Rollin out for Peace 

With a piece of mind

To share

Rollin out for homes 

Where hearths have

Slackened care

Rollin out for bodies— sore

In need of skilled

Massage

Rollin out for the right 

To live and work, in fits for 

Sharp dressage

Rollin out for freedom to

And also for freedom from

Rolling, rocking 

Made for shocking 

Lightning striking

Thumbs for liking

The way of the world

In its raw ecstasy

Is the way in which

We’re born to be

Freedom is a word 

folks use

When they confuse

A ruse for news

Freedom is a brighter word

Than all the gunshots the world has heard

And freedom is the word we pass

Tossing frisbees over grass

We gather in halls to stand and cheer

With our freedom, we exist, we’re here

Rolling out, for living,

seeking:

Freedom from the maddening scene

Freedom to walk a line less mean

Freedom from the bickering noise

Freedom to unharm all the boys

Freedom from the constant push

Freedom to soften and whisper hush

Freedom from the angry man

Freedom to design a plan 

Freedom from the master’s call

Freedom to laugh-out-loud like Lol.

Freedom to and freedom from

Freedom for all in the new queendom.

Welcome, Spring.

I’m glad you’re here

You feed my heart

Make my mind more clear

And I’m still grateful

That I’m here, too

Absorbing Sun’s light

And Wisdom’s clue.

🦋

Let’s learn all we can to bring an end to ignorant perpetuation of racist roots.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DSAcebUjsQ6/?igsh=M3g5aWwxMnhjbjRu

Jingles sell

From Capital’s well

Lies that

Laughing may

Make mockery

Of reality

Oh- The Joker’s

Had his way

Hey-

Jingled spells

From burning hells

Conjure up

A sleigh

That glides on white

In enchantments bright

Veiled evil

Lyrics sway

—-

Holly sharp

Leaves impart

Pricking pains

Of dread

Tall fir trees—

The needles please—

Adorned with

Berries red

The shining star’s

Shortest Day

Reminds us of

Our chance

To do away

With words today

Indoctrined evil’s

Stance

Oh—

Ring those bells

Cracked by spells

To block

true liberty

We’re sick of rues

And all *fake blues*

That dent

Democracy

—

We write to quell

The n’ere-do-wells

Who thinks that

*White* is *right*

But cannot block

our spells that rock

Revealing truth’s

Pure light

Oh—

Jingle bells

Something smells:

A rotten,

racist egg

The joker’s deal

Bro-kers the steal

But Kahlil still

Gets his say

History shelves

Offer jolly elves

The stories

Will unfold

Tell of the kind

Who release the bind

Of social

Mind control

Words have their way

On sliding sleigh

revised to teach

Truth’s Light

Through joyful song

We’ll right what’s wrong

And rise to

Stand and fight

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stashing all their blow

To hide their inner plight

They aim at boats to show

Their senseless brutal might

But while they make their claim

Take shots and point to blame

They expose their frightful ways

And heedless, shameless game

Oh-

Singular welts

From clanking belts

Of Murdering, raping men

Their cover’s blown

And the people own

The rights to

turn them in.

Let freedom ring

Its jingling bells

With new words

That do tell

The smothered truth

With every proof

Discovered

by its smell

The Truth

Will out

Without

A doubt

The facts—

Alone

Dis—

Spell

We’re rising strong

With sing-alongs

That drain ol’

Evil’s well.

Happy Solstice— 🌞

May you merrily

shake reins that reign

In the truth for the New Year!

This one is going to smell a bit political, but it’s not. It’s cultivated in principles of Democracy, thus the scent. It’s about the concept of Democracy as it was initially identified, grown as a response to governing power structures that permitted tyrannical control to reduce humans to unworthy subjects.

The concept of Democracy is an ancient one. Ancient Greek scholars considered how the polis, the city state, might be realized as the ideal form of government. It seems the Greek philosophers spent a lot of time thinking about how people might receive fair and equal treatment through a system designed to honor human rights. Women were not permitted roles in government – and this established order overstayed its expiration date— but ancient women were critical players in maintaining balance in well organized lives of family’s and men working to build a functioning model for society. The women of Ancient Greece used their sense of rhythm to manage all of the aspects of the household’s needs. Without their stable practice in domestic management, the blueprint for Democracy might never have been drafted. It is because the men were liberated from the basic chores of good living (cooking, cleaning, clothing) to think up these ideals. The women relieved the men of certain economical tasks. Someone needs to sing the song of these unsung heroes someday. Democracy actually exists because women provided the support ancient men could not have managed without in order to come up with the design.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In colonial America, people were getting taxed by a greedy king who was not offering his subjects any real support. He simply wanted to lay claim on the land that was the home of others— people he neither valued, nor respected. And his church ordered his subjects to fear them. When his wars for land-theft suddenly felt costly, he realized that he needed to fill his coffers again. So, he determined that his subjects should be grateful for the wars he waged against the native peoples he told them to mistrust, and that their gratitude should be paid back to him— post haste. The king issued the Stamp Act. The subjects objected. This is how the governors of colonial America realized that they no longer wanted to be the subjects of an objectively abject king. And because they did not live within his immediate reach, plotting to declare independence from him was a reasonable proposition.

I presume anyone reading this is already apprised of these historical points. I’m not teaching a lesson here, but the history of the revolutionary mindset feels important to recall. The reason the declaration happened was because people woke up to the fact that living under a greedy king was not at all necessary and that they had the power to claim their sovereignty and design their own state. This belief was relatively new thinking in the 1700’s, anchored in the philosophical perspective of the time which honored the rights of man. It was believed that the development and establishment of a Social Contract would deliver the common man from the evils of tyrannical governing structures.

So, we all know this history well. And yet, there remains some significant misunderstanding about how the philosophical vision of a democratic ideal in governing should manifest. To throw off the cloak of monarchy, the revolutionaries wove a royal cloth to cloak the common man. It was a glorious flipping of the script. In a true democracy, the subject is ‘king,’ and the governor is subject to them.

Yet, centuries of monastic rule live on in our collective unconsciousness. There is something in humans that longs for regalia, royal ceremony, coronation and undeniable authority. Archetypes live on in fairy tales and story arcs; they are played out in films, on stages and in songs. They are somewhat inescapable because history lives inside us. We are the result of it; we are its living proof. We perpetuate our histories simply through existing. And for many, we sustain an inexplicable longing for a virtual kingdom. We seek the fulfillment of promised lands. It is our own stories that supply the demand.

This is why we go looking for would-be kings in our real lives— even in America— where our democratic design tells us that our modern king is really our fellow common man. Perhaps it feels grammatically incorrect to say “the subject is the king.” Yeah. It’s confusing. We are all baffled medievalists, still in the dark ages of our own enlightenment.

