Come in under

Connecting to the soul energy in my handful of dust.

Burial of the Dead

T.S. Eliot

“There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock.)

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust. (9)”

“Fearing the shadow that strides behind us before the noon of life is as natural as fearing the shadow rising to meet us in the evening.

What is different in the fear that Eliot is describing is the pervading sense of loss in so many people in our twentieth-century wasteland- loss so deep that the vital spark goes out, leaving a hollow shell. Patriarchy is crumbling.

The values that were taken for granted for centuries are being questioned as we watch our raped planet wither under the pressure of acid rain, toxic waste, overpopulation.

We can choose to tyrannize our inner victims and deny our fear, as millions of addicts are doing, or we can try to connect to the soul energy in our handful of dust.

Oppressed peoples around the globe are hearing their inner victims and fighting for their freedom in whatever way they can.”

Pg. 121 Lover can you Spare a Dime? The Ravaged Bridegroom, Masculinity in Women. Marion Woodman

#marionwoodman

I like to find fabrics with lovely colors and designs. I place them around my home. Sometimes the cats sleep on the material of red or golden.

Sometimes I hang the fabric material on my windows, as this textured sunflower pattern, to see the numinous wonder of light and shadow patterns playing on the opposite side of the wall.

The Saints Are Touring Again.

Punk Poem by Hudley April /2020

A great dream last night

Those best feelings

of hanging with your favorite band

Touring as they were

Family and friends were nearby

Chris Bailey was sweet

His lovely sly grin shone my way

as he looked at me

a rich heavy Irish accent

formed few words

“I’ll see ya tomorrow!” I said.

Adoringly glowing a depth of love

and mutual respect

John and I left the band

until tomorrow’s show.

We walked by waving

At Nathan Jones

We walked by a

large window coffee shop on the Blvd.

There Ed Kuepper sat alone.

Having a cup of coffee and a smoke.

Standing in front of a backstage club,

I looked at the band’s list.

Many names flew by

Under crew – stage

I saw Holly Cornell.

John pointed it out

Feeling a joy

Only a favorite band

could give ya

We will be there

early tomorrow.

To help and see the band.

Hearts Buoyant

To U.S. Representative for California’s 28th congressional district Adam Schiff

 I see an illuminated bright  five pointed star Over the emotional ocean Of black and greasy-greedy oil The light moving upon this darkness  Wavering leaps of sparkling exuberance.  This star ascends  as the current below moves  like the waves of a darkened  Depressed ocean.   Shall we focus on the star  For the exuberance is like A cleaning soap A detergent affirming justice  The Eagle is scrubbed clean.  I see an illuminated bright  five pointed star   I hear the waves of the ocean  Calling to break the Eagle clean.  Returns the rhythm to the rogue waves I see justice there   hearts are buoyant  Upon that black and greasy-greedy oil awareness and mindfulness The Eagle is scrubbed clean!

My heavenly shower

  My heavenly shower is a sacred place of hot, warm or cold water.  It is there for me in worst of times bones ache and chills of fever cleaning a dark soul quality away.  I sing, talk and compose there I talk to my medicine animals there and say my prayers.  It is an old shower with a whacked head yet the water cleans me inside and out my holy shower that sings me sweet words.

The Nasty woman is me

The Nasty Woman

“In his late works , he embodied these and other ills in the nightmare ridden figure of the cosmic giant Albion, or universal humanity, who has fallen in to deadly sleep of mundane existence. In humanity’s coma, the divine is a remote and forbidding sky-god: nature a sterile heap of atoms, lovers and family members, enemies; and one’s own innermost being, an unrecognized alien.”

~Blake’s Poetry & Designs ` A Norton Critical Edition.

Smörgåsbord of words and feelings… some very nasty…. like me.

I realize I am being confrontational, nasty, and outrageous. It is that two-week time as we move into the autumnal equinox. I hate this time of transition, but I love autumn.

Today I had to get gas on the way to where I was going. This local gas station charged me a 30 cents gas fee. Yet this is the normal way to skim the top and make a lot of money off millions of poor people. I remember when gas stations had attendants pour the gas, check the oil, and fill the car tires. It was service with a smile.

I wish one of these monster gas companies would be brave and bring the service attendants back. They could collect the cash and we could give them the service charge… instead of a fucking machine.

Every time we take away a person’s job and replace them with a machine, we become less human.

I went into the mini-market and the cashier, who seemed to be acting as an employee, knew nothing about the fee and said,

“I don’t know why you are asking about it. You are the only one that cares? No one else has asked about it.”

