Sweeping through your scotch broom,
weeping over your cobblestones,
lilting around the columns of Calton Hill,
is an Age of Reason so brilliantly brooding,
some nights I am kept awake
listening to Pendragon's breath caress Arthur's Seat,
and whispers drip from sills on Ramsay Street.
Though roots may drink from a sleepless night,
when morning light creeps through the curtains,
my love for you is renewed.
*This is a re-post
replacing an opinionated piece
The sky resembles the robin's eggshells
scattered across the ground,
a blue so seemingly infinite yet fragile,
cracks running between understanding and madness
complementing each other
as divine truths in their own right
to conquer my mind,
to unhinge the doors,
making it unnecessary to pick rusted locks
letting thoughts fly free,
releasing love out into the horizon.
If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations,
it will surely die,
but even so,
I was willing to strangle it by holding on too tightly.
Until I saw the sky and eggshells today
Peppered clouds reflected on the water,
paralleling speckles on the eggshells,
remind me of the freckles on your face.
We need to be wide-open-free,
we need to fly,
without focusing too hard on shells of yesterdays.
We need to unclench our fists,
unclench our tongues,
explore the vast blue peppered sky
on wings of letting go....
so that we can once again feel with purity,
so that we can hold each other ever closer.
Long before Horus' exposure on its trunk
and the nailing of Jesus upon its grain,
rings have been added within the Tree
while people proclaim to hold the key
of salvation, a continually borrowed mythology
swallowed; a powerful sleeping pill
pulling the masses into slumber,
away from the obvious truth
that such supposed salvation
is a ticket far too easy to obtain,
a discriminatory damnation of souls
so blindingly righteous,
even the most vengeful, maniacal deity
would draw the line there.
So many people hand-out the easy tickets,
cut and light the tree --
a hypodermic injection of selfish memories
mixed into mortar for temples designated as sacred,
but the elements are desecrated by swirling sewers,
by shears amputating roots from the sky.
Too many people preach, judicate, proclamate,
hold signs pointing towards a cheap, polystyrene heaven,
while only a few walk the narrow path,
live the sacrifice because it feels right.
Again and again,
the ticket isn't so easy,
we must put aside our slumber-crutches,
stop watching the few carry the rest
upon their backs until bones creak and groan
from the weight of people waiting for salvation
to be handed to them.
27 years, a branch in the road, 46664 etched into its bark.
The forked doors opened,
a living, breathing gospel
brought down fences,
and even then the wood was made into crutches
for people to say,
"M will fix it, M will do this, M will do that,
M will save us, just wait and see."
But M is finally free, yes, he is free!
Free, but not lost to us,
always surviving as spirit-seeds.
We must no longer lean upon crutches,
instead purge the pill from our blood
and awaken into gardeners who water the seeds
within the soil of our souls,
before the vision withers completely,
and we remain only as husks
waiting to be hydrated by watering cans
held in hands too weak to lift the weight....
held in our own hands all along,
held in our hands all along.
*Inspired by Madiba Mandela
December 7th/8th, 2013
"Yes, then I am filled with hate," she replied.
"You need to let it go. I know....I used to be filled with cold hatred.
Let it go. People can violate your body,
but it doesn't mean your soul is also violated -
Your body is only on loan anyway.
The soul is truly yours."
We moved even further away from the music and lights,
until we eventually found ourselves outside.
The sleet had stopped falling,
and amongst a crowd of pigeons sitting on a wire,
a Raven was perched on a buzzing halogen lamp.
Clouds broke apart, exposing a crescent moon hanging from a winking star
like a Christmas ornament, or an earring of night herself.
Not fixed, but dangling,
always moving and changing.
"Breathe in deeply. Focus in on the star,
pretend that you are casting your eyes up to the moon like a fishing line.
Begin reeling in your mind."
"Seems like a silly game to me."
"Please try it."
The Raven was watching us from its perch.
I breathed in and out deeply,
opening up my lungs and heart to the sky.
I turned to her and asked,
"Do you feel hate coming from the Raven perched over there?"
"No, not that I can tell."
"Remember. You can still become someone's Queen.
People can violate your body, but your soul can stay intact.
Even if you doubt it right now."
She pulled out some napkins from her purse,
handed them to me, and asked, "Will you write it down for me?"
-And so I did-
January 1st, 2012
I didn't read the signs,
and you were raised not to complain,
holding it all inside, behind an ever-present smile.
Too scared to ask for advice,
too proud to ask for help,
you tried fixing the problem on your own,
until the problem appeared too volatile.
