Afterwards: Memories Unbound

i LEFT OFF IN DECEMBER  in da wingmakers werld because i became disenchanted an upset at how the new web werld of the wingmakers has now distorted the original stuff.

ch17

wingmakers chamber 17 painting

..although this is part of the original…an i stopped sharing chambers after chamber 16…signals to her heart etc etc…an to no avail…..had to take a break…reason fer everything i assume….winter {LoL}..so since there are 23 chambers an i never finished the original story..in case ur wunderin how it ends well….these 2 poems frum chamber 17 fer da’ ponderin minds of my wingmaker fans 🙂 till next time . Q..

 

Note #1 : got a couple emails wunderin if i waz a wingmaker, an well ur gur=ess is as gewd as mine right now…no really…The new wingmakers site an james is not ; in the new interpretation, the same as what first got me into the internet etc etc etc in 1996 er 7…

NOTE 2 : if u do not visit the web page an u get this via email…this as are most of my posts will not show correctly unless ya visit this web page : neither will the corresponding video ever show if posted with my posts also unless visited at quarksire.com an well if ya want to know how it began, the story that is well, Wingmakers Ancient Arrow is da catagory, scroll to the bottom…an go backwards forwards i guess lol…….ok…after 7 am in colorado, froze lastnight,,, outside, sun is up though an winter is going bye bye,,,so going for morning hike an to watch some plants grow lol….feel like farmer john sumtimes now instead of a sport pilot lol…… okay over an out allzzzzzz..frum da’ Q-ster..have a great week if’n i don’t get back righty away….gots an airplane to werk on …an spring cleaning galore, Time of the year to get back in the air if possible fer sumemr! 🙂 ..at least i can still dream of surfin’ wit dem whales huh!!!….an my encounter well, bacause of dat 1 killer whale .  ..well this past month has me spun out in a minds fairy tale all of its own lol…Sumday maybe i’ll explain 2 da werld . till then only “she” knows lol…caz she is ..jest part of dat …mind ya know …da mind of GAWD  🙂 LOL . 🙂  or oh my GAWD..well more to come…afterwards …memories unbound for a reason…cuz i 2 am tired of being data way! so one day @ a time ..i’ll get there wherever there is if that jest means stayin alive…Happy mayday everyone,,,frum da’ …Q….

Chamber 17

~~~~~~~~
Afterwards
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’ve set loose the guards that stand before my door.
I’ve let cells collide in suicide until they take me.
If there were stories left to tell I would hear them.
*
Behind the waterfalls of channeled panic
spilling their prideful progeny I can stay hidden in the noise.
Being invisible has its cameo rewards.
It also keeps visible the durable lifeform
murmuring beneath the wickedness.
This is truly the only creature I care to know,
with luminous ways of sweet generosity that suffers
in the untelling universe of the unlistening ear.
*
When I am found out-after I am gone-by a stranger’s
heart whose drill bit is not dulled by impersonation,
I will open eyes, peel away skin, awaken the heart’s coma.
I will set aside the costumed figure and redress the host
so its image can be seen in mirrors I set forth
with words bugged by God.
When these words are spoken,
another ear is listening on the other side
beaming understanding like lasers their neutral light.
*
The common grave of courage holds us all
in the portal of singularity,
the God-trail of rebeginning.
*
Somehow, so seldom, words and images
thrust their meaning into heaven and conquer time.
But when they do,
they become the abracadabra of the sacred moment.
The pantomime of the public’s deepest longing.
*
Afterwards, the improbable eyelid glances open,
the skin folds away,
and the heroic eye awakens and remains alert.
Afterwards, the words eat the flesh and leave behind
the indigestible bitterness.
The emotional corpse shed,
an insoluble loneliness.
The cast of separation.
~~~~~~~~~

