A Open Commune

Morningstar was an open commune. No one decided who could stay or go.
You immediately felt at home there.
This planet below your feet was yours to share.
No one pointed at the rules. Freedom was felt at the core of your being,
making you laugh and feel
delighted to be near another being.
The feeling one felt at Morningstar was not lost though time.
It has carried an emotion of well being in the hearts of all
who have felt the heart of an open commune.
Morningstar was an open commune.
Without possessions, what is there to worry about?
Without wealth, what is there to worry about?
If the land is open, there is no possession of land.
If you are bare with no possessions, what is there to possess.
Is there any point to argue over an object if you have nothing?
Simple being, simply being.
All you have are what your senses see and feel.
A basic life style.
The feeling one felt at Morningstar was not lost though time.


The continued message,
the fragments of the whole, words that can be ignored or seen.
They can be smooth and shiny, tattered or obscene.
Repetitive, rubber-stamped, stapled or collated.
Words from one of many, making no sense, making sense.
I'm hanging my coat on the rack.
The open commune opened the door and we never stopped.
We all stayed for dinner, we never left.
There are no exits or margins on or in an open commune.
We are mentally there, alone at home.
The message continues, fragmented, distilled and clean.
We have a mother cat that is so nice that she could live in a Mason jar and not complain at all.
Life truly amazes us at times.
How moody can a person get? There is a secret that I am just learning.
When it rains here the water washes away any or all the pollutants in the air.
It rained last night and today the clouds hang over the green hills, misty and steaming.
My mood becomes a beacon of good feelings after a rain.
When it gets hot and dusty my mind clouds with pollutants.
I have to continue to assure myself that my behavior is normal.
I have come to the conclusion that places with tropical spring like weather are the place to be.
Reading, absorbing the words of someone else's tale.
Another viewpoint parallel only in time with my being.
Our bodies would pass only in glances of awareness and physical presence.
I am learning of another mind going though the hills of San Francisco.
Far out badaba
My mother like every other woman gave her body to a man. If she were here she would love her lifes work.
Every women that bears a child understands the meaning of labor and art. In her heart she will always love her creation.
I can not compare my freedom to express my self with giving birth.
But I have realized a little to late that all that I have created is cumulative.
From my first step, to my understanding of my first word, I have been creating.
Skills learned by lifes lessons can be explained as art.
I am thinking that whatever I write is cumulative, all part of my existence.
So is your lifes work. Moving your body in time, stepping properly over slippery rocks.
Learning to adjust to mistakes, refining a skill.
It would be nice to reach 100 and then start getting younger with your acquired knowledge.
Or maybe that is what we do when we die?
That is why I ask everyone to write. Place what you write on the Internet for all to see.
We pay for the space to be creative. It is hard to create and not be paid for what you write.
We all seem to think that what we write should be paid for by the people of the world.
Our Morningstar mind is open.
Open commune, open communication.

(Internet Links)
The Morningstar Newsletter
 Morningstar Folks Online
Morningstar Pictures/Scrapbook

Far out, badaba,
Far out, badaba,

A Wish for Peace
 An Open Commune