The Beast In Us

     In the past few weeks, a bright and beautiful muse reminded me of how time is timeless and how the Gods(desses), and we in their image, craft our existences with a mere thought. The thought can then, through our conscious intention, become an object such as art; in this case—music and poetry. And it was the particular nature of my muse's artistic expression that drew me back to the passion of my youthful angst that enjoyed unveiling the zeitgeist of the time through poetry and song. 

     The other day, William Blake's The Marriage of Heaven and Hell echoed to me. Finding one of my literature anthologies from college (my B.A. is in Lit.), I read that, as well as several other of his works, and recalled how much I love that time in literature. Both the restrictive nature of specific meter and rhyme scheme, as well as the use of poetry for sociopolitical protest, always appealed to me in the paradox of working within strict parameters while letting loose the flames of righteous indignation. I largely abandoned this type of poetry in 1995 after being harshly criticized by my professor and Pulitzer Prize-winning contemporary poet, Stephen Dunn, who told me that my writing was “antiquated” and that I should try writing in free form. 

     We find ourselves in a particularly volatile and uncertain place in today's world. Our nation, here in the U.S., stands at risk of losing its democracy, the very essence of the foundation for which we fought nearly 250 years ago, freeing us from the tyranny of feudalism. Our country stands on the principles of the U.S. Constitution and especially in its Bill of Rights, and in true form, our country has used its right to Free Speech to protect our voices and effect change or make corrections. Should we begin to devolve to a time when the human brain primarily consisted of its hindbrain, lacking a frontal lobe and prefrontal cortex to intelligently think about our choice for barbarism (the fight or flight state of animals' survival-of-the-fittest), we can collectively gather, raising our arms and voices, and shout, "We the People!" in our demand for an equal society under the law.

     It is in the spirit of my literary forebears (rest in peace, Mr. Dunn, forgive my transgression) that I present a work-in-progress of 8 stanzas of 4 rhyming couplets, in iambic tetrameter, voicing how I feel about the immediate threat to the sovereignty of our Democracy.

Image generated by Gabrielle Cianfrani's poetic prompt,
in the spirit of Blake's etchings,
rendered by our robot overlords

The Beast In Us
Scrawled in the Ashes of Democracy

By An Angry American Bitch

Through battered gates of Now, I trod,
Where Reason’s corpse lies cold, unshod,
A land of trolls and liar’s din,
Where fascist brutes creep forth in sin.
The ICE-Men march, their chains a-clank,
To cage the meek on Freedom’s bank,
Their raids spotlight a savage might,
Cruelty masked in Star-Striped light.

Below, the DOGE-beast howls and bays,
circus of frauds in frenzied craze,
False prophets with a vacant stare,
Preach wealth to rocks, to empty air.
Palantir’s eye, all-seeing, gleans,
A Silicon God, wet data dreams,
Surveils the soul, and binds the free,
Spying lens, bends Liberty’s knee.

The pious swarm, with crosses high,
Their gospel twists, their tongues belie,
The religious right, a zealot throng,
Would bomb the world to prove it wrong.
Anti-Life, they raise their flag,
Books to ash, and thought to slag.
The tanking market, planned decay,
To fatten lords while serfs obey.

USAID, peace-pimp of yore,
Gets axed for laughs by budget Whore,
Allies wince, foolish tariffs slap,
Consumers caught in price war trap.
Schools churn dolts for TikTok reels,
Health’s a scam for snake-oil deals,
Disease we once kept well in line,
Co-opted by reviled Schwein.

The Constitution frays and splits,
A parchment torn by power’s fits,
Democracy, a threadbare jest,
Hangs bleeding on a tyrant’s chest.
Across the globe the darkness spread,
From Putin’s reign to Xi’s red thread,
The ballot box, a hollow shell,
Echoes screams from Freedom’s knell.