Memories unbound

Memories Unbound
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have this memory of laying atop
a scaffold of tree limbs
staring out to the black, summer blanket
that warms the night air.
I can smell cedar burning in the distance
and hear muted voices praying in song and drum.
I cannot lift my body or turn my head.
I am conscious of bone and muscle
but they are not conscious of me.
They are dreaming while I am caught
in a web of exemptible time.
*
My mind is restless to move on.
To leave this starlit grave site and dance with
my people around huge fires crackling with nervous light.
To join hand with hand to the rhythm of drums
pounding their soft thunder
in monotone commandments to live.
*
I can only stare up at the sky
watching, listening, waiting
for something to come and set me free
from this mournful site.
To gather me up in arms of mercy
into the oblivion of Heaven’s pod.
I listen for the sound of my breath
but only the music of my people can be heard.
I look for the movement of my hands
but only wisps of clouds and crescent light move
against raven’s wings.
*
Sometimes when this memory peeks through
my skin it purges the shoreward view.
It imposes on the known predicament
with a turbulent bliss that bleeds defiance to the order.
There is certain danger in the heritable ways
of my people who send me the chatoyant skin
humbled and circumscribed.
My white appetite leached of earthly rations.
Misplaced to the darshan of the devil,
the very same that maneuvered my people to reservations–
the ward of the damned.
(At least I have no memories of a reservation).
*
Perhaps it is better to lay upon this mattress of sticks
with my wardrobe of feathers and skins
chanting in the wind.
Perhaps it would be better still
to be set atop the cry shed and burned
so prodigal memories would have
no home to return to.
*
I have this memory of escaping the pale hand
of my master that feeds me scraps of lies and moldy bread.
My skin yearns for lightness,
but it is the rope that obliges.
*
I have this memory of holding yellow fingers,
large and round, dripping with ancient legacies.
Of seeing the rounded belly of Buddha
smiling underneath a pastoral face
in temples that lean against a tempest sky.
*
I have this memory of dreaming to fly.
Stretching out wings that are newly attached
with string-like permanence
only to fall in the blunted arms of obscurity.
*
I have this memory of seeing my face in a mirror
that reflects a stranger’s mind and soul.
Knowing it to be mine, I looked away
afraid it would become me alone.
I am patchwork memories searching for a nucleus.
I am lost words echoing in still canyons.
I am a light wave that found itself
darting to earth unsheathed seeking cover
in human skin. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Quarksire’s U-Tube Werld

A few videos from Q-Tube  AN in case ur bored check out what its like to fly an ultralight trike.along with many other interests of da Q that might be a cure fer winter boredom @ da ol computer.

2_monument_valley

1:35

 

Ultralight Trike Flying, Cortez & Pagosa Springs Colorado

i have flown in the middle of the winter many times , its like a flying snowmobile with a wing really…lotsa fun…..an if u are a trike owner , well come on out to pagosa springs this summer for some fun in the sun!.

5:02

::

2:17

over an out frum da’ Q 🙂

…have a splendid’ weekend….

oh an don’t get bored now 🙂 lol 🙂 

🙂

Signals to her Heart

wing_eye

* Signals to her Heart *

Out where the ocean beats its calm thunder
against grainy shores of quartz and sand,
she strolls, hands pocketed in a flowing gown
of pearl-like luminance.
I can see her with hair the color of sky’s deepest night
when it whispers to the sun’s widow
to masquerade as the sickle’s light.
*
So this is she.
The only one who knows me as I am
though untouched is my skin.
The world from which she steps pounces from mystery,
announces her calm purity
like a willow tree bent to still waters.
*
In this unhurt place she takes her body
to the shoreline listening for sounds beneath the waves
that tell her what to do.
How great is her love?
Will it take her across the sea to me?
Does she hear my heart’s voice before the translation?
*
She scoops some sand with her ivory hands and
like an hourglass the particles fall having borrowed time
for a chance to touch her beauty.
Her lips move with prayers of grace as she tells
the wind her story;
even the clouds gather overhead to listen.
Her gestures multiply my love with the sign of infinity,
disentangled from all calculations,
adorning her face with a poetry of tears.
*
I am unsummoned though I hear her voice
so clear it startles me.
I watch her because I can.
I know her because she is me.
I love her because she is not me.
*
In all my movement, in the vast search
for something that will replace me,
I have found her on this shoreline, her faint footprints,
signatures of perfection that embarrass time with their fleeting nature.
I am like the cave behind her watching from darkness,
hollowed from tortured waves
into a vault that yearns to say what she cannot resist.
A language so pure it releases itself
from my mouth like long-held captives
finally ushered to their home;
jubilant gods dancing away from sorrow’s reach.
*
She turns her head and looks past me as if I were a ghost unseen,
yet I know she sees my deepest light.
I know the ocean is no boundary to her love.
She is waiting for the final path to my heart to become clear.
And I am waiting for something deep inside
to take my empty hands and fill them with her face
so I can know the rehearsals were numbered,
and all the splinters were signals to her heart.
^