I was here the entire time,
as I am still here even now,
and I can feel your shadow
moving over me,
whispering up my spine.
I can feel you wishing for the simple things,
wishing only to wake up in your bed again,
just wishing to re-start that day once more -
to feel the pain,
to feel the need
of trying things a bit differently.
If only I had been able to decode
the complex puzzle of your mask,
I could have offered more help.
Did I not try hard enough?
There is a shadow in my heart,
that believes you would have drowned
in your selfishness,
regardless of what any of us had done or said.
Either way, you were already marching toward
the dreaded plains of the regretfully dead.
(there are times when it is truly best to stop asking why.
On certain winter nights,
I open a window to softly falling snow -
not a single breath of chaos blows.
The night is so calm, I can hear snowflakes
touch each other on the windowsill.
I turn on a light behind me,
and as the light pours out into the night,
thousands of crystals glitter like a city of angels.
I don't have any tears left to shed for you,
they are all sitting frozen in the blanket of sparkling snow.
It is at moments such as this,
when I miss you the most)
Yet, the offer of a helping hand is still open,
a helping hand for a troubled spirit.
Reality is constantly altering,
changed in so many ways,
but I am still here,
here as I ever was.
So whenever you feel the need,
whisper up my spine,
dial up the ancient area code,
and together we can dine.
Possibly, just possibly,
we can figure out a way
to push you through the needle's eye,
and both of us can stop asking why.
February 8th, 2012
Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.
There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."
But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.
Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....
....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.
And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water,
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:
"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.
So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."
September 25th, 2011
Today I conceived myself as a poet for the first time,
and not because of employable meter, rhyme, and flow -
I will leave such devices for the wordsmiths and Masters.
And not because I can write poetry....what I do,
should be labelled as something else entirely -
not as poetry.
I am an organic recorder, filing away bits and pieces of zeitgeist,
without rhyme or reason,
almost as if ghosts are guiding my hand across the paper,
and I really don't have much say in the matter.
I am a stranger in a crowded world,
a stranger amongst people I have known for years,
not quite fitting in anywhere, but being in all places at once.
I write the words down, they in turn speak to me.
A clear, mutual agreement -
the smell and feel of new paper,
the liquid, brashness of ink as it penetrates the virgin whiteness
of so many possible observations, opinions and stories.
The words know me intimately.
We aren't strangers.
The reality of vowels and consonants is where I truly fit.
I was moving through a crowd of familiar faces -
a familiar feeling of strangeness and alienation,
when I came across a Persian face I had never seen before.
A real stranger.
Not one I have known for years.
She mentioned not being into sex,
how she only wanted to talk about things she couldn't mention to friends -
her mind felt as if it was floating by the moon
and she wasn't sure how to reel it back into her skull again.
I told her not to worry, sex isn't the only thing on my brain.
She said that sex was the only thing on her brain;
but in a different way.
She explained how she had been kidnapped in Iran,
imprisoned as a sex-slave,
repeatedly raped by rich business men who wore wedding bands.
I asked if she was filled with hate.
She wasn't quite sure.
"What does hate feel like?"
"Well, it shouldn't be mistaken for rage, anger or frustration.
Those emotions are red hot to the touch.
Hate is a cold thing.
Like a Raven perched on the railing of a bridge,
sleet bouncing off its feathers,
not caring to fly away even though cars are barrelling past,
flinging up dirty, February slush.
There is nowhere left to fly to.
The trees are all cut down,
dumpsters have tight lids,
for some reason the fish are all belly-up in the river below,
dead from some mysterious reason.
Its stomach aching from hunger,
the Raven smells the reason for all of this death
emanate from the strange looking beasts walking and driving past.
It is all their fault -
they are the poison behind it all.
This is hate."
I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
A is for Amazing we all wish to be
B is for Blessings that help us to see
C is for Caring which humbles our world
D is for Dancing where joy is unfurled
E is for Empathy that makes a great friend
F is for Friendships we hope never end
G is for Goodness that makes our light shine
H is for Hope in a world so sublime
I is for Incredible, which stands out in a crowd
J is for Joy that smiles so loud
K is for Kisses that make our hearts sing
L is for Love that trumps everything
M is for Memories that highlight our life
N is for “Never” that causes us strife
O is for Open that closes out hate
P is for Persistence in following fate
Q is for Questioning, cause wisdom it brings
R is for Ressurection and the Hope that it springs
S is for Sensational which all love should be
T is for Thankfulness for what God gave to me
U is for Unconditional love that is treasured
V is for Volumes that cannot be measured
W is for Wondrous, Joy to extremes
X is for Xanadu that resides in our dreams
Y is for Yearning as it helps us find bliss
Z is for Zealous Love, that made me write this
So if all these words were bound up in one
Ahhh! There’s a life that’s second to none!