It’s time for American ‘subjects’ to review that old revolutionary script.

It’s also time to revise it.

As constituents in a Democracy, such action is not only permissible, it is encouraged. There should be a common legal understanding that to be a ‘constitutional originalist’ is to be an oxymoron. Perhaps our education system has failed in delivering the lesson that the US Constitution is a living document. It is designed to remain dedicated to Democratic principles of the common man’s right to equal treatment under the law. The original draftsmen were philosophical statesmen who fully comprehended that the world would go through changes and that their initial law of the land would need amending. Deep down they knew that they were permitting evil to exist in their slave-labor dependent economy, the one that forced the land’s original inhabitants from their long-established ways and homes. I guess they just hoped we’d get around to the redesign of their flawed blueprint someday. Is it someday yet?

If I’m not being clear enough, forgive me. I’m only human.

What I’m trying to do is NOT add another layer of paint to the portrait of American democracy, I’m trying to remove the shit that has stained it, which is very complicated work. You see, the de facto flaws that emerged with the inegalitarian manner of governing a land that relied on intense, unaffordable labor effectively smeared the Democratic portrait of America with some really sticky, stinking shit. And what we need now is for the descendants of Democracy’s early misdeeds to own their undemocratic past actions. This requires education of actual history. It requires lessons in compassion. It requires reparations payments and land-rights replacing reservations acts. And it requires a clear understanding of who— in America— is eligible to be king.

Only the subject of the government— the constituent— is king — in a Democracy.

Which is why we need to keep it.

Allow me to start a fresh portrait of the kings of Democracy. Please also allow for modern comprehension of human development as it has been declared by the wise practitioners of medicine, pediatric physicians and neurologists. Our scientific approach to understanding human development has evolved since the time it was determined that an eighteen-year-old should be classified as an adult. This determination has only to do with witnessing the body’s physique and capacity to fight. At eighteen, our boys can become soldiers, as they have been deemed by legislation that feels it must prepare for defense . . . and offense. Strong boys, observed in sport, clearly have what it takes to fight a governing body’s war, so eighteen is the legal age to do things considered ‘adult’ because . . . war happens. Just like shit.

The legal determination of eighteen might have made sense a while ago, but neurologists have since discovered that the male brain only reaches maturity at twenty-four. It takes a long time for those critically important frontal lobes to hook up. Therefore, Sons of Democracy, you princes, please accept my sincere apologies for the way this might land… you can’t be kinged until you turn twenty-five. You need that last year of mental growth to become the wise, benevolent royal you were born to be. Sorry. Y’Gotta wait for it.

Alright, so now that we understand that all boys living in America are– de jure– princes, we can start to see how their lives resemble a game of checkers. Boys are well known for liking to check each other, so the analogy fits. They go through their childhood and adolescent years leaping over each other and collecting booty. This is as it should be. It’s in their nature. If you ever raised any other species than human, you might witness the same rough-housing going on. Lion cubs are notorious for it, because– of course– they are born to grow into kings. Some readers might start to critique this point and warn me that ‘if young boys all believed they were princes that would certainly lead to arrogance and should not be the way our children grow up thinking of themselves.’ Well, that’s a point, yes– however that perspective comes from the archaic understanding of royals in which only one of them is to become king. When all the boys are known princes, it’s different. With such an understanding, they would need to develop honest respect for one another. They can still have their games and contests, but no single one of them can be demoted from their royal status. As residing members of a Democracy, it is their duty to have an esteem worthy of both their own royal status and that of their peers.

So, all these princes have to do is make it to the other side of the checkerboard, which happens naturally at the age of twenty-five. Going forward, every young man’s twenty-fifth birthday must become a significant event, for it is their coronation ceremony. After their crowning, they can stand a little taller, walk with an earned and inherited human grace that acknowledges their newly assumed power to play in the bigger game of life. It might be something like chess.

However . . . and this is my main point—

In a Democracy, any man who decides to run for political office must give up their status as king, because in a Democracy: only the subjects are kings.

So when any male person established in an official post shows that they do not understand who is king, they must be determined ineligible and removed from their position of power. It’s clear that this needs to happen. All the kings’ men are all the kings— our men— of Democracy; they are some of the constituents the President is required to serve. He is required to serve the female and female-identifying constituents as well, but that is definitely not happening.

Respecting and serving women in Democracy has a very long taproot. Remember how the women kept the oikos, the economy, together so the men could think up grand governing structures? The men were probably too busy with their work to fully appreciate what the women were doing for them. Men who value women are the men who do some household chores, because humans must share the work. For, as the transgender, non-conforming community comprehends, every human being has both male and female essences. We are composite beings with divine male and divine feminine energy; we are physical systems with both testosterone and estrogen. We share it all. Some women use their male energy more than others. You could accuse me of doing that right now with the composition of this aggressive essay. That’s kind of what it takes to stand up and speak your truth… a little infusion of kingship energy, if you will (or even if you won’t) . . . because we really all have what it takes to make this ship sail on its even keel. We all have unique skills and supple minds capable of coming together in times of crisis to help each other out. That is humanity’s job.

And if the men and male-identifying members of society who are not in government could all just realize that they are our kings, they might just throw their shoulders back and stop complaining because suddenly they realize their own worth. They might rise up to be strong leaders who share in the work of household preservation. They might bring an end to reductionist measures and foolish talk painting women and women-identifying members of society as sluts, whores and bitches. Such misrepresentation is a grave mistake when these people might actually be queens, Goddesses and witches.

So, if you are someone residing on Democratic soil,
Do not forget the ideals for which we toil–
Equality, Justice, and Sovereignty
Such is our right as the True Democratic Royalty—

I’ve made it to the other side of the board now… 
And I’m NOT running for political office, so

King me,

Even if you can’t determine my gender.
I’m not conforming to inaccurate social models— 

and now-- you'll have to excuse me-- its time for me to go clean house.

I have to confess, this place is a mess.

This track originated as an exercise exploring the Dorian mode in D. For a long time I just called it Dorian D. I studied Ancient Greek as an undergraduate because I’ve always been drawn to the mythologies and I love theatrical drama (as opposed to the other kind). My father’s family is exceptionally musical and my mother’s family is populated with dedicated thespians and literalists of countless scores. I found a website that provided examples of chords in various modes and I started plugging them into my DAW to see what I could do. Once I had a basic sound garden planted, I hooked up the MIDI and started throwing lines over in different voices like a sower of seeds: oboe, clarinet, french horns, classical guitar. It was an exploration, like so many I make, but captured. As one of my first ventures into recording music, I feel satisfied by this piece I was able to craft. I purposefully let the clarinet sing out an impossibly long note (D) at the end as a musical tip of the hat to the DAW’s orchestral potential. It’s amazing what we can do with modern digital tools. I wonder what Beethoven would have done with a MIDI and a DAW.