I looked at her silently and squarely.

“You should know about it and all the things around you here. I must pay a fee and it is dirty filthy outside around the gas tanks. I remember the day…”

A man came forward and interrupted our conversation and the cashier looked away.

“Excuse us,” I said.

“We are talking.”

I used a finger to point to the cashier and me.

“Grumble,” said the man under his breath.

I left, telling the cashier she should lose her job for not knowing anything.

Then I came home to find standing outside my home a strange older man smoking a cigarette.

“Are you waiting for someone,” I said.

“No.”

“Then why did you park here?”

The street had no other cars around. He then looked up at the tree. I then asked him to please move his car I needed to park our truck there. He seemed nice enough for not having a reason for being there besides smoking a cigarette. We talked back and forth.

“We have had issues with drug dealers around here.”

He soon left and I moved the truck out. I know I was being ridiculous. I thought it strange that he would get out of his car with his cell phone in hand to smoke a cigarette under our lovely olive tree. I did say to him.

“I don’t like the smell of cigarettes and I am sure the tree doesn’t either.”

I think upon a poem I wrote.

Any time of the year but now it is moving into the Autumn poem.

Green-gold olives

This eve

I take my broom

Last ray of sun is dead here

…it is real…

The shy clouds hide stars

Only the Moon, Jupiter and Saturn shine their breast plates.

Of radiant light…

I take my broom to the front of our home

into the dustpan goes

Dry brown and yellow

Pointy olive leaves and hard green-gold olives…

Into the waste bin…

away away.

Goes all the thoughts of this day

Of a wooing Crone…

Looking around as I sweep and bend

For any Fay to show their haunting ways

In the clouds sailing on the night or

Upon the grasping arms of the olive tree.

Queen of Elphame mocks me

As I move quickly and consistently,

I call her Sabrina…

How symbolic have I become?

Wild movement… yet strangely calm.

Sweet sweat dripping

My dusty perfume…

I do as many an old Crone

Sweeping clean the front of their home

At this transforming time.

Today I am a nasty one..

Three little…

I have three books
before me
The Three Little Pigs,
The Three Little Kittens,
The Three Bears.
How many times did I read the books
to my two sons as babies?

I may come out with a little book
called The Three Little Praying Mantis.

Jaded Poem

A little around the edges

A spinning energy in my middle

Older and wiser and stronger

Less inspired by adolescent rantings!

So I want to write and read aloud

I want to travel and ponder the meaning of life.

Mary’s Special Place

I worked for the Visiting Nurse Association as a Home Health Aide in Santa Cruz California back in 1991. I enjoyed helping the elderly, sick and crippled. I comforted them and attended to their simple needs of washing, food, and medicine. I loved their stories they shared. Most of my patients were in their 90s and their lifetimes were filled with a richness that I yearned for. They shared their stores with me.

I will share a story of Mary. She was alone in her parents’ home. A beautiful Victorian home near the shores of Santa Cruz. Only one room was used for Mary. All the other rooms, which were many, were closed off. The stairs that went to her room were something out of the novel Gone with The Wind. And to the right of these majestic stairs was a giant Ballroom with a crystal chandelier where Mary told me her stories. In the room where she lived was a single bed and a small bathroom with bath. On the wall was a painting of a lovely sailing ship. The painting was of her father’s ship. It was a family ship. She told me that she came from a sea family. It was a merchant family business.

As the times changed her family and Mary took to living on the land. She was born and raised on a ship. She knew the ocean well. Standing on ground was difficult for her as a young lady. Eventually she married. Santa Cruz was a cowboy town at the time. She told me one night when her husband made his usual advances towards her. She declined and fell asleep. He went off to the bars to sleep with a prostitute. He gave Mary gonorrhea and after that she could not have any children. It took some time, but she forgave him.

This is a poem about Mary and our walk to her special place. She told me that the wild animals that lived there sometimes would pop up in her toilet. Small rats, squirrels and lizards would sometimes appear. It did not look all that bad to me. Yet, I can only imagine how it once was.

Mary, We Call You Near

We walked our way

To the stream

Down a short

Wood green.

Marking our way

Me with my little red hat

Mary with her special cane

To a faerie glen

Perchance we glance

To see one of ‘em-

Of course,

Mary Would be reciting

A lit’bit of Kipling’s.

Arriving then

I sat upon

The concrete tunnel there-

Mary stood proudly

Above my stare

A lassie quite young

That only time

Be’a steal’n years from.