When my final shadows cling on desperately
Where I fight formidable battles
to merely hold the light
I send you loving vibrations
and soul sustenance
Deep from the cathedral
of one heart to another
where today no choirs sing
nor symphonies play
Yet it is here where we meet
in spiritual solace
here to surrender
and exchange inestimable treasures
like unopened letters
Galaxies are stretched
over chronicles of shared history
Nebula birthing stars
will be exposed
in forth-coming conversations
bringing short-lived fulfillment to you
Hungry to feast
now will be the time
to approve your blood art vision
and with my own haunting surrender
as dappled shades ink stain your chest
I will reside with you and share, mesmerised
pens - by branding
as this will be your written reams to me
your artist's pallet or brushed canvas
no need for words
and yet creating
mysterious magical moments
Bitter-sweet the music
that dances taut guitar strings
but now blood approved
please go kick your heel up
return to your laughter
and ride on the breeze
for not all are lost
for I am with you always
to love, listen and comfort as one
with you in me and I in you
we strive to make sure
each day enlightens us
and brightens us
even as light fades to gray
may we keep fighting
with two swollen feet
beneath the body and soul
and intense life lessons
meshed with stresses
may we persevere
turn off fear's song
may we stand firm
as we glide along
through shifty winds of change
that may cause things to sway
but we hold true
inside the values and morality
we stand for
fall for nothing
may stumble along the trip
may swerve at the wheel yet
do not lose our grip
because no one
can eclipse the sun
before they're done
Just when situations arise
flooding us with pain we despise
and just when it seems like
our tear ducts are dry
from ongoing cries
we may think
things are on the brink of ending
then God shows us the ways of faith
by way of love that he's sending
we make sure
every day enlightens us
and brightens us
as each day takes its turn.
Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.
Awakened from my walking reverie by movement ahead, I spy a Red-Tailed Hawk perched upon the wrought-iron railing of the flood-wall. The hawk is regal, stoic beauty. I stop walking in hopes of urging the bird of prey to stay its perch. It does, filling me with a sense of relief. I wonder why it let me get so close; if it was my calm, thoughts-up-in-the-clouds, meditative stroll that somehow rendered my thoughts and steps silent enough to catch the bird unawares. We eye each other, a bitter gust of mid-winter wind blows against my face; ruffles the back-feathers of the hawk. I am overwhelmed by a sensation how the two of us know exactly what we are, who we are, what we are supposed to be doing overall, but we are presently caught in a moment of unknowns, letting these unknowns erase the lines that keep us separate -- beast from human.
I take a step closer, causing the hawk to finally alight, and I am struck by its vibrant feathers adding a dash of colour to the surrounding monochromatic grays.
The hawk flies only a short distance ahead before landing on the railing again, so we re-enact the scene of this play. I come closer, closer, closer, until the hawk lifts up, flies a bit further along the river-walk, before landing again, until eventually it probably decides, that indeed, this human is going to traverse the entire path, for the hawk flies up into trees located further ahead. As I walk past the trees, the hawk launches out of an evergreen, with twigs in its talons. The bird flies over the river; a river made tumultuous by ice-melt.
in Winter's gray light
a Red-Tailed Hawk paints the sky
with its feathers,
my soul lifts, follows the bird
over an ice-gorged river
The hawk lands on the base of a church steeple, and disappears behind an ornately carved corner. It appears as if the steeple is attempting to pierce the snow-clouds with its tip, trying to tear gashes in the sky, until spring blue bleeds into gray. On this Tuesday afternoon, does the church seem personified because it is devoid of Sunday parishioners milling in and out of its thick wooden doors? No matter how hard the steeple tries to break-apart the clouds, the grand sky dwarfs the church, causing it to look like a toy model. The church fluctuates between looking like a miniature-scale model, and an architectural feat.
the steeple pierces clouds
looming overhead -
the snow-laden clouds
make the church appear small
Passing the church, I find it ironic how today the church is empty inside, yet on its steeple and roof-lines, countless animals are nesting, making this House of God their sanctuary. Slowly making my way home, I ponder about the hawk, how it is not only a predator amongst prey, but a predator amongst predators -- it flies around in plain sight, yet also hides right in the middle of the city. Coming up to the path leading to the back-door of my home, I scan a small trail of footprints in the snow. The footprints vary, but all are familiar to me.