Wingmakers Chamber 16 Painting

Wingmakers Chamber 16 poetry & Art

 

~ Nothing Matters ~

Space is curved
so no elevator can slither to its stars.
Time is a spindle of the present
that spins the past and future away.
Energy is an imperishable force
so permanence can be felt.
Matter flings itself to the universe,
perfectly pitiless in its betrayal of soul.
*
You can only take away
what has been given you.
*
Have you not called the ravens the foulest of birds?
Is their matter and energy so different than ours?
Are we not under the same sky?
Is their blood not red?
Their mouth pink, too?
*
Molten thoughts, so hot they fuse space and time,
sing their prophecies of discontent.
Listen to their songs in the channels of air
that curl overhead like temporary tattoos
of light’s shimmering ways.
*
Am I merely a witness of the betrayal?
Where are you who are cast to see?
How have you been hidden from me?
Is there a splinter that carries you to the whole?
*
If I could speak your names I would call you to my side
and take your hands so gentle you would not see me,
feeling only the warm passage of time
and the tremor of your spine moving you to weep.
*
Space is curved so I must bend.
Time is a spindle so I must resolve its center.
Energy, an imperishable force I must ride.
And matter, so pitiless I refuse to be betrayed.
*
So I stand naked to the coldest wind
and ask it to carve out an island in my soul
in honor of you who stand beside me in silence.
Lonely, I live on this island assured of one thing:
that of space, time, energy, and matter; nothing matters.
Yet when I think of you in the cobwebbed corner,
hoveled without wings
like a seed planted beneath a dead tree stump,
I know you are watching
with new galaxies wild in your breast.
I know you are listening
to the lidded screams smiling their awkward trust.
All I ask of you is to throw me a rope sometimes
so I can feel the permanence of your heart.
It’s all I need in the face of nothing matters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~above poetry is frum wingmakers chamber 16~
SHIVANANDI ADI
~~~~~
PROLLY OME OF Y FAV PIECES TO LISTEN TO ROUND THE HOUSE…….. lol

🙂

Wishing Light an Secret Language

Wingmaker Chamber 15 Poetry

Wingmakers Chamber 15 Poetry

 

Wishing Light

~~

sun walks the roof of the sky

with a turtle’s patience.
Circling endlessly amidst the black passage
of arrival and retreat.
Moon can shape shift
and puncture the confidant darkness.
The weaker sister of sun
it bleeds light even as it dwindles
to a fissure of fluorescence.
Black sky like a monk’s hood draped
over stars with squinted eyes.
Stewards lost,
exiled to overspread
the dark lair of the zodiac.
This silent outback where
light is uprooted and cast aside
beats like a tired clock uneven.
It dreams of sunlight passing so
it can follow like a parasite.
Tired of meandering in absence it
wants to live the speed of light and feel its directness.
Wishing to stay alive in light years
and not some recumbent eternity.
Desiring the sharp pain of life
to the dull, numbing outskirts of ancient space.
Darkness follows light like a tireless
wind that pours over tumbleweeds.
But it always seems to outlast the people
if not the light.
**********************
**********
*****

 

~~Secret Language

Night in bed

eyes closed, ears open,
listening to the secret life outside my window.
The liturgy of the nocturnal.
Sounds and rhythms of
swift-footed crickets
giving testimony to the trees that overlook
the native church like great archways
carved of Roman hands.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The intricate language of tiny animals
sweeping through the night air
unfaltering they hold me spellbound.
How can I sleep without an interpreter?
If only I knew what they were saying.
I could sleep again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*************

The above frum wingmakers chamber 15 along with the art werk above also..and artifacts also..read more here go tot he original wingmakers site click here…

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Empyrean & Seperate Being

ch14

The gateway into your future is through the completion of this blueprint, and this blueprint is encoded deep within your species. At your root, you are not an immortal psychic impression, or mental echo, but rather, you are the faultless triune of First Source, Source Intelligence and the sovereign entity, colliding in a dance of energy that is evermore. Your mind must grasp the fullness of your true nature and depth of your being, or you will fall prey to the psychic impression and mental echo of your lesser self

Wingmakers 14

Empyream &

a Seperate Being

He walked a higher ground
like a soul untethered to human flesh.
Darkness implored–
demanded his searching stop
and match the drifting gait of others.
But his pathway unwound like a ball of string
sent upward
only to fall in a sentence of light.
Collisions with fate would unrail him
and send him the wishes of obscurity.
The lightning of desire.
The curse of empty dreams.
The witness to unspeakable horrors.
~~He would laugh at the absurdity,
yet aware of the dark ripples
that touched him.
Humanity was a creaseless sheet of blank paper
waiting to be colored and crumpled
into pieces of prey for the beast-hunter.
Why did they wait?
The palette was for their taking.
The “distance” betrayed them.
The shallow grave of the deep heart
killed their faith.
~~~~
He knew,
yet could not form the words.
Nor draw the map.
The ancient casts of the empyrean
withstood definition.
Paradise lost to the soundless blanket
of the clearest thought,
of the loneliest mind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
***********
*******
~Separate Being~