A stream did run here

Once very free

Now the community has grown

A lot of concrete

Be surrounding

The stream’s old home

Controlling the flow

Which was once surely

More freely flow’n-

Now the stream runs

Past wood and green

And homes to the ocean shore.

Mary and I listen

To the green trickling

Of the eternal water go

I looked up

to see Mary’s face a shine’n

Like the sun

Full of wisdom and love

Lots of hopeful youth too.

old Irish Drinking Song…

A restoring appeal…

After the Woolsey Fire Dec. 17, 2018

A restoring appeal bound for
the Santa Monica Mountains
The highway moves by way of serpentine.

Black mountains and summative clarity of once
Overgrown trees and sage,
Wild Promethean fennel and yucca plants.

Fog embraces
The black burned earth hills
Holy sprinkles of rain upon the concealed seeds.

Reading from Chapbook, An Underground Bard.

Someone asked me if I was a poet. I said no I am a filmmaker. Yet in truth I am a poet, an underground bard.

While sitting at Kaiser Hospital a man asked me if I was a Poet.

I had on my “Fear the Poet” T-Shirt which I received from the Professor and students from Whittier College with a card after giving a talk about Punk Rock.

I told the man I am an underground bard, Poet. Then he said,

“What happens when you are no longer underground.”

I did not answer him.

Yet I think often upon his question.

I am content.

Reading link

Summer [27 Anniversary] Poem #2



Would you could you
travel miles and miles
for delicious deep-fried
artichoke hearts?

I wanna go to Castervile CA
and eat some deep-fried
artichoke hearts
with spicy mayonnaise.

Near the lovely coastal region
close to Moss Landing,
a fucking pint at The Whole Enchilada
with a shot of hot vodka
with my anniversary man.

Take a walk on the beach
Smell the garlic in the air
mixed with the salty smell of tide pools
under the earthy breaths of
golden-green eucalyptus trees.

Lovely multicolored Monarch butterfly 
sweet bites of yellow-white 
lemon margarine pie
Pacific Grove embraces
never-ending waves
breathless roller coaster rides.

Summer Poem # 1

My oasis
And cave.

Not reaching out
But reaching within.

Agathos daimon holds my heart
Humidity holds me back.

“Coninuctio” “in mercurio”
Planting seeds
Which do not ripen.

Outside my oasis
Seeds dry in the heat.

Inside the cave
I listen to Mercurius speak.

“The desires of the mind
Will take you nowhere.”

As a friend of friends

Urania is talking to Uranus
Ambassador to the planets and stars
She calls to Earth
As a friend of friends,
Catalyst of goodness and humor,
to Uranus ascending electric magma
Eccentric insect antenna muses
Human Beings 
To be the best 
we can be.

In Return

Receptive, illumination and synchronicity,

I’m a wise old blooming flower, waiting to be pollinated,

I’m receptive to what I shall become, Let life approach me,

I do not have to go seeking,

I have all I need to succeed, I’m a beautiful rose,
wise, good and ready.
I can be trusted,

I follow things through, I speak my mind,

Let the spirit of god / goddess, move over my deep dark waters.
Receptive as an open flower.

Now, waiting for life to impregnate me.

“The Rose makes honey.”

Promethean fennel

The wild fennel is growing in my garden,

From the Santa Monica Mountains,

Only a few seeds thrown around my land,

From the staff-sheath that I have,

Near my hearth.

My wild Promethean fennel,

Smells of licorice and earth,

Feels like numinous beats,

Waves from the coastal region,

Myths revealing through my soul.

Prometheus freed by Chiron,

Fire consumes my heart,

Compassionate green healing,

Of my mind and dreams,

Love will grow tall and strong

My wild Promethean fennel.

The flourishing membrane


Thalia (/θəˈlaɪə/; Ancient Greek: Θάλεια, Θαλία;

"the joyous, the flourishing"

Breaking through 
Breaking through the membrane
Of turning 60
Letting go of
Youth, maidenhood and giving birth
Entering the world
Of crones and seniors with purple-grey hair.

Wise witches who stand
By old dark shedding trees
they sweep the cobwebs away
My repellent membrane.

Holding me back
Calls of youth, music, and romance
Death must be a friend
Calm and gentle friends
It’s my heart I worry about!

Will my tenacity be strong enough
To make It through the membrane
Will I be whisked up
By my elder ancestors?

My hands that look like grandmother’s
My need for love, friendship and companionship
Will I take my magic with me
The golden thread that brings meaning to old age?