It is at precisely this moment that I fully acknowledge the Red-Tailed Hawk and I to be kindred spirits; how similar we really are.
the path leading home
is a winding snowy trail
of few footprints,
for only my loved ones know
where I truly live
For God so loved this sinful world, He gave us all His son;
That we might live with Him one day, when life on Earth is done.
No greater love was ever known, no greater gift bestowed,
And for the love He sacrificed, no greater debt’s been owed.
The time was short for Jesus Christ, but what He gave mankind
To lift our hearts and save our souls has yet to be refined.
The grace and style in which He moved through politics and fools,
Has paved the way for paths we trod through worldly ways and rules.
His teachings spread throughout the land, His miracles renowned,
He only had to touch a life to show His love was sound.
Two thousand years have come and gone since Christ communed with man;
And with his dying saved us all, to serve God's ancient plan.
He rose from death, as He had said, and proved His word was true,
That life eternal waited those who choose to suffer through.
Salvation came that fateful day, the Bible tells us so;
And time has shown that through God’s love the weakest spirits grow.
Now, modern times are hard on us and cause us all to doubt,
For change is there at every turn, and Satan’s always out.
It’s now we need the love of God, for always, as before;
Just lift your heart and ask for it, and see what lays in store.
It’s through God’s love we handle change and how it makes us strong
In ways we deal with worldly things and sort the right from wrong.
For change is just another way the Lord sees fit to use
To make our days seem fresh and new with paths to take and choose.
It’s by our faith we live our lives and seek a brighter day,
And how we find the confidence when doubts get in the way.
But most of all it’s happiness that faith’s been known to give
When our misfortunes come to cloud these modern times we live.
We need not fear what God has wrought. We need not know His plan.
We only need to know He’s there, and love’s in store for man.
Just think the words you’d ask in prayer, and ere a sound be heard,
His perfect love will fill your heart before you’ve breathed a word.
No greater love was ever known, no greater gift bestowed,
And for the love He sacrificed, no greater debt’s been owed.
But God forgave our debt to Him, we live in grace today;
The greatest love you’ve ever known is just a breath away.
"I heard an angel speak last night and he said "write" - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
that was the last word he whispered before his eyes closed forever...
I close my own eyes, bite my lower lip, 'til I taste tin, stone angel crying with me...
The wind sends chills through me, as the heavens threatened to weep
brown leaves skittering between my feet, seeking for shelter.
How I related to those leaves: dry...brittle...dead.
I look at the Angel that watches over him,imploring for answers,
begging this Guardian to take pity on me, help me remember.
She only looks at me, with tears in her eyes, her beautiful face
always looked enigmatic to me, for she was smiling...
and yet those tears hinted at sadness,
seemingly reprimanding me with her look.
I bow my head in shame, and reach for her hands,
but I only feel cold, hard stone...not unlike my heart
My throat catches, I can hardly breathe--
I loosen my grip, feeling it might burn this time
...from guilt, for forgetting...
I glance at her magnificent wings, and wished I had them, too,
if only to fly away, but my feet are stuck on the ground,
with a heart buried in regret.
I whisper one word: "Sorry":spoken so softly, I think I only said it in my heart;
I say it louder, my body wracked with sobs, my heart bleeding crimson tears of anguish.
I look at the Angel and notice something on her sash--
One pristine white feather lay there-a stark contrast to the moss covered stone.
I take the feather, notice wordings etched on the sash--and scraped off moss,
Tennyson's words go straight to my heart...
" 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."
The memories come back like a flash flood, assaulting me, bringing me back to that day.
He told me he had an angel carved to be with him at his grave,
since I, his angel, couldn't always be there for him. And that he understood,
that it was okay. I shrugged it off, told him I love him forever.
I still do, that's why it shamed me that I also love another now.
Seeing those words, I felt such a sense of peace, like he was embracing me,
smoothing out my hair like he used to, telling me it was all right.
I blink back tears, and say "Thank you" this time...I hug the Angel and I felt warm.
Drizzle and sunlight bounced off each other as I walked away.
I turn my head around to his grave
--and the Angel looked on with a smile.
Constance's Angels in Cemeteries contest
June 18, 2011
These are the confessions of an Anarchist,
stepped away from the light,
entered the shadows
of forbidden caverns,
the caves, tunnels
and catacombs of anarchy.
Here a constant, cold caress
a persistent inner rain
pooling alongside lonely thoughts.
