Long Alchemy Poems
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In halls where knowledge blooms, a seedling grows,
A tender shoot of peace midst tomes and chalk.
Through corridors of learning, empathy flows,
As minds unlock the power of kind talk.
Yet violence lurks, a shadow in the light,
Its tendrils reach for the fragile stem.
But education stands, a beacon bright,
To nurture understanding's diadem.
Oh, how we tend this garden of the mind!
With words of wisdom watered, hope takes root.
In classrooms, kernels of compassion find
Rich soil to blossom into golden fruit.
For in this alchemy of heart and head,
We transmute conflict to lead to peace instead.
Listen! The rhythm of a new refrain
Echoes through hallways, break the chains of pain.
In every lesson, every shared insight,
We kindle sparks that set the dark alight.
Dialogues dance, a symphony of souls,
As empathy unwinds it's ancient scrolls.
The classroom's open book
Pages flutter - doves take flight
Peace lessons unfold
Conflict's stormy seas
Calmed by knowledge of lighthouse beam
Safe harbour in sight
Words build sturdy bridges
Spanning chasms of mistrust
Hearts meet in the middle
In the crucible of youthful minds,
We forge the tools to heal our broken world.
Through education, peace itself unwinds.
With every lesson, every heart reminds me:
Compassion's flag must never be unfurled.
In the crucible of youthful minds,
We learn that differences need not divide.
Unity's tapestry slowly comes uncurled,
Through education, peace itself unwinds.
So let this be our pledge, our sacred vow:
To teach not just to know, but to know how.
The mobile mind of the indomitable mariner,
the resolute sailor floating on the waves of life,
rolling on the curled crests with splintered moon,
drawn into dark agony troughs of drowned stars,
spread to oblivion breaking on the shore of past.
The crushed sands carve seaward footprints,
designed by the crumbled contours of decay.
Time arrow points to terrain beyond the shore,
away from the abraded wilderness abandoned,
where the chasm consumes the collapsed hopes.
The weed-webbed wasteland defined deep within,
piles up the washed out wreckage of life unlived.
The withering garden garners metallic bleakness,
as the path paved outside the familiarity fence,
waits to be walked by the mesmerized wanderer
to the mesmeric meadow of tantalizing tomorrow.
The invented alchemy aptitude of mystic memory
makes glittering gold on the rusted crust of ruins.
Marigold blooms in the scrap heap of abiding hope
in the Midas touched junkyard of the metallic mind.
_________________
February 19, 2023
For Brian Strand's Your Choice Again Contest
Snatched away by a mock role.
Despair not.
Discard innocence — a troublesome memory disassociates.
Time recursively scrolls the memory:
Trying / Failing.
When was it lost?
In the combined turbulence
of the intersecting visual produced by
the mind’s perception of reality and self through eyes.
Caught thinking, dreaming:
“What is sleep?"
"I can’t know sleep — who is she?"
"I know she sounds ugly."
"I love sleep, but she doesn’t love me for real.”
Being seen through by another,
yet receiving recognition.
Redemption is still always possible.
Humanity doesn’t have to be some chimerical tragedy.
Alchemic deals made in belligerence,
producing mercurial blood.
In the landscape of entangled existence,
we traversed life on the path of no essence.
Ego chasing the mirage of endless desire,
wandering cynical in wasteland made us tire.
Vanity and craving innately compulsive,
distorted the ethos of obdurate ego obsessive,
conditioning the myopic vision to look at others,
self-awareness turning opaque wouldn’t bother.
The wheel of time churned up disorder dust,
in the chaotic cloud the disarrayed life would adjust.
In maimed moments of dispersed perturbation
truth oscillated on the ripples of confusion.
In the ordained flux of frenzied mental unrest,
things disheveled to change were put to test.
The alchemy of metamorphic divine intervention
unveiled the real façade of basic transformation.
Transmuted self-image escaped egocentricity,
got transfixed within the frame of empathy.
Heavenly intercession in the life reborn,
the strata of dense self-worth got torn.
In the halcyon horizon of the life new
the nascent sun of adoration arose with hue,
painted passionately the pining hearts
with color of love designing perceptive art.
“we woke up early one morn, ego shorn
it felt as though we were in form reborn
nodes within stirred, boundaries blurred
our head and heart, with love concurred”
(Quote by the sponsor)
What breed is this?
Sage or Lunatic,
Chess-Piece or Bard.
Do they see silver in the bloodstream,
hearts pumping hard.
Turning lead to gold.
Re-frabricating a life lived hard.
Pieces of eight, to pay for a life of piracy?
Or innocense stolen, seeking equilibrium and sanity?
Do they have knowledge to pass on,
an altruism
of animal, magnetism,
a charged badge of honor, crested in heart,
emboldened home-sheath, sleeve to cry,
then hone your metal upon.
What propels them on?
Is it the real Olympus, clear,_- Mountain Dew?
Atlantis estranged in Camelot, pouring rivers by the light of the moon?
What propels,
which witch is the spark?
Is it one of Union and Love.
Or did they lose the game
and menace for vengeant troves, of the dark.
Do they Familiar the con of silver,
alchemy,
mesmerism for the greedy?
I want to believe they are rivulets caroming
among the needy.
So I wonder.
Do they speak in a different tongue?
One that reaches out like a serpent,
feeling for the vermilion colored heat under the Son.
It is true, one is the saddest thing.
Reach out, it is the Festival Season
starring a Carnival of Souls.
Stars, not so far out.
North shining to a ship of fools.
Saints and Angels,
under the sleeve of the Triune One.