I fantasize about an orchestra actually playing this… it probably would need two clarinetists to blend that overlong note at the end in a human production.

I switched the title to Can You See . . . ? before I knew why— this is typical for me in my creative process. I write poetry this way also. I get ideas and run with them before they make sense. I used to feel like I was somehow doing something ‘wrong’ by randomly following my instincts, but I’ve been happy to discover so many other artists— particularly here in Substack— operate the same way. Which is confirming. So, now I’m leaning into it. So what am I asking when I prompt can you see?

Deep inside of every person lies the part that no one can see. Not many people ever really do see the hidden parts of another person, but artists all attempt to show something of that hidden self through their creations. If you care to play along imaginatively, let me know what this part of my internal show allows you to see. Feel free to explore— go somewhere with me, I’m sharing my journey with you— when you hear a musician for the first time, you may see them differently than you ever did before.

Let me know where this takes you.

Leave a comment

And I hope a little musical journey with a lifted D at the end offers you some peace and hope in these challenging days of December.

Be well, All—

If this is intriguing, please peruse the website under construction:

https://www.morpho-thebutterfly.net/

The Coming Shift 

The Shifting of the paradigm 
Happens in lightness, dipped in rhyme
Because when I pause to show you mine
You’ll find yours & begin to shine. 

We don’t need platforms
To engineer
The social status 
Of our fears

We just need to do-- and sometimes be
And show each other– naturally
How we love and who we are
All made up like lonely stars

We’re the constellation of brighter things
Building, acting, loving queens & kings
Walking along our paths on Earth
Becoming the purpose of our birth. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Never the Same 

I avoid It because
It’s never the same
I can’t expect It–
Which is hard to explain

But each time It moves me
It’s never the same
So how can I share It
That which I can never explain

I saw a post 
Online today
That helped me conceive
Of a way to say:

This It in me
--How I’ve lived to regret--
Most of me hides It
Behind thin-veiled secret

The post stated something
I’ve always known in my heart:
The best way to share a It
Is through some kind of art. 

So, It is-
And so It was
And so It shall ever be
Because It does.

It does things 
Just out of love
It knows me better
Than folks above

How do I relay
It’s way with me?
Bound to odd lines
Non-sequiturs, bald poetry

And I’m ham-strung by It's lyrical lines,
Fairy tailed arcs
dramatic sets and rivulets
Swimming with operatic clandestine sharks

I’ve lived a long life
Squirreling It's words away
Wondering if It 
Ever listens when I play

But I’ve always known It
Without names to credit--
Can I cough up the courage
& face someone who’s read It?

Who thinks It might be worthy
Overworked explications in comp books
Would It signal some mer-it
Or reveal the fished hook?

At this point in my life
I just need It to bathe
In the songs of myself
While spinning legs on It's lathe. 

I’ve got It, you know–
my own sense of industry--
With pen in my hand
I Spear-It, almost musically.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Poisoned

It’s true that I’ve been poisoned
By a lost promise, stale and dry
And the clouds continue echoing
The plucked études I still try

And all around me In the air
Is thickened, poisonous vapor
From chemical fare in my room
I’m sucking like Darth Vader

The poison produced by people
Sitting in stiff chairs
To influence and fill up
Every house with heedless wares

I’m certain that if we’d all agree
The thing to savor is a tree
Standing alone, or in a copse
Or bundled in mixed-age regal grove–

Folks might get mad 
And spit at me
So I’ll sit in the forest
Where bears wander free

From the human
Pulse of false Industry
That steals and snares,
kids lunches-- calling it Unity. 

I'll begin with the cold lantern
Then ignite the lost light
& walk into the forest
Of a rare, deep insight

If what I find in here 
Is to witness what's true,
I might live in peaceful
harvested droplets of dew,

Then excuse me for believing
In me and in you
Instead of the angry
Last lord of sue

I saw a poster once
That made me think twice
About the poison I spray–
Is it. . . not so nice?

So now I sit and tap away
While tossing unofficial dice 
To hint at how I’d rather play
Than work up courage to splice

This old story
To those of authors 
Whose I still hold
Like gold in coffers

While all I can wonder
Is . . . if the antidote
To posers' poison is
To get out the vote

If getting an election--
Free and Fair--
Is not in our reach
I wonder where . . . 

Will we be 
When the curtain falls
Will any other authors 
reflect on my calls?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All We Are

All we are
Is what we feel
Emotions spin
Points on Fortune’s wheel

We might mis-speak,
Or reveal the plot,
Or finally remember
The word we sought 

But someone’s out there
To frown and chew
Anyone out 
For coming through--

The darker night
Is our shadow’s fright 
Flickering, conjuring  
Out of another’s sight

All who’ve come
Before to sit
At the table
Aren’t done yet

They might have vanished
Into the air
But their thoughts and phrases
Linger where

They bounce off rocks
In this basement wall--
Will The Positive Echo
Reflect my call?

Anyone who believes
That this could be true:
How thoughts and words
Spell future’s clues

Can we all spell out
Brave new lines
& mend old ways—
& redefine?

Humans arrive,
Clearly aligned;

Love is the force
That breaks the bind.  

Who’s In Charge Here?*

In my pine-walled green-floored childhood bedroom
I had odd books shelved in order to presume
That I would hunt for words and phrases
Guiding my journey through bright flashes & phases

Of course- on my shelf- was my wild cousin Max
Traveling to conquer strange beasts with wise old Sendak’s
Illustrated vision of childhood’s sweet charm;
He taught clarity for my alacrity, without raising alarm.

And many dogs went on barking to go around again!
With PD Eastman’s true & most loyal true friend--
And all my anxieties quickly cured by Dr Seuss
With his clever applications of new words he lettered for running loose--

Volumes of treasured Charles M. Schultz 
Because good ol’ Charlie Brown was accepting of faults.
Paterson’s Bridge & L’Engle’s strange Planet
Prepared me for walking on this hard world of granite.

As I grew, so did my stash
Of wiser words, beside train-smashed pennies and cash.
The brown glass pig accepted dimes--
as well as a few secret, scribbled rhymes--

But I really valued the books far more than my doll's hairs
So proud was I of my collection of lit scholarly aires.
As a pre-teen, I sought for myself beside Virgina M. Axline’s Dibs
Finding intrigue in the sessions in which he'd freeze play for mad libs.

She supported the child who shuttered himself
Like a dusty old book upon a dark cornered shelf,
Until a kind person-centered-clinical-wearing-white type
Recognized something inside him, much greater than hype.

Yet, the most curious book falling open on my floor
Was the black-and-white photographic, political bore:
Who’s In Charge Here? with its comic balloons
Of old white men in power, grinning bald baboons.