Democracy, her bleeding feet,
Now drags bare through every street—
And none will lift her from the dust
For fear–AI and Elon Musk.
The Tree of Liberty was felled

By hands that once its branches held.
And still they cried, “Land of the Blessed!”
As babe was torn from mother’s breast.

In old time Hell, the devils danced,
But here they rule, their spears advanced,
Will camps return, the ovens hum,
While patriots beat a deafened drum?
The empty ghosts in MAGA caps,
Applaud as rights are left for scraps,
And as We Woke and rose to trust
Sun set on Freedom, Truth, and Just.

We drown in jetsam deep in mire,
Our Inferno lit by human fire,
The past and present join as one,
Damning all time, a world undone.
No angel comes, no savior’s call,
Just we, the fools, who forged it all—
A satire? No, a mirror’s gleam,
Of sleeping world’s fascist wet dream.

Gabrielle Cianfrani

April 5, 2025

The Core

The Core

For every night my weary head falls 

on pillows as soft as my broken heart;

For every morning the radiance of brilliant

sun sneaks its beams through safe darkness

 of my shattered window pane;

I fall and rise, encircled in Love,

pure and true

to share with You; 

not expecting, but sending wishes to Heaven 

Illimitably expansive, intimately treasured,

circular flow, everlasting freedom

elemental breath of life



Gabrielle Cianfrani 
July 25, 2019

Transmutation

FuturePeak, Boulder Creek, CA July 2018

Dancing alone, wide, green eyes gazing up

starry, wondrous sky, expanding;

Twirling around, counter-clockwise motion, 

arms grounding, extended hands,

compassionate Universe,

transforming Ego,

longing for flight—

Heaven 

Heightening True Love to raise like seeds,

blown from trees, afloat, featherlight,

lifting above suffering

Earth’s dreamscape,

Where separations enmesh;

Fear evaporates like intense

summer storm, quickly dissipating into

atmospheric tranquility

You, guiding your feet to meet me,

dancing your own, unique rhythm, 

vibrational ascension,

holding each timeless moment

freedom for all beings;

Composing creations, interwoven like Tabriz and Kashan,

collaborative, masterful designs—

bliss and peace 

Fly weightless, infinitely deep,

high above temporal clouds, 

obscuring neither pure mind nor soul;

contented abandonment of aloneness,

intermingling independent movement;

spinning clear light, resonating,

strumming heart strings— 

One Song

  

Ashes, Ashes, All Fall Down

I have seen where the wolf has slept by the silver stream. 

I can tell by the mark he left you were in his dream. 

Ah, child of countless trees. 

Ah, child of boundless seas. 

What you are, what you're meant to be. 

Speaks his name, though you were born to me..." 

-John Perry Barlow, Cassidy

    In early 2008, I visited Daniel Kottke at his home in Palo Alto, California. He is a computer engineering friend who happens to play piano and is a huge fan of the Grateful Dead, so we went through a bunch of songs just singing and having a great time. He shared with me that he'd occasionally hang out with poet, writer, former Grateful Dead lyricist, and co-founder of the Electronic Frontier Foundation, John Perry Barlow. Barlow would come over and he'd play Dead songs on his piano while singing and picking Barlow's brain about specific song lyrics or stories behind songs. Of course, to someone like me who loves singing Dead tunes, what Daniel told me was an absolute dream come true. 

     A year later, on Saturday, September 26, 2009, my good friend, Fürgen and I attended the Horizons: Perspectives on Psychedelics Conference, which was being hosted by our friend, Neal, held at the Lombardo-Romanesque style Judson Memorial Church in New York City. The church is situated near NYU and across from Washington Square Park, a park famous for its 77-foot tall marble arch constructed, originally, in wood and plaster to celebrate the centennial of George Washington's inauguration. It's a lively place where people go to play chess, feed squirrels, perform art and music, teach their kids to ride bikes, read by the fountains, and so much more. 