************
Waking this morning,
I remember you.
We were together last night
only a thin sheet of glass between us.
Your name was not clear.
I think I would recognize its sound,
but my lips are numb
and my tongue listless from the
climb to your mouth.
Your face was blurred as well,
yet, like a distant god
you took your heart and hand
and there arose within me
a separate being.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I think you were lonely once.
Your only desire, to be understood,
turned away by some vast shade
drawn by a wisdom
you had forgotten.
So you sang your songs
in quiet summons to God
hoping their ripples would return and gather you up.
Continue you.
Brighten your veins
and bring you the unquenchable
kiss of my soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Drunken by a lonely name
you stagger forward
into my nights, into my dreams,
and now into my waking.
If I try to forget you
you will precede my now.
I would feel your loss
though I can’t say your name
or remember your face.
I would awaken some morning
and long to feel your skin upon mine
knowing not why.
Feeling the burn of our fire
so clearly that names and faces
bear no meaning
like a candle flicking its light to the
noonday sun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
***********************

Check out da interview with james from wingmakers click here

MAHA MAYA·75 videos

acceptance

 The above is a result of me crashing and landing face first on da’ ground, Knowing sumtimes well, jest to get up off the ground is a good thing, even if recovery might be quite some time now :(…. oh well is what it is…….. Q

Your mind must grasp the fullness of your true nature and depth of your being, or you will fall prey to the psychic impression and mental echo of your lesser self

Believe it er not!

Wingmakers 13 My Son Nameless Boy

A tribute to both of my sons! with honor! and love! 4 ever!

ch13

My Son

My Son
~~~~~~~
My son is two.
I watch him walk
like a drunken prince.
With his body bare I can see
his soul better.
His shoulder blades
gesture like vestiges of wings.
His features stenciled upon pale flesh
by hands that have been before me.
***
He so wants to be like me.
His every movement like a dusty mirror
or awkward shadow of a bird in flight.
Every sound an echo heard.
Every cell pregnant with my urges.
But my urge is to be like him.
To return to childhood’s safe embrace
and certain honor.
***
If I return to this place
I hope my eyes will look again upon his face
even until his blades are wings once more.
Until I have circled his creaturehood
and know every hidden cleft
where I have left my print indelible
unable to be consumed.
Until all that he is
is in me and our hands are clasped, forged,
entwined, in voiceless celebration.
***
Until we are alone like two leaves shimmering
high above a treeless landscape
never to land.

4ballonz_by_Quarksire

Nameless Boy

Nameless Boy
~~~~~~~~~~
Beyond the frontier
where borders blur into unknown thoughts
there is a nameless boy–
a drop of pure human light.
Through narrow cracks in the splintered fence
I watch his innocence with envy,
searching for the right meaning of his movements.
The twilight of his smile
nourishes my heart
like crumbs of God’s light.
A longing in my mouth to speak,
to weep,
and gather this child into my arms
and encipher his nature into mine.
Through the exchange of eyes–
glances, purloined and routed into blindness,
our language annulled.
I can only grope towards him
with antenna thoughts
that dance in praise of his youthful beauty.
***
I am waiting for stones to bloom.
For venomous skies to wander into oblivion.
For tracks to emerge like dust in a beam of light.
***
Life’s clever poison
is closing the gate.
The cracks are mended–the vision expunged.
And the nameless boy dissolves,
for there was no earth inside him.