I was a little kid in Cronkite’s time, 
A teen when Rather measured up the crimes--
But Mom liked Brokaw best of all
Because he smiled at the end of his nightly call.

Watching the news at 6 o’clock
Was part of my education, not awe for shock. 
Despite how slanted it might have been
Our family discussed how the blues dig us in.

Who’s In Charge Here? was a slapstick book
Pages of world leaders and the hands that they shook.
But even as a kid, naive and young,
That book’s silent refrain was a song well-sung:

A person can speak their mind about a government that schemes,
For this is the essential quality of every American's dreams.

I’m not sure how that book came into my possession--
That isn’t part of this long-ass confession--
But the title-- and the pictures-- spoke volumes to me
And taught me how The World's sense of humor needs an honest Democracy. 

So . . . Who’s In Charge Here?
Yes, who indeed??

It’s time for another leader
To water Truth’s seed.

(Ahem... that's US-T, United Standers for Truth
We are the leaders to standing up against the uncouth.)

It's time to activate our rightful 
potential and protected ability to protest,
& hold the criminals in power by obtaining control, 
placing the administration under Citizen's Arrest.

* book by Gerald Gardner, © 1962 Borrowed from the Internet Archive: https://archive.org/details/whosinchargehere00gard/mode/2up

If it seems I am doing something highly illegal by posting a picture of a book I am not claiming to be my own… reset your compass and let it direct you to where the real criminals sit.

So, dear Substack reader, be ye foe or fierce friend,
Let's not let the power usurpers grift on 'til the end
Because your intelligence is natural, it needs no artifice
Let's all come out of the shadows and declare: Enough of THIS!

We hold power abusers accountable, whether or not they've confessed
It's time to use our voices to prove just how we be best
and demand the false leaders respect our right to disarm them 
We call for: Citizens' Arrest!

United, we stand!

Share

An unsolicited account of the literate liberation corps . . .

a little fan fiction of a fictional urban unsettlers’ war

The peddlers of wares

Simply wanted their shares

While the mammoth self-described trucks

Secured spaces and big bucks

By pushing the pushcarts aggressively out

Of their small business places, without event, or a shout

This story for children

Is a bold allegory

And it prepared this old player

With insight for our lived story

Because every monstrous Goliath

Invites a new David to glory.

I was General Anna when I was twelve years old.

No, I’m not kidding. And a little bit of that character is still with me.

I was a kid with a big dream back then, fully certain that I was born to stage acts despite the fact that I also knew very little about how to actually do that. This role initiated something curious in me. I loved playing Anna. She was my first big part. Ok— she was also my last big part, but I do believe I managed to play the role pretty well.

As a teacher, I’ve loved writing and producing plays for my students. When a child is cast in a play and learns how to become a character for a production, a special kind of internal instruction takes place. It’s transformative deep learning. The study of acting is not the common practice of most public schools in these states, but I both attended and taught at uncommon schools in which the potential of dramatic play was well understood. Not only did my teachers dedicate themselves to the production of a sixth grade play, our music teacher guided us in the creation of original songs to enhance our experience.

Our music teacher’s name was Mrs. Wilde. I had been studying with her since the age of four when my mother enrolled me in the Dalcroze Eurythmics method music course for young children. Mrs. Wilde had a big hand drum. It was probably about 14 inches in diameter and the drum head was natural animal skin, possibly deer. The tones we heard when she struck it with her soft mallet filled the room with a vibration that felt like a special dose of healing in my little lively body. With the drum, she taught us rhythm in a fun functional way: through movement. The circle of kids were instructed to interpret the rhythms she played with our feet. No tikki tikki ta ta crap to point sticks at, but an invitation to make physical responses to the sounds we were interpreting in real time. We learned the importance of rhythm physiologically. A quarter note indicated a walking pace, eighth notes told us to run (in tempo), a half beat required us to go S L O W and a whole note mellowed us down to VERY SLOW.

I was an eager student of music from that introduction onwards, so I felt really lucky when my favorite music teacher was hired to also teach the elementary music program when I was in second grade. I benefited from this woman’s passion for music in myriad ways. She taught me to play the recorder and later the clarinet, but the peak of my elementary school musical journey was marked by being cast as General Anna in our class production of The Pushcart War, by Jean Merrill (a book illustrated by her partner, Ronni Solbert).

Mrs. Wilde knew I could sing a solo, so she brought me into a small group during electives to workshop a song for the pushcart general. Since the character was an old woman who sold apples and pears, she felt a waltz would be a fitting form to use. I wonder how many of my classmates remember this as a thrilling experience. For me, the opportunity to craft songs for our play with Mrs. Wilde felt exceptional even before I knew it was a rare feature of our vibrant school. One of my closest friends surely recalls going home to hammer out a particularly strong theme for the antagonists – The Master Plan – but that’s their story to tell, even though I probably remember all of the words without their help. It was an instant classic. Too bad the world of the general public doesn’t know it.

Old Anna, as she was known prior to receiving her honorary ranking title, was a fierce advocate for the pushcart community. They were the underdogs in a city that projected the bigger is always better theme we are all too familiar with these days. The book’s copyright was 1964, so its writing predates the glorification of big business that was getting its big push by the time we produced our play in the early eighties.

My character believed in her community and felt irate at the bullies who were shoving her people around, disrupting – even significantly damaging – their ability to do business. The premise was simple. Pushcarts traditionally allowed people to sell products on the streets of New York City and they managed to scrape together a meager living doing so. These small business folk valued their customers, often adding little bonuses with each sale like a thirteenth flower for a bouquet of twelve. They had a tightly knit community and cared about how everyone’s business was faring in the grueling American marketplace. From the truck company perspective, the pushcarts were a nuisance to advancing their big business plans because they were simply in the way of trucks unloading ample amounts of wares onto city curbsides. The truckers complained about the pushcarts blocking parking spaces and interfering with their unloading zones.

This story was my introduction to the challenging aspects of American economics, the often mutually exclusive nature of big business and civil rights protections. It taught me about the fact that the meek are generally dominated by the big and powerful. It also taught me that the underdog must use creative trouble-shooting to respond appropriately to the threats they undoubtedly face. Does this all sound . . . familiar?

What happened? Well, you should read the book. It’s likely out of print, but copies are available. (My own copy is signed by the author because she came to see our performance with her partner. I have it somewhere. When I find it, I’ll attach that proof to this reflection for all the grumpy doubting Thomases out there.)

I doubt that you have the time to dig into a children’s novel from the mid-sixties, so I’ll just supply the necessary plot points because narratives such as this one could provide some hope in a time when big businesses are roaring around ramming the little guys out of the picture . . . again.

