Kingdoms of Democracy

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brave new leadership, dreaming awake, Elaine Stirling, free verse, full spectrum thinking, inclusiveness, nagual, optimism is a choice, poetry, political thought, The Corporate Storyteller, wordplay

I dream in tones ideal
plummy, rich, the accolades
in gold brocade, the wine
is clear and redolent of days
to come, the carpet plush
beneath my feet, there is
no rush like seeing you
in all you have become
the scepter in your hand
it buzzes in the presence of
the sceptical, the orb you
toss to keep us on our toes
got lost; I saw it last, wedged
fast between the snaps that
hold Orion’s belt. He’s napping
now, but once he wakes
he’ll count the votes—the vote
we won for every little thing,
the voice that counts discerns
the eyes and knows the majesty
of human being human, here
inside my dream there are
no slaves, no beggary, make
no mistake—you can’t, for all
we have are opportunities
to choose anew and sigh and
blush at every turn that lifts
this kingdom of democracy
for me to get a better
look at you.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image: colour wheel by Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749-1832

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Kit, my Kaboodle

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authenticity, brave new leadership, duality, enjoyment, free verse, honouring feelings, humour, individuality, intention, light and dark, lightness of being, my voice is my voice, nagual, parody, poetry, satire, self-importance, self-pity, The Corporate Storyteller, uniqueness, vibrational reality

I have a caboose
at the end of my train
with an imp that enjoys
thumbing noses and moons
at the sun when a new dawn
arises my eyes need to blink
and the imp sees his chance
and he hangs from the tail
where he shouts at the passing
terrain, whatcha you gonna do
now, pretty boy?

My imp’s name is Kit, and I do
try to shush him, though not very
much ‘cause he’s got the touch of
a jester at heart, and my brain with
its lore is a bit of a bore, and my
soul isn’t whole unless I can
laugh at the bridges we burn
and the tracks we lay down
and pretend when we crash
that they weren’t our
own handiwork.

The thing is, we all
have to run on the steam
that we bring, and if mine
blows too hot or too cold in
your face, and yours makes
me yawn, we could still show
some grace—not go stupid nutty
all over the place, when our tracks
must diverge. I have no intention
of leaving sweet Kit at the station
or anywhere else for I love how
how he thinks and he sees and
he laughs—he’s divine. Yes,
Kit, my kaboodle, is mine!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image of caboose from http://www.bbcrc.org

Lyrics by a Figment at 432Hz

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brave new leadership, Elaine Stirling, lyric poetry, Moses and the burning bush, perspective, point of view, self-perception, the feminine principle, The Ten Commandments

Woman, you ain’t nobody’s ground
to be walked on, you holier than that.

The burning bush done visited
by Moses, did you forget your sense
of metaphor? Why you think he come
down that mountain like he be hit
over the head? Why you think
he find all those Israelites dancing,
havin’ melted their hardwon,
scraped-up currency to make
one sweet golden calf in honour
of all we’d suffered in the slave
pits and would suffer—may the
gracious God help us—no more?

Moses, he done smashed those
tablets first time around ‘cause he
didn’t get what that bush of high
degree was doin’ to him, though
if the shaking earth was any indication,
he was having hisself a fine time.
And sure, he took the words down
accurate enough: thou shalt not,
and honour thy mother—and the
Sabbath, you keep her holy now!

But the words
are not the goods
and the goods are
not the experience,
every delivery man
knows that.

Now when our leader went
up the second time, he knew
enough to take off his shoes—
he’d learned a few manners,
but he’d also left behind him
a heap of shame, all that cursin’
at the Israelites (we called
ourselves hapiru then, the
dusty ones). As I recall,
though I was just a girl,
when Moses took a fit, he
stirred up quite a bit of that
yellow Sinai grit, so when he
came down from those celestial
heights with his, “Don’t do this
and don’t do that,” guess what
was waitin’ for him?

Us,
all of us,
the shamed
ones.

I’m gonna leave the rest of
the story for some other time,
but, woman, don’t you be afraid
now of being the sand in another
one’s eyes. The tears’ll clear
‘em out, and he’ll see you
true again—or he won’t.

Either way,
the mountain
and the desert,
they got your back.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image from bible.ca

Agoraphilia: Two Sketches

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abundance, agora, brave new leadership, commerce, Elaine Stirling, favourable trade balance, marketplace, Mercury, perception, poetry, self-pity, sonnets, The Corporate Storyteller

You asked me how I’d like to celebrate
the day we met, as if the wild terrain
we share like foxes needs some kind of gate.
All right, let’s swim the currents of your pain.

Walk me slowly through your imperatives:
show me the caged beasts whose jaws clamp shut when
others find means to forget or forgive,
and let me touch those vows that never bend.

No masochist am I nor therapist;
details I don’t need, for all illusion
is the same, looping densities their gist
of pity in self-reflecting fusion.

Take me deep, love, beneath your chemistry
where Nature’s dance beats on, no cover fee.

~~~

The marketplace is a dim provider
amplifying echoes of demands not
met with pretense of supply, our driver
knows the faster route, the sweet perfect spot.

Ignore the chaos of before, no thing
from that jumble can be worn or borne, used
goods are only good when used to be’s bring
laughter or a thought, gently love-infused.

Source your merchandise from gods predisposed
to balance of trade that favours all, no
service give nor lend to latitudes closed
by self-neglecting attitudes. Just flow!

Trust the hidden springs of impulse to lift
the agora to reach your mighty gift.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image posted by Georgios, 2011, at walkingtoursathens.com

Whizbangs & Gold Stars: a sonnet

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brave new leadership, Elaine Stirling, hendecasyllabic, poetry, recovery of talent, redefining authority, respect of self, Spenserian sonnet, The Corporate Storyteller

Where do all the best essays go, the ones marked
with stars, and the fine works of art teachers hang
in the hall for beauty queens, bullies and dark
troubled souls to ignore? Who shoots the whizbang
that breaks our balloon to drop us among fanged
blood-sucking tools? I know, I know! a small
voice cries in shadows of the plant’s overhang.
Do your job, says the one in the fore. Don’t call
us unless you have new and improved means to
take from the rest. And the little gold star falls
to the floor. Suffocation turns good words blue,
while the tools we build in their stead are recalled.

The one who knows picks up all you’ve left behind
places it three steps ahead for you to find.

~~~

The rhyme scheme for this sonnet is ababbcbccdcdee, known as Spenserian. For meter, I’ve used hendecasyllabic, which calls to mind a feathered, clucking leader, but which actually means eleven syllables. In Romance languages, the meter sounds natural; in English, not so much. I liked the sense of discomfort it evokes for this subject matter.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013