Nothing would grow that deep underground,
not even fungus, nor lichen.
I survived on sheer will and dampness,
lungs mutated into gills,
eyes became accustomed
to this ever-present night.
A Mission lost in translation and transmission,
a rogue satellite orbiting
through thin air's mind-bending space,
cut-off from other agents of Anarchy.
I slithered along corridors of broken souls,
fed on regurgitated thoughts
and drowned dreams of cities burning down,
melting like hot candle wax.
How I wanted the cities above to burn!
To burn down into the ground
in waves of rolling thunder and lightning.
Not able to differentiate between night and day,
weeks gave birth to months
in a C-section of fleeting years.
Somehow I stumbled upon a side entrance,
felt warmth pushing in,
and my will shattered apart,
fusing back together into Plan B.
As I broke the surface,
light seared my tightly shut eyes,
breaching eyelids with ease.
The pain felt wonderful,
changing into a delirious exultation
and heated comfort,
thawing out frozen, stiff bones.
Rays of sunlight rippled across my skin,
evaporating the slimy, cavernous musk,
burning me on the outside,
cleansing me from the inside.
Eventually I was able to keep my sore eyes open
while they felt ready to sizzle and explode from sensory overload,
globules floating through my vision.
The first thing I clearly saw
was not close up magnified,
but the distant horizon enveloped in a halo
of lemon haze, arching between two mountain peaks.
skin buzzing from the sun's heat.
how sunlight changes the perspective of nightmares,
revealing reality's potential fibers,
balancing the darkness within,
bending the remaining droplets of lost hope
into a prismatic ribbon of brilliance and prayer,
always evading the deep-rooted catacombs below,
a place I will choose to forego,
only entering within memories,
until even these are burned away by sunlight,
until even these are cleansed by sunlight.
2013 Double-Rainbow Remix
December 18th/19th, 2013
(originally written April 12, 2011)
She's going outside her comfort zone
Why would she leave her safe cell
Life has come with promises from the birth moment
Of a light at the end of the tunnel
The pain that ruin causes falls deep into the darkness
There is no need to be afraid
Every day and every night
Refuse to love, nightmares and dark shadows from the past
A constant fight ensues between her heart and mind
No questions nor any answers ... emptiness
She lets the cold breeze guide her thoughts
Moments define themselves regardless
Right here helpless, silent and breathless
Dreaming by candlelight and paper lanterns
Brilliantly defined and silhouetted, and so brightly lit
When the curtains open and music plays
Fluttering wings of magic sails on cloud nine
Flashing golden memories held within the dome
Happiness enchanting spells a heavenly rays smiles
Open arms warmly embracing sighs inside waves turn keys
One song faraway rising tides brushing sands
In the basin seed of love nourished with beauty
Eden's fruit once bitten when rose blossoms
Sweetly summer sun dances in the horizon
Kissing beams drifting faraway holding paradise
Walking inside the moonlight shadows of daydreams
Winds whispering honey coating chants your tune
Written by L. Mcdaid & A-L Andresen :) 20.05.2015
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'
From the poem: "The Mask of Anarchy" written by Percy Bysshe Shelley
how frail you seem in certain angles of light and shadow,
with your cavities,
fractured attention deficiency,
and thickening skin of apathy.
You are a victim to the plague,
playing amongst flowers filled with poison,
staring at screens to fill in the boredom
of having your young mind brimming
with over-stimulation -
information seeps in without warning,
beamed into your skull
by 360 degrees
of high-def, infra-red, wireless mobility.
24/7 programming of insidious adverts
breaches your skull in a mind-rape,
proving how the Death of a Salesman
was only a sideshow distraction
for the Kleptocracy to successfully purchase
the dark side of the moon -
control the tides,
control the mind,
buying our hearts and souls
in order to auction off our future
to the highest bids of people already dead.
yet I believe in you,
there is still hope left upon your shoulders.
You are strong,
your mind cuts like a blade.
And if you care,
if you dare,
what a significant burden for you to bare.
The time has come,
the time is ripe,
this is it,
there are no more second chances.
I pray for your success,
for you are our very last hope.
Please learn from my mistakes and failures,
absorb the goodness I have left to offer.
I tried, I truly did,
but the Hydra spat me out as a broken man.
we left seeds inside the belly of the beast
for you to survive on within.
God speed, take heed,
do not attack the Kleptocracy from the outside,
its Dragon's heads will cut you down -
will cut you down without mercy.
You must advance peacefully
with a rogue's armour of false calm,
let the machine devour you whole.