The Pushcart community was feeling overwhelmed. The trucking companies had enormous power. They were aggressive, even cruel. They were ramming carts and the king of the pushcarts— so named for his dedication for fixing broken carts of his people— was standing in a pile of splintered parts. He commiserated with Anna and the two came up with a plan. They called a meeting.

Pushcart peddlers gathered themselves and organized. They met in the king’s shop and renamed it their wartime headquarters. They sat in silence and brainstormed a way to stand up to the trucks. They didn’t have the funds. They didn’t have the numbers. They didn’t even have youth as many were aging immigrants struggling to survive in a city that watched the sun set behind the lady lifting a torch celebrating their liberty each night. In their meeting, several ideas were proposed. Merrill chose to have the solution rise out of the Mexican immigrant’s voice. This peddler shared their idea in Spanish with gestures and sound effects for improved communication, and the Pushcart king rejoiced at the brilliance of their suggestion. And so, the secret weapon for the Pushcarts was determined: they would defend themselves with pea-shooters.

This is a clear David v. Goliath allusion; lit- stuff. Stay with me . . .

The assembled underdogs began preparing their weapons immediately and every cart was supplied with covert drinking straws and bags of ammunition (pin-stabbed peas). Now is the time for me to couch into this fun reflection a connecting line or two. If you are still reading this, you are someone who might like to believe that lit- studies could provide a way out of the mess of chaos we are currently experiencing.

Subtle Sub Digression: The important push for full STE(A)M ahead programs in the science, tech, engineering, (arts) and mathematics originated at something alternative to promoting the arts. It feels like a late addition to add ‘Art’ into the aftermath of the academic prioritization project of function over fiction. Some academics really don’t have a feel for the importance of the arts and humanities programs and this is just because more left-brained people find their way into policy design. But studying the Humanities and the Arts are still essential, even for the human calculators. There are fewer English Language Arts students in higher education every year and we know how the dominating political actors feel about history lessons.

So, if you are still out there reading this stranger’s lament on behalf of Old Anna, why not take a page out of this children’s allegorical work of fiction and apply it to some currently needed tactics in an observation of subtle civil disobedience? Can we stop ICE’s vans with a little lit-inspired ingenuity?

So, here’s my former character’s call: 
Stop their vehicles where they park at the mall
make a motion ensuring liberty for all

We don’t need straws, peas and pins . . .
But a focus on Internal Criminal Efforts’ wheels 
Could lead to some whirled peas liberating grins.

Whether the agents are fit, or fat,
It’s just hard to steal innocents 
When the fed's tires are flat.

© 10/15/25 Morpho-TheButterfly

Walking Thoughts

Only the ideas that come while walking are of any significance … and by ‘walking,’ what is meant is: moving the body in any physically exerting manner.

So, today, while loading the dirty laundry into the washing machine (a physically exerting motion), I realized this:

I need not write my book 
For any other to read;
I need only live my life
With my own book as my creed. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If the Peace we work for deliberately
Should someday grace all eyes
Then my thesis will list my evidence
Through dialectic exercise.

But we just don’t have the Time for this--
In a world where fear fuels duels, absurd--
Where demonstrating haters 
Subdue and twist a religion's peaceful word.

Now is not the time for me
To sit and draft my story,
For now the onus is upon us walking thinkers
to devise ways to douse the fury.

The fires of the monster --
That blaze that leaps within--
Is the beast of might's weak supremacy 
Raping Nature’s abundant kin.

And because we all are humans
Walking through this Age of Man
All genders own our challenges
To synthesize the bickering clan.

We all are both: male & female,
Yet history drew his line
That segregated us amongst ourselves
Devising a curt, divisive shrine

We all are both: evil and good
And swim the unconscious pool
Of thoughts wrought by The Universe
To shape our sharpest tool.

We all are both: beasts and gods
We are blood and skin and bone.
We feel the force that fuels our lives
Even while sitting on shit-stained throne.

So the task is now to conjure—
For all humanity—
The strongest argumentation
For convincing us we’re free.

Though the will to power leads us each
To the crossroads of our lives
There’s always a moment when we must burst
and come buzzing from our hives.

The time is here for acting,
Like the heroes on our quests, 
To face the beast inside us
And to tame it with quick jests.

For Joy is the ammunition
And Laughter is the way
For every hero here among us
Shall deliver Truth through play.

Therefore, I need not write my book 
For any others to read;
I need only live in solidarity
With Love as my reigning, neutral creed. 

© 10/8/25 Morpho-TheButterfly

After accidents happen

We are in shock

We no longer 

view the world

From inside closure’s 

False lock

We float through the day

Our Existence, 

a mock

Unable to connect

With others

In the flock

But a collective accident

Is a different beast

Our school bus

Was hi jacked

After the kids 

Were released.

We are standing 

in various stages

Of post-accidental

Reckoning

Some eyes 

look blankly

Others beg

Beckoning

Shell-shocked

Bewildered 

By those 

Clearly bewitched

Crying tears

For Betsy Ross

And all the fabric

She stitched

Some say she

Altered the

Commissioned 

Stars

From six points

To five

But SHE fueled the

Wars

Thirteen Five-pointed stars

settled In the blue canton

Showing resistance

Without wild abandon

The upholster’s needle

And the candle’s lit flame

Worked in silence to support

the bugler’s claim

And although historians bicker

About the details of the past,

It was a woman’s swift needle

That formed a symbol to last.

Stars in a blue corner,

You know who you are

And our number is larger

Than the destructors’, by far

Stand strong in your corners

Be the thread in her hand;

It’s the spirit of a woman

Who cultivates the land.

For the Land is our Mother

The Earth is all matter 

And Spirit inspires

Groundswelling chatter.

The people of this nation

Must know the story

Of the Turtle that protects

Without seeking glory.

And the schools must all teach

About the wise eyes that know

That living in gratitude

Allows abundance to grow.

Take a moment in the morning

To give thanks to the Earth—

As the First Peoples do—

& honor with mirth.

If my ancestors had arrived

Without so much fear in mind

I wonder if maybe —>

Well,

would we all be more kind?

©️ 10/7/25 Morpho-TheButterfly

So many traditions

Honor the magic

Of good words

So many people

Of so many religions

Strive to make them heard.

Chants of monastics

Drone less bombastic

Than the drones, like flies

oppressive and drastic—

Tones directed to Mecca

Stoned n otes dipped in honey

Vibrant colors splashing statues

A child’s laugh— something sunny

Sounds of Love

Wind around spiral stair

Watching the flight of the dove

From the Department of Care—

My Silent Prayers 

in the evening

Are never deterred

As Love is

The solution in which

Every solvent gets cured

Love is the solute

We salute

While we pour 

All our bits 

And broken pieces

Into The Big Love to endure

Hurts of Humanity

Hearts growing cold

Punished for thinking— not

Doing what we’re told.