     While standing near the large pillars toward the right front side of the church, I saw a figure walk into the hall, kind of limping, wearing all black, and I could see the heel of a cowboy boot. The figure stood near a podium that had been near the rear center of the room. I squinted and knew right away, it was Barlow. I hurriedly skated over to him, trying not to look like I was running (my mind already engaged in a 40 yard dash), and not having any idea what I was going to say.

     "Holy shit!" I said, as I realized how utterly embarrassed I was going to be after coming to terms with the fact that I lacked all verbal articulation, "It's YOU!" He looked a little surprised and said, "I guess it is!" I introduced myself and laughed as I segued into telling him we shared our friend Daniel in common. I guess he didn't believe me, because Daniel is a pretty famous figure, himself. And as all people with fame have, Daniel also has a lot of social media friends, so Barlow put me to task.

     "Call him," Barlow looked me in the eyes and then down at my handbag to suggest I take out my phone. 

     "Really? You want me to call him? Okay," I took out my phone and dialed Daniel, "Daniel, I have a friend here who would like to say hi," I handed Barlow my phone and he chatted for about a minute, glancing up to smile at me as he did.

     We stepped outside onto the rounded front steps of the church and sat down, alone. We sat, silently, and Barlow looked over his left shoulder and said, "You know, no one has ever greeted me that way before. Nope, not in my whole life have I ever been called, "Holy shit!" I roared with laughter and apologized for my crudeness, but sometimes, you just don't know what to say and all that comes out are the most simplistic of ridiculous utterances.

     With a group of about 5 other people, Fürgen, Barlow, Neal, and I walked a few blocks to a friend's tiny studio apartment that housed a large, king-sized bed in the middle of the room, a couple of chairs, and a kitchen. Most of us sat around the perimeter of the bed with Barlow to my back. 

     While our host was in the kitchen with a friend, the mood was kind of stale, no one was talking because we were all in the presence of a God. It was painfully obvious that they were silently clamoring not to bore Barlow to tears. One man, tall and lanky, wearing a grey, button-down shirt, scarf around his neck, and brown trousers stood, looming over all who were seated, "Why don't we recite some poetry!" he declared.

     Everyone thought it was a good idea, even Barlow. I was all about it, after all, I had some poems up my sleeve that I could share. I worried that I didn't have many of my works memorized and might mess up the one shot I had at redemption. I was also thinking how this guy really wanted to impress Barlow and how silly and pretentious it was to just assume that everyone had poetry to share from memory. "I'll begin," the man said,"This is a poem by Walt Whitman."

     My mouth dropped open as, one by one, people recited other people's poetry. "What the fuck is this," I thought, "These people are kidding, right?" I kept quiet as four people recited works by famous poets, as Barlow leaned farther and farther back on the bed, being visibly lulled to sleep. 

     So, when the last person finished, I waited for silence and said, "I have a poem I'd like to recite, but it's something I wrote." Barlow sat up. "It's called 'Oh! Albatross' and is a poem I wrote in college when I was an angsty kid. Let's see if I can remember it..." With a bit of dramatic flare and a little bit of nervousness, I spoke:

"Here I am

In a world, crumpled-up
like an old piece of crumb-infested
cellophane
that will soon fall to its
demise
amongst all the forbearing rubbish;
Then I,
that useless bit of cellophane
will be thrown onto the curb
where the thieving ants will come
and scavenge through my few remains;
I will have no choice
but to surrender to their
military ways;
An ultimatum--
Join the Ranks of the Stronghold
or be ripped and torn
into a million
nameless
pieces
to which all that I am is

no more."

     A couple of people clapped and the room erupted in conversation. I was facing a wall as I sat on the bed and I relaxed my posture to kind of slump down, shaking my nerves away. At that moment, Barlow laid back, stretching his neck out to me and said, "I really like your poetry, it's good, you're a good writer."