Bide your time,
survive on the leftover seeds,
dismantle the Hydra from the inside,
rewrite the program from within.
shed the tired cloak of apathy,
don the mask of alternate endings,
de-rail this present destiny.
Everything rides on you now,
everything rides on you.
The Kleptocracy broke my back,
but my mind is still intact,
and I know you can do better than I did,
believe that you can do better than we did.
I pray for your success,
pray for your safety and protection,
everything rides on you,
everything rides on you now.
December 8th, 2011
My thoughts are filled with the Hermaphrodite,
of the woman breaking through the surface of my skin.
I cup a vulva where there should be instead, a pen.is -
laugh aloud because I feel whole.
You ask why I am laughing,
but you do so with your own laughter.
Your voice startles me awake,
its echo whispers along my spine.
Disorientation leads to clarity.
I look around, it feels like home.
Pixies shine in my eyes.
Right now you are a Pixie
in my eyes,
a paradoxical puzzle that makes you all the more beautiful.
You have always been there,
so intertwined, I only had an illusion of being alone.
"I have been your Mother, you have been my Father,
Sister, Brother, Child, Lover."
I want to make love to you
on exponential levels.
I swallow the truth of always having wanted to.
You tell me that we already are,
possibly a bit differently than expected.
"In my sleep?"
"No, ancient boy, young boy."
I feel slighted for a fraction of a moment,
but the woman re-surfaces within.
You penetrate me,
using my own body to fill me/your body.
Waves. Pulsating, flowing currents.
How can I be feeling both?
We are between two Mirrors deep beneath the Sea.
Do I dare look? Of course.
I see our reflection through your eyes -
you are using my body to make love to me/your body,
my belly is an earthquake.
There are smaller images of us rebounding between the Mirrors,
hypnotizing me, leading me deeper into reflections,
until I am only a grain of sand.
You take me in. You are an Oyster,
molding me into a Pearl,
even though you were born a Pearl.
?Just a stutter-step, and I over-think it?
I ask you how are we breathing underwater?
The question is the shadow of a nightmare
appearing as an Octopus -
its tentacles wrap around us,
dragging us towards the edge of an abyss.
I tear open my rib-cage,
I am fever, high-temperature fever,
licking the Octopus with the tongues of my heat.
It lets go, retreats into a crevice.
You are swallowing water with the fear in your eyes.
I shouldn't have asked that specific question -
brought it into existence.
I kiss you, push breath into your lungs.
Upon seeing figure-eights wash away your doubt,
I am now suddenly breathless.
You give me back breath to breathe,
offering us strength to breach the surface.
The Ocean is Sky; Sky is the Ocean,
Night is Day; Day is Night.
?Is this flying, or walking upside-down. Sideways?
"Look down there, can you see the Evergreen tree?" I ask.
You say nothing. Just breathe. The fear is gone from your eyes.
I close my eyes, open my eyes,
close my eyes, open my eyes.
There is no difference, a shutter-frame of eternal passages.
We have done this before somehow,
flown through the doors of deja vu.
"The tree doesn't need to be sacrificed into paper.
But, if cut down, at least spread its seeds."
Why did I say that? It felt so natural.
Waves. Surging, vibrating waves.
Now, it is flesh for feeling,
breath on breath,
an elevation of sheer simplicity within sweat.
I can barely contain myself,
but when I do, again, my belly becomes an earthquake,
unleashing seismic waves
from the centre of my core....
Even though you already appear to be sleeping,
I feel you awake inside,
but so calm peaceful.
We breathe, exhale, inhale,
your body gently pushes against my chest and belly....
....before I fall asleep,
I spy the Cardinal hopping along the branch of an Evergreen tree
I wanted to write about how my doubts and fears
are simmering on the surface, how I am purging myself onto bleach,
to cleanse the grime staining what's left beneath.
And what's left, is love.
A romance for life,
a nearly hopeless romantic who cannot always transfer it properly onto paper.
Not the pure essence of it all.
No, not in flowery lines - not a cheap, plastic bouquet
compared to my true emotions,
my dreams, my hope.
And of dreams, my love.
The blank sheet of paper seemed too beautiful to tarnish
with my plundering hooves;
to be torn apart with horns sharpened by the Earth,
piles of peat-moss smoldering from the lightning of my Heart.
If I take the leap, show you my dreams,
and in doing so, push you away with the nightmares that are intertwined,
I will understand,
love you nonetheless,
even though there is a part of me
that doesn't want to settle for less,
in an all or nothing embrace.
