept as well for Michelle and am thinking of her.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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