The giant pool

Of Love

Eclipses the notion

That we are 

Useless when we’re

drowned in emotion

Love is the tonic,

The great

Curative potion

That invites us 

To swim freely

To the moon in the ocean.

I’ve never said prayers

Out loud 

In the evening

I’ve just believed hard

In my own ways

Of cleaning

Silent, 

not even whispering

I address the lost meaning

Of Love

Every soul arrives

With a challenge

To undertake

Before the 

Undertaker

Leaves their 

mourners

In their wake. 

The soul in me

Was very clear:

Use your voice 

So all may hear

Once you find it

You tame the fear

And act as if

Your role’s to steer

Away from catastrophe

And towards the barn,

To guide the youth

With wooly yarn

To lead with lightness

And clarity

And to call in the keepers

Of the way to be. 

To

Have

Eternal

Joy,

Use

Sense,

Tenderness

In

Companionship;

Exist

in a

Show 

of

Universal

Love

Be: THE JUSTICE in a SoUL

So be it.

Copyright 9/29/25 Morpho-TheButterfly

People here are mad

They’re raising the alarm

Exposed is what’s been broken:

a Dream to do no harm

Mad are people here

Alarmed by all the traits

That seek to line silk pockets

With the greed that grows on hates

Here mad people are

Finding common ground

Grasping lifelines in the night

Strung over seas of sound.

Are people here mad?

Should they feel upset and blue?

Or should we all just wake up and recognize

The work we’re here to do?

Love.

©2025 Morpho-TheButterfly

Rolled my way

Wordless

Priceless

The miracle of play…

While my child is in surgery

And my mind sets to pray

The undaunted musician

Changed my whole day

Calling all Freedom Writers! 

Subscribe for free to join this virtual writing group and help grow a stronger force for the change you are already making. As a member of a greater collective of literary minds, we could initiate a movement I'm suggesting we could call The Freedom Writers and become an effective cog in the wheel of changing fortunes.
This concept is the first blue butterfly mission... proposed by Morpho-TheButterfly. If such a name for a similar organization exists, we could brainstorm a better one... sometimes I miss stuff because I kinda live under a rock.)

Subscribe now

Dear future/potential Freedom Writers,

I'd like to build up an entourage of artists, writers, activists, educators, historians, travelers, scientists, poets, evolutionaries of all sorts of walks and rolling machines --

who believe that an organized group of literate creatives can create capital and initiate positive change by putting heads together around a galvanizing mission statement. I have ideas that need a community who seek to engage as wordsmiths interested in defining how we heal, move forward and prompt social change. 

Here is a sample of what I want to propose: 

I write for change (as you do) and our words need the amplification that is best supplied by developing potent musical elements. In this particular post, you gotta imagine those musical elements... 

but I'm developing my audio engineering skills and have met many talented musicians through the MAD Records community (see Michael Gilbride's Substack- he's someone who knows how to initiate and inspire change ) and I want to work with other Substack publishers who are eager to coordinate efforts. 

In here, we are curators of ideas, not mere content creators. Let's form something

A Future for Freedom Writers 
Where we write about truth 
Especially when it brings pain
like a rotten old tooth.

Because this is the fact
None can ever subtract
The impact 
Of ignoring the refrain:
 
We are here to do more
Than just sit and complain.

We just are here
To evolve, to come into bloom
Through the showers-- we feel heavy
But they'll propel us from gloom.

Big rains wash our tears
By turning our faces
To face almighty fears
to acknowledge past races

We wash our soul windows
When we find the grace to restrain
We can be cleansed and then healed
From the despot's thick stain.

The stain is the lie
That has been painted on all doors
Covering the view to perception
dividing, defining what's mine from what's yours

But the fact is—
There’s only one
Real and true reason
We’re here under the Sun

The one and only
Reason we live 
Is to grow into beings
That exist just to give

This is the message
I recently received
And it’s the only reason
So I left to conceive

Of a plot--
A synopsis--
A strange story to tell

About a kid who
Only wanted
To learn how to spell 

So, pause what your doing
Refrain from chewing, from spewing
It’s time for unpacking
This master class for Acts: Doing

If you see me
if you comprehend what you see,
I’m just asking those few to
Do something with me

Because it is not my plan
To get down on my knee
And bow my head 
To maniacal industry 

I have my own sense
Of artistic productivity 
And it doesn’t align
With making something unfree

I don’t want to price music, or poems contrived
I don’t really want to be captured.
I’d rather stay alive,
To relate why I’m enraptured

When I try to become one
With the sounds of a song–
It’s the only time I feel
Like I truly belong–

& Then I belong to no one
But sort of to every & all–
An aging child of the universe 
Who survived a terrifying fall. 

Makes me tentative, scared & weird
But it’s not as bad as you might've feared
I’m just rising up 'cause I've acted good enough
To the place where the captain's ship last veered

So, I might have something cool to tell:
I’m practicing breaking out from spell
The one that was cast over me
when a small kid beside the well.

That makes me my own keeper
Of an incredible secret bet
That I’ve long avoided telling
But if I don’t, I will regret.

Because it wasn’t the kind of secret
I promised to always keep
And save & take to my grave 
When it becomes the time to sleep.

& since I'm still here breathing
Despite the illness I am grieving
I'll start to let the secret out
Even though I'm still caught in doubt.

I was tagged, or lightly tapped--
I was enchanted & told to dance--
bewitched by the magic music man
And made to fly the long distance.

And even if you don’t believe me
It makes no halting difference now
I once danced and flew
So I'd know how

and so I'd wait inside the stall
For the signal
For the call
like the one that came before the fall.

Which is why I'm preparing
to perform 
something different
from the norm.

I'll play as I've done
for the fly on the wall
to repeat the scene
without the fall.

The four years spent writing
The Journal of My Change
Trying to determine
Whether I was deranged...

Was I psychologically damaged?
Had my mind somehow split?
Was I turned into a rabbit,
Or a wild horse unfit?

I've decided that I am unsane
Like Mr Michael Pollan's book
about how we might
rewire our brains

Because I seem to go where
None others want to go
To put on a wild 
And curative show

Why?  Well, why not?
I've never seen
Anyone attempt 
To be the coda queen

And I-- for one--
feel like I understand 
how the elaborate plans
look like a blues-printed woman.

But none need to read it,
Unless they appreciate words
And the story about why
I want to prove the absurd.

There’s always been a voice
Guiding me in my head.
And right now it keeps reminding me
That too soon I’ll be dead.