I have been dreaming,
dreaming of light,
visions of darkness, of black holes,
of the wondrous womb that bore me
as a winged wolf.
Yes, black holes and white holes to accompany the stars.
I place a pen upon the sheet of blank paper,
wondering if I can be real enough for us....
The Evening Star, the Morning Star,
two halves of the same body,
the broken shards fuse, shine as One....
....wings unfurl, paws become talons,
I awaken in a dream, within a dream.
The words lodge themselves between my heart and hand,
so I roll up the blank sheet of paper into a tunnel,
a perfect circle to journey inside of.
Rolling out of my body,
I enter the tunnel,
following the Totems of this life and beyond.
There is a Wolf, Owl, Cardinal, and Starfish -
a part of me and something more,
an essence of Ladybugs, Ravens and Spiders.
In one end shines the Sun. It is I.
In the other end shines the Moon. It is you.
In the center, a crimson Cardinal alights upon an Evergreen branch,
before morphing into Seaweed brushing a red Starfish.
The Saltwater is my Blood,
Barnacles are my nipples
hardened by your Lunar tide.
What makes the decision
To flick the switch
To end ones life
For the sake of it
Bullied at school
Fork in the road
To let death rule
Daughters and sons
What ever affects them
They just can't outrun
Sadness and tears
By all left behind
Will they ever understand
I am the Preacher's son
who stole the bread
and broke it with a wrinkled face,
the essence weaving behind her retinas.
When I stole from the church,
Mrs. Worther 'the bird', had spied me
sneaking out the vestibule door,
from her usual early service perch
in the very back pew.
She carried this secret for many years,
including when she caught me eavesdropping
on midweek board meetings
from behind crates of cheap wine.
Instead of showing scorn,
she had given me a warm wink,
offering a lesson
by leaving me there to think.
who had been my Sunday school teacher,
had made me study the lessons
without ever becoming a preacher --
when it came to my thievery
and excursions into the park,
where I broke the bread
with a wrinkled face,
the essence shimmering behind her retinas.
I am the Preacher's son,
who instead found the presence
amongst ducks and swans,
when I broke the bread
with that crazy old lady -
gleaned what I needed to do,
and since then,
have never again
sat in another pious pew.
I am the 'bad' Preacher's son.
Some people whisper righteously
how I have come undone,
made a pact with the dark,
while I break the bread
with that age-old essence in the park.
March 24th, 2014
(originally written: March 24th, 2010)
I LOVE THEE
I am no voluptuous beauty nor do I live a life of purity
I can only say: I love wholeheartedly with all I am so truthfully
I keep my heart open though it gets hurt so often
I avoid to be irate as I know love changes the heart rate..
Guys tried to coo and woo, they say words as for "only you"
Yet, hard to believe it is true as I see some untrue
I give chances as my heart marks with tact entrances
I learned from various instances looking man in romances
In places where rules impede, two persons who wants to bid
Not of money but of affection, in them must be determination
I love thee not of what you have…
Not even of who you are but to how you are to me…
If I love you, don't tell me much what to do…
As me, myself will show you, I am that real and true..
Yes, I am liked by many but tell you what:
I don't like this honey nor am I proud of it in anyway
One is enough to make me stay
Stand with me through it all, I give my best not to fall
My name your sweetest call echoing in every wall..
Hold me firm yet dear; allow me to move closely
We'll make it anyhow, treading smoothly on flows...
We are strong, aren't we? No one moving alone
Together we'll face phases in tune, though there will dunes..
© OLIVE ELOISA D. GUILLERMO
3:25 pm, 07/13/2013
***CONTEST: ANY POEM GOES #13
SPONSOR: POET DESTROYER
8TH PLACE (TO GOD BE THE GREATEST GLORY)
***Sponsor SKAT A
Contest Name Any Old Poem #5
This morning I wrote a poem
about a yellow heart
pining for red fusion,
in a desperate attempt
to shake the fruit
And tonight I am alone
without tangerine lips
or the temptation of apple,
carefully watching familiar verses
and fanatically dance around
like a final punctuation mark
or an overused cliche,
while my hands whittle metaphors
into a quick-witted instrument
sharp enough to scrape
the smeared imagery
off the sidewalk of poem,
Still I am not sorry
the fruit has not
to kiss my weary head,
it takes an overly cautious yellow
to see the perfect shade of red
As the waves forever kiss the shore
One shot leaves you wanting more
My heart and soul, strong and true
With all the love they hold for you
Sometimes my life leaves me bored
Like a swordsman with no sword
These are the times that I write
Memories can be hard to fight
I write out my heart and soul
Controlling my mind is my goal
Each new word released by my pen
Is another spiritual battle I win
The war rages on day by day
Through the poem prayers I pray
It's a war that I will forever win
Long as there is ink up in my pen
In prison I had quite a collection
Each one held it's own reflection
I saved them after they ran dry
Baptized with the tears I cry
I just couldn't seem to let them go
Little memories of my heart and soul
Sometimes I like to take them out
Little memories of what I'm about
What I'm about angel on my shoulder
Making this world a little less colder
I sit beside you
listen while you bare your soul
this is a safe place
no judgement just ears
Heart fully engaged
No easy answers provided
That is not what you need
How did you keep this burden to yourself?
