Ask Dr. Druid . day 37 . holokus, hulakus

Ask Dr. Druid . Day 37

holokus, hulakus


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Cheney and diseased mind


In this terrible time.

Yet the butterfly’s

Stained glass wings




A grain of sand


Into a pearl,

That world

Where we and dawn

Secretly conspire

To smile,


In that pearl light,

With one another.

Many the grains of sand,

Many the dawns,

Many the conspiracies of smiles.


Does the River Remember?

Does the River


The fish who silverly

Swim in it?

Does the air


The people, the tigers

Who wrathfully

Swim in it?

Are we zebra-striped,



To the air?

Does it read us

As we pass

Swarm slither gallop

Amble by?

Can you caress the air


As it zephyrs?



Would prefer

To make moveable type

More than bullets.

I asked it.


For prayers & dares,

To spell

The spell of love:

Te amo

Not te ammo

For gods’ sakes.

Poor lead Pb82 ..

Millions of words.

Millions of bullets.

Which wins?



Fortunate in friends?

I am friends with constellations,

Agog at that ceaseless sea

Of stars.

A charmed life?

I am charmed

By a dandelion puff.


Hither. Yon.


I’d rather remain



The Smaller Moons

Only the panthers and I

Were awake

When the smaller moons


“Get an orphan

To sing the duets

With the smaller moons,”

Commanded Montezuma

The Wise

Before the bearded

Snakehearted ogres

Shattered our shores,

Our harmony, our hospitality,

Bloodmasked warriors

Sang with the full moon,

Imperious, glorious was she.

The smaller moons

The silver sliver

The quarter moon

Whisper dew of pearl

So kind so soft

A melody

The ice in your heart


And becomes the rain

Which falls

On flowers and fawns


In the 3rd hour

Before dawn

The orphan

And the smaller moons

Sing this song,

The duet the warriors cannot hear.




Plain sight

Is Druidry;

And patience

As far

As there are


Our patient duty to beauty.



How can we waste,

Lay waste

To eternity

With our murderous grimaces

Our grim murders

Faux ennobled

By the vainest rhetoric

Where mutilated children

Become disappeared

As collateral damage?


Mon flotsam,

You wash up

On my beach,


Smoothed, silver,

Salty, gnarled.

The beach’s treasure

Along with the sanddollars.


    Holoku, hulaku. Hulaku — little dances, gestures of admiration for the way words play, effervesce, coalesce. A formal haiku of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />5/7/5 syllables per line is a single drop of dew on a leaf. An holoku is less formal but no less earnest. It is not confined or refined by the number of syllables but by the dimensions of a notion, a small exploration.

   In your log or journal let an image or a notion drift into your mind like an exquisite small cloud. Listen to its story and write down the words. You’ll learn unexpected qualities or narratives about the object or notion. Lead Pb82 enjoys being moveable type and is imprisoned and tortured to be bullets. It never had occurred to me to listen to lead. I had no preconceived notions about lead. Your mind gets this luminous quiet as you listen to the object or the notion fold itself like origami into its own shape which you describe and transcribe.

   It helps to get over the stupid modern idea that ‘objects’ don’t talk. I grew up listening to trees as an only child in the country. It wasn’t til I went to school that I learned not to talk about talking to trees. I think all poets consciously or unconsciously know that everything has a story to tell. It all gossips and preens or keens.

     One of my druid points is to remind you that we all have the right to the keen and reverent attention that may come naturally to some bards or be trained early in some lucky folk, but that every single person can learn the magic tricks of poetry and attention. You may not get what a friend of mine calls ‘recognized’ or lionized in the celebrity society, but you can get drunk on beauty and fascination. The poetry attention, distilled like honey in your heart, is a sweetness and intoxication that is the birthright of sentients.

   I have never figured out how churches etc could con people into casting their hearts to some distant Heaven while right here we are in the middle of a K1 masterpiece sans pareil in the cosmos. Now, in other books to come we can talk about how we have truly distressed the social systems. But that which the painters paint as still lifes, what Van Gogh tore his ear off for, the huge sky Turner wept over in his landscapes, the poet’s ache for the single drop of dew on the leaf. That masterpiece is so present and abundant that you can be full and fierce always to face the fractal challenges of biped interactions. Yet the butterfly’s/Stained glass wings /Remain/Sublime. You can trust that with molecular totality.



.. faux (foh) .. false, fake;

.. Basho is a classic haikuist. A lovely one is “Lightning — /Heron’s cry/Stabs the darkness.”

.. sans pareil (sahn par-eye) without parallel or without equal, French;


Ask Dr. Druid, 66 Days from Lead to Gold, Secrets of  Alchemy You Can Use, a druid shaman’s playbook .. Intro; Prologue; Day 1; Days 2 & 3; Day 4; Day 5; Day 6; Day 7; Day 8; Day 9; Day 10; Day 11; Day 12; Day 13; Day 14; day 15 Review 2; Day 16; Day 17; Day 18; Day 19; Day 20; Day 21; Day 22; Day 23; Day 24; Day 25; Day 26; Day 27; Day 28; Day 29; Day 30; Day 31; Day 32; Day 33; Day 34; Day 35; Day 36; Day 37;


If you know or are an agent, aspiring agent, editor, or publisher person who would handle this kind of druid material, please let me know at .. Please put ‘agent’ in the subject line.


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.. keep your heart bright. beauty is rising.

.for bombadilobo & diablobo.


the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. if you make $50,000 a year, it’s gone in 4 seconds in Iraq;

.. let’s spend most of the Military-Corporate Budget on education instead ..


4 thoughts on “Ask Dr. Druid . day 37 . holokus, hulakus

  1. There's nowhere to begin with the intricate delights of these “holokus” except to say that I hate you. Just a joke. I am jealous of the ease and intricacy of the relationship you have with words.
    I still will try my own in my journal. Otherwise I would be doing what Mr. Lucky highlighted in his comment on your last chapter–being made passive by the superstars. This is the opposite of what you are insisting that we take the chance to do. So here I go.

  2. Mr. Pogblog,
    Actually one of the ways I write is to start with the premise that most objects do have a story locked into them.
    I enjoyed the holoku btw.
    Yes, I am male.

  3. thanks for kind words. Any ease & intricacy is just practise and having kept my vow with The Blue, my amused muse. The vow being that I will write something every day even if it is only “I'm too darn tired to write.” The habit & practise wears away the self-consciousness that afflicts us all in the early going. Do allow yourself sketches and graffiti and doodles in words in your log as well as 'literature.'
    cl, I would only add that all objects have a story. It would be a good idea for our friends who are beginning or re-upping with a log or blog to pick an object at random and Ask it, “What is your story?”
    esfera, The far futures I visit have healed the disease of slaughter in any K1 dimension.

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