Of this I have no doubt.
I did not find PoetrySoup.
It summoned me.
For the hungry soul
is guided
by invisible hands.
This is not a café.
It is a temple
disguised as words.
Here,
souls do not compete—
they remember.
Mark Pringle did not build a platform.
He opened a gate.
A quiet gate
for wandering spirits
who lost themselves
in a loud world.
In a world that devours prophets,
he made a table.
In a world that silences seers,
he gave them breath.
Here,
poetry is not decoration.
It is divination.
Each Souper
is both pilgrim and priest,
serving fragments of eternity
in human language.
I stop here often.
Not to escape—
but to return.
To those still wandering,
starving in noise,
thirsty for meaning—
Come.
This is not soup.
This is remembrance.
This is alchemy.
This is home.
For the contrived inducement
of the fixated being,
an aligned identity personified,
changes in self-devised palette
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon,
slyly cocooned,
paints surreptitiously
the shape-shifted portrait
d e c e p t i v e.
In ostensible enactment
of life’s incredible drama,
performance perfected in one-act play
with obsessed passion parodied,
gilds the corollary crafted by alchemy,
an axiomatic designed drive
induces the wily shift
from one actor to another
c o n t r i v e d.
Out of the limelight,
the covert colors fade
on virtually made-up visage,
the pallid original face
morphs mystically into
veracity mirror of actuality,
reflects the real identity depiction,
painted by primal hues of facade
of distinctive disposition
e p i t o m i z e d.
The spasm of pragmatic perception
splits the mirror,
the shards of shattered pretence
in the debris of demolished conceit
disappears in the crypt of obscurity
d i s c a r d e d.
The transformation creates the eluding entity,
an alien in its reinvented realm,
completes the illusory pattern
designed by the paradigm of contrast
ingrained in symbolized persona
d i v er g e n t.
A windswept meadow neath an ambling Apollo lone journey,
Witnessed the efforts of a crowd studded web of twinkling wished upon stars,
Lose its envious magic that they had cast upon the eyes of star-crossed lovers,
To an army of Cupid's charioteers who pulled its blanched Master Moon,
Whilst guided by the genteel gallops of endless Cherubs whom together,
Unleashed a hailstorm of the heart seeking arrow tips that were dipped,
In honeyed filled molasses of numbingly sweet treasured quietude of,
Desirous lust that burst upon contact and releases its alchemy concoction,
Affecting even the strongest of resistors into fathomless mirth of ecstasy,
Swimming in divination depths whose relentless currents unite the noumenon,
Beyond their measure for its extension enwraps the partnered heart to be as,
The eternal one, inseparable, until twilight, trips into the arms of dawn,
For be it a day, until the fall of dusk the story perpetuates a new page it is,
Now it is a better understanding one realized just beyond a mere mesmerize,
Though blank as before as a pen and a windswept meadow wait for lovers tryst.
Date: 09/08/2019
Alchemy
What process need there be to make
of broken things – the real? Great
sorcerers have failed, formed molten
monuments to greed’s glory. I, poor
peasant that I be, had neither flame
nor Patron, nor desire to be purified.
Priests had tried to rid me of the evils
they perceived; prayed and chanted
waving wands and crosses to summon
the fire of hell or open the gates of heaven.
To their chagrin, I remained unchanged.
Alone in a world of twisted wreckage
I formed alliances with the aspects of
my being that had resisted the sorcery.
Realizing that I was an individual and
need not be party to the organized
incarceration of my mind and spirit.
I honed the edges of my intellect on
tools hand fashioned by experience.
Culled the detritus of past lunacy
and sorted carefully aspects that
might still be of use.
Fear, that mighty bastard, fought
to stay on the throne surrounded
by its henchmen – hate, rage, and
an ever present anger. My choice?
Flee the kingdom or take the crown.
I could no longer remain in exile from
my self but had my self-alchemy the
strength to approach the pseudo
King and challenge his hold on the
empire?
Thus did I, we, the many aspects of
my being, conspire to outwit and
outmaneuver a slow, entrenched,
inflexible imposter. Slowly the seeds
of truth took root, gave blossom to
integrity, trust, and a self-reliance
not based on self. Wisdom followed,
slowly, as is wisdom’s want. So did
the alchemy of youth give way to the
alchemy of growth, the alchemy of
ego to the alchemy of spirit. So was
my darkness brought into the light
my weakness into strength, my being
restored.
John G. Lawless
O my country—
I cleave to you through cataclysm and grief,
even as avenues bleed vermilion
with the coagulated ire of the dispossessed.
The atmosphere quivers
with the dirge of the abandoned,
their supplications dissolving
into the ashen ether.
Yet, in the clandestine chamber of my chest,
a prayer still germinates—
fragile, obstinate.
Your rivers, unwearied,
intonate their primordial canticle;
your fields, still fecund,
proffer aureate abundance.
But the firmament, once lucent,
is now barbed with malevolence,
and the throats of the guileless
are muted mid-cry.
Once, benevolence flowered here,
now calcified suspicion
roots itself deep in the soil.
And yet—
if the hand sows fraternity again,
if mercy’s sap ascends,
perhaps a concord can still unfurl.
Let the splintered heart reconverge.
Let compassion accrue
like rain in a desiccated land.
Let faith, austere and indomitable,
illumine the labyrinth toward amity.
Through maelstroms I remain,
through conflagrations I endure—
for even the umbral abyss
concedes to dawn.
Your essence is unyielding,
your anima indestructible.
My country,
through the alchemy of hope
we shall resuscitate your breath.