The death of the Ego brings a quietening
When you outgrow the emotional dance
When the drama is no longer enticing
When you pass by old flames with no glance
Do you miss how your heart would start racing?
Even though you believed your world crushed?
Is it only that your time has passed by fleeting?
Or that your inner thoughts have all been hushed?
The death of the Ego is no solemn occasion,
It is vital for the journey of the soul.
If you're stuck dancing; stop, be still, listen,
Your true self is soon to be whole.
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Jovial Dr Jekyll played for juvenile Justice
a just jaspered journey
jokingly jumped a joyride
to juicy jukebox jabbering
in jackal jackboots
from nearby jungle
Dr Jekyll clasped a jackknife eating
jambalaya to justify a
juggled juxtapositional
jurisdiction jamming
as jugular vein jingled jewels
joyfully jauntily jaywalking
to a jay named Jim Jolly !
Onward he jumped to a
Jungian junction
Jupiter jocund watching his
journeying joints
journalese seemed a jibe jig
but neither Jewess, Jesuit
or jeweller jiggled this job
So he jerked his jess
like a jape for Japan
Jejuning onto January for the
next jangle of jasmine
No jellyfish was Dr Jekyll in Jordanian jerkin
though sometimes Mr Hyde
with jeroboam swirling alongside !
"The dream of a hidden door in the deepest and
most intimate sanctum of the soul, which opens . . . "
Carl Jung, Jungian Psychology
I
go
inner
to a place,
in the recesses
of my heart, my soul and spirit,
where a secret sanctum, a haven, refuge exists,
it is hidden, deep, deep and intimate, I wander the passages and corridors.
This place still silent a retreat refuge hideaway, just a space I can be quiet,
like a holy place, a temple, a sanctuary.
I have painted it beautiful,
I, artist of this
innermost
sanctum
of
mine.
his mind had entered a state of confusion
numb blank and befuddled on one hand
with walls in front
and verges closing in behind
enclosed in a mixture of discomfort
and pressure to move
stand still for a moment
a voice quietly whispered
with a chorus answering
run for your life
polarized messages
a Jungian way of saying
only uncertainty is clear
he coughed up some phlegm
a mixture of nicotine and discontent
and tried not to give too much importance
to the dreams he had had
maybe there was an aperture
in the partition in front of him
there was a chance that the blind alley could see
not a through road but rather a simple conjecture
that could be refuted with patience and time
three things he knew was that he would not
turn back on himself in anger nor sorrow
that an imprisoned state
could serve as a prism
and reflection would eventually
lead him through darkness
19th February 2023
This or that volume 16 cul-de-sac
sponsor Edvard Ibeh
The lumps of flesh and bones lie nestled
in the rotting leaves littering the forest floor.
How long it has lain there seasoned by the rain
as worms work through the tattered tissue.
She approaches the rotted flesh directly,
at a slow cautious pace.
As if it might reinvent its self,
rising up a demented force of instincts and endurance.
She gently snuffles the carrion,
as a lover would nuzzle the neck of his mate
after an evening of playful passion has sated desire.
Mellowing to a glow of contentment,
she breaths deeply of the foul stench
letting it fill her flaring nostrils.
The scent awakens an instinctual desire
born in a bygone, primitive past.
Flittering through the Jungian memories;
a myth where all the names and places are burned.
Only the shapes and figures remain visible.
All memory has been twisted, sorted and unsorted
till it is simply her shadow cast upon the forest floor.
archetypically,
I sow my hysterical libido,
in the Jungian brain garden,
and reap only ecclesiastical weeds,
and subconscious rashes...
breaking apart, engorged,
mad egoist, freudian slip'd,
spilling repressed aloes,
into her ashen columbarium...
penitent, penniless,
scrabbled up the storied mount,
silently trapp'd, interlocuted,
cast back to a southern field...
adiposed, juniper kiss'd,
scarlet nin, flagrante delict(oh),
wagging tongued, freely spoken,
i'll come round again,
ecstatically.
We, the poets pull words from physical reminders
As a farmer harvest crops
And as ranchers recognize the animals..
We, the poets often glean from our storage
Words needed to create what we wish to express.
See how children make friends with their toys
And often have imaginary experiences.
They believe for a time, real and living to them
That allows the child a world of fiction and fantasy.
Real things grow on our vines of *Jungian theory
As our mind chooses words and create thoughts.
One well knows clouds and watermelons
As close relatives, kissing cousins genetically
As their molecular identity is almost the same.
As the mind create
The body expels joy and hate.
We satisfy our needs the best we can
Thereby feed the desire to cast emotional dice.
The telephone rings and the voice you hear
Repeats the thought in your brain:
Just synchronicity, loud and clear,
Links you on some esoteric plane.
It’s not telepathy, mind-to-mind,
But incalculably doubtful odds,
Defying coincidence, like a blind
Toss of the dice by the gambling gods.
Madness is just another point of view
who really can call someone clinically insane?
Doctors?
Psychologists?
Those are crazy as well
lock them up!
the masses of ignorance scream
take all your fears and throw
away the key
down
into
the
darkest
dungeon
you
go
Carl Jung would want to roll
in his prison cell 6 feet below
you see talking to them
might be better
see what they are babbling
hear the hidden thoughts and messages
you both may be set free...
Freudian Slip
Don't take this as a flippant quip
But you know what's showing?
Your Freudian Slip
You may think you're ultra hip
But your subconscious speaks
Through the words that slip
When you're flustered, try to get a grip
But you only make it worse
Over your tongue you trip
Don't bother trying to zip your lip
Let it all hang out from under
Your Freudian Slip
**************************
Jungian Drawers
This is no mere jest or hype
But you're my kind of archetype
Cast upon Plutonian shores
What showing? It's my Jungian Drawers
The Collective Unconscious is how I know
That you love me, and boy, it shows
Freud and Adler are such wretched bores
To you, I'll toss my Jungian Drawers
…….Love leaves our hearts
But memories are shadows
Following us
wherever we may go
We try move on
and get caught up this distraction called life
But sunny days remind us there is darkness in the light
From whence our love remained
Now, has left a gaping hole
Jungian Psychology
The unconscious mind is so disagreeable
Reminiscing can be so deceitful
I try to run
But I move too slow
Because Shadows always come and go
When they leave we never know
Coming to terms with the reality of it all
God it really hurts when pride comes before the fall
Love Leaves our hearts
But memories are shadows……
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