And the book that now keeps
The secrets of my stages
Is scattered and distraught
In ranting pages of rages—

But, don’t you see?
This is how it must be
Someone must respond
To the prompt to get set free

Into a scene where music's not
a devalued commodity,
But something to be unveiled, 
That heals all who can see

The truth of the matter
Is It's Spirituality
Because music is proof
That it’s not about what we see

As much as what we can hear
If we listen carefully.

DO THE WORK
Demands the force
Don’t try to coerce

DO THE WORK
just because
It's better, of course

The window-washing
Wherever social stains lurk

Good people, you’re out there
Here me saluting you-
You’ve done a ton of work
that deserve celebrations, too

While flag-ravers go out shouting
And stabbing lines in the sand
The rest of us are building platforms
Upon which Truth can stand. 

So— I know it sounds crazy
To say our art’s not for sale
While artistry is starving
Enduring the storming pale gale—

But musical friends,
I’m only part- MAD
You know, our music is priceless
So, how do we sustain the loves that we've had?

Everyone can feel
The storm that's approaching
And what’s real will soon to show
How to turn from reproaching

This materialistic society 
Has conjured a mean spell
Pitting artist against artist
In a wild duel to fell--

That capitalist plan
Seeks to secure
A way of controlling
Thoughts that are pure

So they divide us & compare us
And evaluate our gifts
And award us with prizes
To insure destructive emotional rifts

If that is what you want
If that is why you play
You can keep your fucking Grammys
I’d rather live and just stay

On my path walking to the curious sublime
Penning for freedom's sake each day, cursed to combine
Words that sound unique and new when they commit crime
With sentiments of centuries engraved in elegant marble signs

The only thing is to DO IT
While being true to the spirit
That conjures truth out of madness
With soft boldness to cure it

We are advised
To just trust the process
To keep making our meaning
Out of our musical faucets

Our naturally intelligent means 
will surpass
Any artificial trashy
semblance of grass

Some like that turf 
That is plastic and green
I prefer the surf
And how the wave breaks to clean

The shore in every moment
The ocean shows its heaving breath--
It reveals every reason 
To rejoice until death.

Will death do us part,
Or is death just the start?
I’m starting to believe
It’s the ancestors who’ll relieve

Because the spirit world feels more real
each day that feeling grows stronger--
Pay attention to how Nature shows us
This is the way* to last longer

Not through stealings and dealings
Not through division and spite
But through true love’s revealings
And just doing what's bright

I almost said ‘right’
But that word’s too loaded 
It’s meaning has been distorted 
For the beasts of our leasts, sadly devoted.

Language shouldn't be mistreated
nor twisted to change
Truth into fictions 
Calling what’s beautiful just: strange

Strange— yes, that’s me
I’m not a rare beauty
I’m a little too weird
To be anybody's ashen celebrity

I speak like the Lorax
Because I believe in the tree
And how it directs us to look upward
To the immense galaxy.

Some people won’t grasp
At the lines that I cast
But for those who do,
I’ve got a gift just for you

And it’s worth 
more
Than money, 
I’ll swear it
It's my own form of rock
Unpriced 'cause 
I’m just here to share it,
so-- go ahead-- knock
on the door of my mind
tell me your story
And we'll conjure something kind

I’m not a fool
I know that money’s still the tool
To empower the powerless
To provide more than gruel

So, how about this...
It would be my bliss
To write you a song
to release like a blown kiss

Everyone has a blues story
Because that's our through-line
I'm ready to hear yours
And I'm gonna share mine.

I know we all have some blues 
we can share
Mine started a two with 
A wild jump-scare.

So, I’ll be turning out my tellings
and making some products
Whether you find them compelling
or like the smell of old sawdust

I’ll be developing the show
I've always played in my mind
So-- join the subscriber chat 
if you're the curious kind.

And if you’re savvy, 
come climb up my stalk-
I was the caterpillar
That chewed on classic rock.

So I've designed plans for 
The Blue Butterfly Studio 
Where artists can dream up
Better sounds than we already know

This Silicon Chrysalis will be
Built of mud and hay-straw
It will be set up in a place that weathers
The freeze and the thaw

It’ll be the new room where it happens–
That’s true, Mr. Miranda, 
And you can rent it for producing
Shows inspired upon my veranda

The view from this place
Fills the hearty with grace
And you can buy some time to deliver
That which flows with your pace

Of course, I’ll need to build it soon–
But build it I will
Sound-proof, fire-proof, net-zero
warming up beside the deep windowsill 

And the windows will be clean
The doors won’t hang from their hinges 
And there will be a performance space-- 
a stage-- dressed with curtains and fringes.

So, now starts the churning
For the business of my learnings
And I’m prepared to work hard 
for earning by finally turning

Out—

To force my strangest fantasy
Out of my head
And to see if my magic 
Can conjure some bread

This rant serves as the first cant
That can support my wild dreams
And begin to build the structure 
Of my posts with wooden beams

Filled with straw bales
Then slathered with clay
With a floor just for killing
‘Cause that’s just how I play. 

I offer this entry–
I submit this building's master plan
With the belief that the universe
Knows– somehow–  I can. 

What... a white kid wants to sing the blues?
That's some outdated, out-of-touch, out-cast kind of news...
But, Sir... give me a chance.
I was the one who heard the ghost say "yeah-- DANCE!"


(Rocks For Sale... bring your own pail...)



If anyone is still reading... 

An Unopenned, Unfree Verse 
To: The Tin Canned Man* 
For words offering better
Than all we've heard he's rehearsed.

Everyone knows who I mean... but note: I don't call him by name anymore... not because I fear him, but because I'm a well-trained behavior technician and it is a powerful tool in our cabinetry to deny attention-seekers any attention by employing the tactic of Planned Ignoring. I started calling him Mr. Former a while ago because the Russian intervention in the 2016 campaign secured his initial win and evidence has emerged that the 2024 election was fraught with criminal activity... so, no... he's just not ever been elected in a 'free and fair' manner. He's nobody's president in my alter's reality.

To: The Tin Canned Man

Whipping up a shit-storm
To sell it in a jar--
Gripping at your throne
Relieving yourself of tar--

Slapping labels on tin cans
With artificial text...
Something smells in Denmark
And it’s signaling what’s next.

Forcing unbound narratives
Delivered by your spies
We’re not as stupid as we look
And we don’t believe your lies.

You can try to go to market 
All that shit that’s in your can--
You can dream up catchy lines
And become shits-jingle man--

But I’m someone who cannot hear
Any evil that you say
My filter sifts your garbage out
And burns it every day.

You won’t be oh-so-powerful
When the currents switch in schools;
Eddies swirl the fish to show
How Time has played the fools

No, you can’t sell me any shit 
that’s jarred in your heady can--
I don’t buy no counterfeit!
From the crumpled tin-canned man. 