Mystery, adventure, humor and longing
Will these qualities still inspire me
As my muses tease
Will my muses be waiting for me 
On the other side as I wrestle 
With this dark and flourishing membrane?

A Gift from Saturn

As Saturn moves from Pisces to Aries,

They say Saturn leaves us gifts…

This poem is an active imagination I had a few years back.

The inner world of a writer

often goes deep.

Into the world of our psyches.

We also reach high into the sky.

As we watch the Pleiades and Orion’s Belt

above us these winter nights.

As we walk our magical walks.

This is only one gift I remember well,

Many more gifts since.

We all need Saturn’s gifts.

Brightening our days.

I hope you find yours too!

I am leaning Saturn’s

Continuance.

Winged centaur

Invisible sounding hooves

Upon the backyard cement.

Lifted me upon his back

We flew through

The rain, clouds, and satellites

Rounding the earth.

Straight and fast towards

Saturn’s castle

He is to give me a gift.

I have waited upon the words

Of Buffalo yesterday and today.

“Today Saturn will give

You a gift… today today!”

I waited and wondered

Tonight, as I watch the hearth fire

I heard the call towards Saturn

As before …

I rode over frozen land

Blue ice and white paths

Overall, we flew

centaur’s wings outstretched

Gracefully I slip off the centaur.

I walked towards the big door

Dark but when opened

Filled with light and beings

Those who lived there

Those who were visiting like me.

An earthling’s visits are often short

Saturn, I found

Up the golden spiral staircase.

Waiting with a smile

And comfortable charm.

Saturn gave me a gift

A green box

Asking me

Not to open it now.

Wait until I am home

And place it over the fire

On your hearth,

The gift will reveal

Itself to you.

My journey home was fast

I made a space upon my hearth

Above the fire

Then turning to look out the window.

The wet outdoors

From a cold rain

Found me hoping

For a drop of cymene.

Of the ascending centaur

Glissading and glistening

Away from my soul through the rain

Under a full peeking moon.

Saturn told me

To write a poem about the green box

A gift from him

And so, I have.

Third Winter Wonderland Poem

An event to read and talk

I got lost

I woke up encrusted with “how could Is?”

Lost I found myself fishing my dream

finishing my dream in waking time

awake with a cup of coffee

kitty on my lap.

The large ten-inch-long lizard

3-inch width creature

still reminds me that

it might still be at my front door.

It’s encrusted skin of scales

as it pushed against the rosemary bush

and the lights in the night sky

after the crescent moon set.

Winter is cold

family wants to sleep

more food and coffee

studies, words and protesting.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/encrusted/

Second Winter Wonderland Poem, Saturn and Chiron and Beyond

Astronomical, astrological, metaphysical ~ trinity. Saturn: Time, Philyra: Form and Chiron: Solar egg sack.

It seems that people
are talking about…

Saturn on steroids
since ascending
to the high land of his home.
As Capricorn alerts the master !

Chiron to take on the power
A healing of this shadowy world …
much more beyond our knowing.

I am not worried
because of my years of
friendship with Saturn and Chiron

Education and evaluation
I am stimulated with wonder and energy.

Keeping myself grounded
becoming impassioned with life.

Philyra or Phillyra (/ˈfɪlərə/: Ancient Greek: Φιλύρα means “linden-tree“) is the name of three distinct characters in Greek mythology. Philyra, an Oceanid and mother by Cronus of Chiron. Philyra, one of the names given to the wife of Nauplius, who was the father of Palamedes, Oiax and Nausimedon.

First Winter Wonderland Poem, Neptune in Cancer!



I was thinking how Crones,
older women,
are not as influenced
by the cycles of the Moon!

I look back over
my feminine life
Seeing how unconsciously
I was driven.

Influenced by the phases
of the Moon,
my powerfully changing hormones!
Best described as chemical slavery.

A female body
a lunar ebb and flow alignment
with the continuity of our Moon!
I now see it also as a partial 
cultural brainwashing where; 
sex, power, and self-worth, 
is somehow all tied together!

Yes, Crones have desires 
needs of love and intimacy
I have come to experience
Crones are no longer ruled
by the cycles of the Moon
or our hormones!

There is the higher octave
of the Moon,
known as planet Neptune 
dancing with the astrological 
sign of Cancer
I join in this brightly aware dance!

The flutter of hormones 
emotional ways become silent
to the constant
moving river of insight!

For Crones
our external beauty wanes
our internal beauty waxes
as a luminous pearl
I embrace my pearl.

Consciously I slough off
many burdensome illusions
This is the correct time
An ongoing relationship
Between psyche and the cosmos.