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Musician and Activist devoted to Justice, Creativity, and Courage


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The Mystery Still – an Epic Po-wer-em

(This poem I will put to music  – I am feeling an irish-haunting and playful sound of old..)  Listen to the poem, follow along with the lyrics below.  ❤

They used to call that old white lightnin “moonshine” in these hills

How many lips have uttered those words; family ties it breaks and kills

Strawberry, apple pie or dark cherry kinds

But I found a new flavor my fingers, my heart longed to find

 

Paid heed to the unanswered questions I spent too much time tryin to answer

Somewhere down the line I met a Spirit, and she bade me to release her

She gave me the keys to an old wooden shed

Her hair was long and dark, she was only 3 and her granddad’s hair was red

 

She came from the deep, A dark despair trail of loneliness

She rose up from the ashes and held me through the hunger and distress

In that shed, she showed me the silver, copper and gold

she Showed me the jewels inside me, ones I thought I couldn’t hold

 

She said the way it works is like this,

“You fill it up here and it makes a little hiss,

What you put in it is who you’ve been

What comes out that Mystery Still is your destiny, my friend”

 

The Mystery Still, a belly full of unknown

Stands in that shed just waiting to be blown

Up inside, all the ingredients are there

“You just gotta believe” she said, “in yourself, if you dare”

 

I’ll show you the way cause you couldn’t even see

No matter how hard you tried, that Spirit… What will be will be

“and that’s the magic” she said to me

“Of sacred mysteries that come from pain and grief”

 

To know her name, down this path you must go

Of surrender and sorrow and even joy you can know

This still don’t make moonshine, but the moon glows here still

Upon deep waters, wet and a tear-stained two dollar bill

 

The birds are all calling and cannot be boxed in

Your dreams are free and aloof, just like the wind

Ask for them to come and to you they will find

Their way through the core, the ground, from the mines

 

The caves you dug a long time ago

Were dug by the same shovel that now makes you glow

This girl, she smiled, as I sat down in awe

Bowed my head in silence, in reverence; I had no flaws

 

Suddenly I was Sacred, and when I drank from that still

realized I’d learned the hard way, then she screamed, her voice hard and shrill

“your mantle, your fireside, your magic, I live inside.

You must often stoke the fire and feed me” she cried

 

“You never are done, don’t think you’ve made it

Each day, remember to keep the bright flame lit

Don’t let it go out, else you’ll have to start over

An axe to this still… and your spirit sinks lower”

 

Out of reach, out of time, out of luck, out of rhymes

Just put back on your skates and roll outside all the lines

You’re still is your own,

Every seed you have sewn

 

Waits and yearns for your return

Build another fire to burn

If you still don’t know what this still is about

Think of a soul, longing to get out

 

As in distill, intoxicate your beautiful self

Drink the mystery of what is, take it down off the shelf

You open a portal and let Spirit in

Release your control over who it is you’ve been

 

That little girl who showed me the way

She’s the fire-starter, pyromaniac at play

She can blow up some shit up because she knows no better

But refined… She has genius and shakes a tail feather

 

The horizon cannot hold her, this child of God and Moore

She put in the time and said Grace for her store

This Mystery Still she’s found out how to use

Is a vertical prayer, open to gnosis and truth

 

I’m learning to use it, growing day by day

Accepting my feelings, no judgment, in a loving and kind way

As she handed me the keys and I return to make my shine

She lies back, relaxes and daydreams all the time

 

I long to filter out what I’ve been told versus what I know

My innermost yearnings, the balance, the flow

The gut, the tingles, the pangs and blood, it is still warm

All tell me the truth, like a pouring down storm

 

It’s like talking to God, From a sacred, me – shaped telephone booth

The Mystery Still takes me, shapes me, and provides me with truth

 

 

 

So at this point, I have begun to realize that the little girl within me can be both nourishing and destructive.  To channel the experience of her into a form that serves Creation – that is my purpose.  I have to remember each day and since I just started, it feels like I am just entering Oz.  I can see if from afar, yet I must enter through the field of poppies, and be mindful not to fall asleep or let my light be buried underneath the tall flowers of distraction.  This process I must tap into constantly, for I have chosen it to sustain me.

Cliffhanger series…. more to come.

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All Those Pieces of Paper

All those pieces of paper

spread out across the floor

stuffed in nooks and crannies

ideas of something more

 

Those words are bits of spirit

I caught along the way

fleeting moments drifted through my fingers onto paper

all yearning to be sung and played

 

I’m on the road to make them

to free them from one-dimensional space

let them pass into ears and hearts

giving this Spirit what its longing to say

 

Craving an outlet of voice and song

where electricity meets the bone

where the sunrise catches my breath

after being gone for so long, the seeds, now they are sewn

 

Bless this spacious and long-time confined heart

she’s still standing in her self-built cage

the door has been opened, through magic and prayer

letting in the light, sound – let it out, and not backstage!

 

Go – down into that story and shine

for the sun longs for nothing, brightens our whole world

sustains us all night, bright and stormy

yet, it must have the Moon mirroring in her journey

 

Be the mirror, the magical orb of night

the sensual tug of oceans, aeons ago – jump in, every time

take one step then the next then the next

let it shine, like Mr. Byrd said, remember T-Rex?

 

You came from feathery giants and now stand on their shoulders

simply herd those transmissions, spin them as you get older

don’t box them up and in – allow not for dusty dogma, for they are mayhem!

just like your story, they took time to grow – remember love, you must cultivate them

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