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

Time is the only factor that distorts this otherwise clear connection between the individual and Universal Entity. Time intervenes and creates pockets of despair, hopelessness, and abandonment. However, it is these very “pockets” that often activate the Source Codes of the entity and establish a more intimate and harmonious relationship with the Universal Entity. Time establishes separation of experience and this creates doubt in the Universal Entityís system of fairness and overarching purpose. In turn, this creates fear that the universe is not a mirror but rather a chaotic, whimsical energy.
~~~~~~~~

Philosophy!?
When the human instrument is aligned with the Sovereign Integral and lives from this perspective as a developing reality, it attracts a natural state of harmony. This does not necessarily mean that the human instrument is without problems or discomforts, rather it signifies a perception that there is an integral purpose in what life reveals. In other words, natural harmony perceives that life experience is meaningful to the extent you are aligned with the Sovereign Integral, and that your personal reality must flow from this strata of the multidimensional universe in order to create lasting joy and inner peace. 

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*an if’n ya are bored this eve check out the interview with james frum wingmakers below 🙂

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GIeUpOigus

***

Arrival Wingmakers Chamber 12

Chamber 12 artwerk  - wingmakers new mexico

Chamber 12 artwerk – wingmakers – new mexico site

 

Arrival

..I have held a vigil for lucidity
out in the horizonless fields where nothing shines
but the light of my fire
and the silver disk of the endless night.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Suddenly, it’s clear that I’m alone in the wilderness
without human eyes to reach in to.
Alone with my treasure of sounds
in the pure silence of arrival…

low an slow

low an slow

Wingmakers

I am destined to sit on the riverbank
awaiting words from the naked trees
and brittle flowers that have lost their nectar.
A thousand unblinking eyes
stare out across the water
from the other side.
Their mute voices seek rewards of another kind.
Their demure smiles leave me hollow.
**
Am I a perpetual stranger to myself?
(The thought brands me numb.)
Am I an orphan trailing pale shadows
that lead to a contemptuous mirror?
Where are these gossamer wings that my
destiny foretold?
I am waiting for the river to deliver them to me;
to lodge them on the embankment
at my feet.
*

What? why ? where? when ..? :)

What? why ? where? when ..? 🙂

*
My feet are shackles from another time.
My head, a window long closed
to another place.
Yet, there are places
that salvage the exquisite tongue
and assemble her wild light
like singing birds the sun.
I have seen these places among the stillness
of the other side.
Calling like a lover’s kiss
to know again what I have known before;
to reach into the Harvest
and leave my welcome.
***
These thoughts are folded so neatly
they stare like glass eyes fondling the past.
I listen for their guidance
but serpentine fields are my pathway.
When I look into the dark winds
of the virtual heart
I can hear its voice saying:
“Why are you trapped with wings?”
And I feel like a grand vision inscribed in sand
awaiting an endless wind.
**

CDocuments-and-SettingsAdministratorMy-DocumentsMy-PicturesPfPagosahighside

**
Will these wings take me
beneath the deepest camouflage?
Will they unmask the secret measures
and faithful dwellings of time?
Will they search out the infinite spaces
for the one who can define me?
*****
Wings are forgotten by all who travel with their feet.
Lines have been drawn so many times
that we seldom see the crossing
of our loss though we feel the loss of our crossing.
We sense the undertow of clouds.
The gravity of sky.
The painless endeavor of hope’s silent prayers.
But our wings shorn of flight
leave us like newborn rivers that babble over rocks
yearning for the depths of a silent sea.
******
I have found myself suddenly old.
Like the blackbirds that pour
from the horizon line,
my life has soared over this river searching for my wings.
There is no other key for me to turn.
There is no other legend for me to face.
Talking to flowers and gnarled trees
will only move me a step away–

Invisible wallz

Invisible wallz


when I really want to press my face against the windowpane
and watch the wing makers craft my wings.

****to go to the original wingmaker 12 poetry page click here ****


****

*an if’n ya are bored this eve check out the interview with james frum wingmakers below 🙂

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GIeUpOigus

***