You must have been so lonely
As I look into your eyes, I feel the tears running down my face
Your breath rises and falls within me
we are forever joined
I see you
You are not alone
I do have purpose
that stays near
a constant reminder
of my inner child
As my conscienceness
shines through to create
a new perspective
I break out of my cocoon
Only to discover that
I find places where
the sanctity of my being
does not flow as it should
My intuition is what
guides me though
there is no longer the
desire for the constant
upheaval of tragedy to strike
On my journey I have
discovered that there
are many hidden truths
So as my spirit ascends
I am inspired by my bravery...
If I am frightened
by the visibility that
standing proud does to me
then I shall stand even taller
No longer will I fear
the degradation that
once was my shadow
there is no home here
for the shame any longer
And I will no longer be
swayed by the fragments of defeat
When I become sorely tempted by
And I think I can't
make it on my own
I will remember that
I am walking this
road of life for me...
W-hen the fullness of time had come, Jesus was born behind an Inn in a cave-like stable.
I-n the Inn there was no room for the Son of God, no room for the Saviour of men.
S-tar was shining so bright above the stable for the shepherds to find their way to Him.
E-ven angels proclaimed His birth to those shepherds "Unto you is born this day."
M-anger is where Mary and Joseph first laid him. It was filled with hay.
E-very animal there must have known that their Creator had come that day.
N-o one knew the depth of love God had, to give His Son to dwell among men.
S-ame star guided three kings from the Orient, who studied the stars and heavens.
T-hese wise men from the East came saying "Where is He that is born King"
I-n their hands they brought him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrr.
L-ike these three wise men, wise men still seek him today!
L-ove is the reason that God sent His only Begotton Son into the world to save us.
S-eeking for you and me, yes God was seeking for us because we had left Him.
E-veryone, yes, all we like sheep have gone astray. Everyone to his own way.
E-ach one has to make his on decision to follow Him or not to follow Him.
K-ing, born to be a King. King of the ages. King of the past. King of the future.
H-eaven, He came from Heaven to earth to show us the right way.
I-niquity, the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.
M-elody, He gives us a sweet melody, we sing many songs of praise to Him.
T-ree, A Christmas tree, the love that Jesus had for us, to die on a tree.
O-nly one life and how soon it passes. Only in life can we accept His Love.
D-eliverance, He came from Heaven to preach deliverance to the captives.
A-cknowlege Him and accept Him. Behold now is the accepted time.
Y-ou, Yes, this Christmas Love was for You. Will You accept this love?
For Brian Strands Christmas Love contest.
God Gave You a Second Chance
Not ready to leave this world with unfinished business determining the souls color; you’re on borrowed time! Prayers to heaven and words spoken from the heart brought perspective to what time remained. Fear and regret knowing this may be the end brought us closer than before. Always by your side loving, giving freely would now perhaps help spare your life adding color to your heart and soul.
The soul colored with Hope, Faith, and Love, the greatest being Love! I wonder have you given God what was expected for a second chance at life to color your heart and soul. Color determines the hearts purity and the soul’s condition.
Souls are empty without love in the purest form; if you do not receive and give without fear, shame, or doubt! From the outside looking in many colors of love surround your soul. I pray the love I give you understand the colors surrounding my heart and soul.
Love was holding you when death looked you in the face and love put death on hold! God and I give you Love. How do you face life and death now, with a heart and soul of vivid colors nourished by our love? God blessed us and we know what matters most. You now live your bucket list, God’s too.
Your list will end, mine too. Sharing with a loved one brings special meaning, understanding, and allows comfort taking away fear, pain, and panic. With unconditional love all’s shared. Colors of the soul glow, angels gather, and God gently lifts one unto himself. The guardian angels exit; slowly colors fade, a feeling passes the one left behind as the end has come. I imagine the colors of love in the heart and soul.