     "Thank you," I nodded my head up and down, smiling. For a writer to get affirmation from someone who is like royalty that their work is "good", is just about the most satisfying and motivating word, ever. It's so simple, "Good." And for him to say that he liked it, well, I didn't need anyone else to give a compliment, ever again. He took that away that night, that insecurity that writers have, especially when sharing it with others to scrutinize, and he immediately put me at ease.
     I am so grateful to have had such a beautiful interlude. You never know when someone might say something that changes your life for the better, forever.

     Among his poems, J.P. wrote these rules to live by during his Saturn return, which would set his path for the next stage of his life. On August 15, 2013, Barlow participated in a Reddit AMA, where he shared his "Principles of Adult Behavior" that he'd written in 1977, the night before his 30th birthday:

1. Be patient. No matter what.
2. Don’t badmouth: Assign responsibility, not blame. Say nothing of another you wouldn’t say to him in the same language and tone of voice.
3. Never assume the motives of others are, to them, less noble than yours are to you.
4. Expand your sense of the possible.
5. Don’t trouble yourself with matters you truly cannot change.
6. Expect no more of anyone than you can deliver yourself.
7. Tolerate ambiguity.
8. Laugh at yourself frequently.
9. Concern yourself with what is right rather than who is right.
10. Never forget that, no matter how certain, you might be wrong.
11. Give up blood sports.
12. Remember that your life belongs to others as well. Don’t risk it frivolously.
13. Never lie to anyone for any reason. (Lies of omission are sometimes exempt.)
14. Learn the needs of those around you and respect them.
15. Avoid the pursuit of happiness. Seek to define your mission and pursue that.
16. Reduce your use of the first personal pronoun.
17. Praise at least as often as you disparage.
18. Admit your errors freely and soon.
19. Become less suspicious of joy.
20. Understand humility.
21. Remember that love forgives everything.
22. Foster dignity.
23. Live memorably.
24. Love yourself.
25. Endure.

John Perry Barlow

Born October 3, 1947 

Lived fabulously and fully 

February 7, 2018

Rest in Peace

     Fare thee well, now, let your life proceed by its own design,

     There's nothing to tell, now, let the words be yours, I'm done with mine.

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Love Through My Ages

     When I was twelve, going on thirteen, as the leaves fell from the trees in 1988, our Language Arts class was asked to write a sense poem with "love" as the topic.  We were unaware that our teacher was also choosing a poem from each grade to be entered into a city-wide poetry contest.  
     I was truly the kid who used to make wishes at the wishing well and sit in the warm sun, gazing (no, really, I gazed... seriously), thinking about lovely nature, and daydreaming of spectacular adventure.  So, this was the poem my adolescent mind generated, complete with my current feelings after each line in parentheses:

Our Love
Love is a wonderful color, beyond explanation.          
(Yes, because you couldn't think of any.)
It tastes like caviar and chocolate covered cherries.         
(AND champagne wishes?? Oh my God, I'm Robin Leach.) 
Love sounds like beautiful music being played at oceanside by a goddess.          
(Is she sitting on a rock, strumming a harp, perchance?)
It smells like a garden of roses with the scent of sweet perfume.
(At least I wrote this before Bon Jovi laid on his bed of roses.)
It looks like man and woman, together, forever embracing.         
(until someone farts...)
Love makes me feel like my heart will pop out at any moment from the excitement.
(and this makes me feel like I want to vomit from all the cliches.)

     Four years later in 1992, I was on to sonnets- boy, did I love Shakespearean sonnets.  There are still a lot of filler words being used.  Notice that the material has taken on a slightly more mature tone and introduces the idea of turmoil in unrequited love.  I think I wrote this for a teacher- a major crush on the super-hottie-young-wrestling coach who was only 26 or 27 at the time... I actually remember writing this poem in the typing lab and printing it on the dot-matrix:

Unreachable Lover
This night that passed, I felt again your touch,
It was as grand as a warm summer's eve.
Your porcelain, red lips I've missed so much;
These tears, again, they will flow when you leave.
An exchange of thoughts and hearts once again;
These moments I anxiously do await;
Until then, on other days it will rain;
Perhaps, this is my unchangeable fate.
Although not true, all my dreams seem so real;
It oft hurts to wake to an empty bed;
These visions were ones I, indeed, could feel;
There must be a way all these would be dead.
Can you understand my feelings for you?
Just know one thing, all love expressed is true.

