Wednesday, November 30, 2022

Walking Man

 

 

 

WALKING MAN                                                                                                         Art: Elektra Buhalis                                      

                                                                                                                                            

 


he loved to dance
his bear his wolf his walking man
feet pounding red red road for all he’s worth
his cries rang out to Spirit

born of man and woman he craved the dancing path
to Light
his anguish translated made us laugh                                        
his body honed to hardness
his wit like sword that always cut through bullshit
his Magic
O, his Magic!
mystified across the veil between the worlds
he brought us the unknown
with laughter and with songs

he loved to dance
his snake his eagle his walking man
he pounded earth as if on oaken door
begging entrance to the deep
dark caverns we never knew existed, only he

he loved to dance
his dew-tipped grasses his clacking leaves his walking man
he cried of love and loss the way that all clowns do
through their great pain and sorrow
he surrendered to the Dance and then
this walking man
walked on

 

© 2022 pamela twining

 **Jogger John (John Joseph Synan; Jackie 2 his fam & friends) died on 11/26/22 (the day b4 my birthday 😭) John was one  of the Most Beloved people i/we have ever known or had living amongst us in Woodstock... Ever! I believe he would have been 80 on his next birthday.

i came to Woodstock in July of 1973 & tho i didn't meet him right away, i did come in contact w him through my close friend Morning Star. John was living w her then & i believe he even Named (or contributed to Naming) her first child Andromeda Raindance, and later her son Alpha Centauri Raindance. After a time, he went on his way, living rough for awhile, running through the mountain forests using the old trails & railroad routes all grown over w trees coming up between the ties & displacing the rails. He knew every pathway in the woods every trail every bramble-clogged tunnel every cave. He knew how to survive on his own but the people of the town who Loved him dearly would always give him coffee or a sandwich. He swept and raked and cleaned up Everywhere on the streets of Woodstock and if you didn't see him Sweeping or Raking, you might find him Dancing in the village green or running Backwards up the mountain often singing. He called me "Dancer" and he'd always come dancing through when i danced at the green or at Sha Wu's, engage for a few minutes then dance away, smiling and twirling. His pirouettes were Legendary! 

He was So Proud & Happy when he got his apartment, subsidized housing behind the Bradley Meadows shopping plaza. He could Stay Clean! He could display his Art! There was a short film made about him several years ago: "First Name: Jogger, Last Name: John", a very good short documentary w some of his friends speaking up. I Think I heard that someone's planning another installment.

We're All Super Sad that he's Walked On, but he was a Beautiful Person to know!

 

 

Tuesday, November 29, 2022

everywoman

 

 

                                

                                                                                                                  Enheduanna

                                     

i am every woman

who ever wrapped her legs around you

from the first time you entered

the long halls of women’s mystery                                                                                                             

from the first time your shaft strained

into the wet darkness

from the first time your hands

touched the sensitive skin

of tiny points not yet suckled

 

from the time you found first love

and made her your longtime love

the legalities answered the children forthcoming

the lovemaking lovemaking always ecstatic

calling the lightning and thunder down

reaching the cosmos with cries pierced with light

and all those long years now withered

once so bright and passionate

the sweet fruits of your loins all grown gone away

but always the young days live bright in your heart

and the mother the mother can never be forgotten

 

i am all women All women

the one night stands

the grrl chosen at the party

the one fucked in the car

because neither of you could wait

the one who fell in love when she shouldn’t have

the one who wanted only and only and only

to please you

the one who never made it

never took you inside her

because she misunderstood

and always regretted it

 

the one who held you prisoner for years

inside the web of her gossamer golden beauty

who tore at your heart and skipped ever away

capricious and cold

caught in an endless game

 

the one who answered your boyness

climbed to the top of the world with you

held you hard between her young thighs

and gave you the next ethereal vision

the one who held you so deeply

the orgasms expanded into space

at a fingertip’s touch

 

the ones who filled up your emptiness

filled in your sadness

with small moments of laughter lost again and again

in the caverns of heartbreak

 

the one whose poetic heart called

to the deepest places of language

where your magic lightning touch of words

struck sparks

in the universe of longings

the one who never knew never appreciated

till almost too late

how much you are, were, will be

 

all women your words have inflamed

with desire for what, they may not even know

every woman

whose molten heart feels the scream of your love

penetrating into her core

the place where poetry lives

 

i am the one you dreamed of

stared into the bedazzled night sky looking for

in midnights of the spirit when you cried “Nevermore!”

the one who sees the universe in your eyes

as you pound home lathered and breathless

from another hard ride

another journey into the depths

the heart of the forest where all secrets lie

 

the wine of our love

fully aged and delicious

drunk from the bottomless chasms of time

your essence inside me

the profound poetry of your ardor

pulses to the rhythms of thousands of years

vanished, but never lost

 

© 2013 pamela twining