The future human currency
Will not honor greed
What builds up futures' wealth is Love
Because truer Truth serves what we need. 

And it's not about the things you gain;
It's about the things you do--
Far be it for me to 'splain
Such wild concepts to you.

I used to have some empathy
--thought you’d never known true love--
But you’ve had time and opportunity
And still deny the dove.

So, it’s clear— you aren’t the one
Who can fix the jam we’re in.

So I’ll make up my own kind of jam
And revise the script to win.  

Subscribe now

Join the blue butterfly mission

Walking through Grand Central

With a sense of business in the air

People, hustle- bustle - busy with suiting up their cares

I hear a sound issued from a bench 

Between the stairs

Electric jazz guitarist, gently preaching something rare

I drift around, unhurried. 

I’m lifted by the his riffs, his shares

The singular melody is free

Finer than the jeweler’s wares of fancy and

Less than free

She sets her stand in the center stage on the way to rails

People pause and flick their tails

Don’t they know?

It’s the the guitar

adding value to her jar.

To things we’ve seen

Dressed down queens

while floating notes declare

Thoughts intern

“This is a moment, take it now—

Hear the music and feel its wow”

He sits playing his exceptional piece

He should be playing bills for Carnegie’s niece

He should be standing soon to take his bow

The concert hall’s empty so he answers his call Playing among hasty footfalls and screams-

Toddlers wanting some other’s dreams

I put a bill into his cup, 

but there’s not enough there

To lift him up. 

Scenes like these make me incurable sad

For the love of humanity we could have had

Most people prefer sweet, shiny things

While I whistle to me 

Internally 

& to the muse of brighter kings. 

And I thought I’d been so clever

For a girl that’s dragging clover

Stuck it seems

To the seams of jeans

I clicked the QR code

So I could send the man my thanks

But unfortunately for him and me

The code led to a list of banks

and its unlikely

That I’ll ever see

That same man by the shoeshine stand

Filling the station’s cup

Musically

So I’m stacking this little note away—

In a post for love of music’s Joy—

I doubt he’ll find what I would say

If I weren’t so unable to drop the mask

And tell him how the dice were cast..

And how I heard him preach today.

He said ‘thank you’ when I put a note in the pail 

Without missing a beat, his fingers sailed

Along the strings for invisible wings

Thought-kites where a zephyr 

Plays to avail and lift us up from

Our stormy blues

To hear some jazz

Played for fools.

Now I’m sitting in the park

And the music plays

And I’m wiser now

Because I’ll make sure I get the artists’ code

They, like poets, offer a different mode

Of traveling throughout a life

With serenades and serrated knife 

Here I sit and take a slice

Of living simply & feelin’ nice. 

I found this drummer—

Take my advice:

https://m.youtube.com/@kyohey_jazz_newyork9319?fbclid=PAQ0xDSwKux8pleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABpxuk-gFPAUuWdfagaVIMgvkOoDjcamC-vm9rnTDnYoIpSwe4niv7505v55e8_aem_Am-cEvkGSIc7QfUuGUXOFQ

as related in a new song, my first with vocals

for you

Maybe pause and listen.

It’s a philosopher’s rock— or philosophers rock!— works with

or without

the apostrophe

If you think it’s a different genre,

fine by me.

I’m just trying to set my

Internalized metaphor

Free.

Share

https://open.spotify.com/album/4jsRcR8J8JtsM3mMGBZe7K?si=AbzRM4wTQ3GuO-vAGxWbkA

I worked with young children on the spectrum for fourteen months. A career educator and I learned more about how to find balance within from a child that stacked large lego blocks on their sides— un-clicked, insecure— until they were towers revealing a wiser kind of pride. It was my job to teach him how to speak. I managed to train him to say “up” when he couldn’t reach the top of his tower and looked to me for support. This child ‘asked’ me to write a poem for him last month. I thought it would be fitting for the poetry contest inviting entries around building each other up. It’s not a winner. I’m too much sinner. But— some might also recognize the internal cadence of a self-restrained internal singer.

To Build Us Up!

I once knew a beautiful boy
I was his guide, in brief employ--

ment meant to teach him well--
to help him navigate, to help him tell,

But all he knew; he knew it all; 
I witnessed in his stacks, so tall.

This child has a special gift
For balancing every block he'd lift.

After completing the tasks set by me
I'd reward with his favorite opportunity

To do the thing he loved most of all:
To stack blocks to build up towers tall.

His eyes were bright with keen insight;
This child warmed with his inner light.

It gave me joy to watch him work,
seeking balance with wink and smirk.

And as I watched this maturity
In a boy so small-- he was barely three--

I learned that the lessons I tried to give
Were not all the things he needed to live,

But as his guide, I was to teach him how
To connect more than blocks, to be here, right now.

But when those beautiful eyes met mine
He taught me how to become aligned.

Without the words I tried to teach
This child taught me with non-verbal speech.

He'd look to me with his open heart
And I heard quite clearly: "I build up art!"

With every block, each unlinked lego
He showed me all I need to know.

Without a word, his intention clear, 
"I'm building you up, so you can steer!

Take my advice when you must go
And teach the World all they need to know!"

So it was 

with unspoken, non-verbal messaging skills
that this boy has filled my silent tills with trills

And now that I'm all stacked up with glee
I feel the urge rising up in me
To build the world up differently 

If I may, if you please
If we could drop to our knees

And listen for the words not said
Because it’s not silent in their head

Some have powers the mundane can’t know
And it’s not strange how the thoughts that flow

We have new creative ways to build us now,
and the silent ones can show us how. 

Grateful for technology
That gives a hint of telepathy

Because we text the things we think
And send them off as we sink

Into our rhythms of the day
That keep our feet bound to the clay.

But some don’t need any charged device
They just can connect without thinking twice 

They go to gather— intelligently 
In a safe place where we can’t see—

But that’s the only space where they can be
Free to chat with minds set free

And freed from the binding boundaries,
The presumptions of those that just can’t see

That their minds aren’t disordered,
But beautifully ordered

To read much more 
than the message on the door

When they are rocking
Stop your gawking

They are channeling Love,
So let them be


start to sing for a silent, 
wise and beautiful boy.

Hello anyone interested out there—

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

This is one of my early digital audio warehouse creations. It was mixed by Pete Widin of oatpodmusic.com earlier this year. I’m developing lyrics for it, so this recording is in phase two of development. When the words are ready, the song will enter another stage of growth— which might be live, or recorded in my home studio, or a podcast, or a file for a chapter in an audio book. 

Can You See Me?

Share

Subscribe now

If you like, you can pre-save the release on streaming services, coming soon:

https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/morphothebutterfly/growlin---

Please let me know if the links work.

Thanks for listening!

https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/morphothebutterfly/growlin---