     Then, in 1995, I had my first, major break-up with a boy.  We actually still keep in touch and he agrees that he treated me miserably... though I was a stupid, little girl.  Anyway, for about a week, I hated this guy for breaking my heart:

Through tragedy, my hopes have gone,
No longer do I feel the pain;
A numbness in my every touch;
Now, I know no other way.
Viciously-
my mind spirals
downward, further
Until it hits the frosty sweat
days spent
future's past-
Thanks to you, I've learned this love
Thanks to you, I feel no pain,
And so to you, a cheery toast,
"Anguish and sorrow will here remain
with you."
The candle drips,
my spirit rips;
Fills up with a shuddering hurt;
Screams and blood,
Confusion, madness,
Black tears-
Isolation;
And it's all thanks to you.


No venom, angst, or insanity there, kids. So, I began to lighten up a little when I, again, found love in 1996:


I wake in the morning
feeling your gentle kiss
pressing my lips--
I smile
my spirit, again, knows
joy
freedom to soar
through eternity with hearts
open
souls united
wishes granted--
a spirit so high
birds cannot follow
but together we climb
together in peace
harmony--
knowing love
seeing beauty in others'
eyes
learning that existence
is enough to love
to give love
to forever
love.


     Then, I was married and in 1999, I gave birth to my first child and "Love" took on a whole new meaning:

Julia Love

My bright angel baby--

shimmering happiness

exploding into stars

shooting across the sky,

falling upon wide eyes,

transforming into dreams.

Kiss a delicate cheek--

warmth of a thousand suns

penetrate, melt the soul,

lift it to the heavens

delivering to God--

a universe of love.

    Finally, I began writing about universal love- making love to the entire quantum universe- immersing, superimposing, all of me into and onto all of it.  No longer limited by earthly love, I decided to branch out and expand the definition:

Body Electric

Turn on my Body Electric,

come-- brush against my quarks,

a chemistry explosively 

revealed after dark.

I wish to be your lightning rod,

come ZAP! me in delight,

come in, explore, there's so much more,

find vision without sight.

So long, I've searched through galaxies,

and foraged through a maze

of lifeless, empty energy

forced stunted by a haze.

Get warped, consume my juicy space,

take journeys in my mind,

wrap warm lips around every

particle you can find. 

     I continue to write love poems- though, likely, they will continue to reflect my love of Nature.  I haven't changed from the little girl who used to lay in the grass and search for bugs, cloud watch, and smell all the neighbor's tulips and daffodils on the way to school in the springtime- so much that she'd be late for 1st grade almost every day.  
     In fact, all this daydreaming and reminiscing about love has occupied my time all day today...  

     










     

Immortal

Aching pain drills its way deep to the center of her
solar plexus,
burning and twisting like a dull dagger,
thrust and lingering--
no helping hand to
release
agony;
Grasping, gurgling,
choking asphyxiation--
so much pain,
so much pain
pulsating with every broken
heartbeat,
pleading for departure;
Sinking in deep mire,
the floods overflow,
unable to drink from the fountain of
life.
Isis waits in futility for her to come, sit,
be lavished upon the throne,
instead,
eternity incinerates to ashes
when Fear impregnates,
casting torment,
invoking deaf angels
to carry her to Heaven or
Hell,
writhing, shrinking in abandonment--
Theseus found no joy in Ariadne,
and Dionysus has chosen
another.

Gabrielle Cianfrani
September 14, 2011
10:55 P.M.