Long Avalon Poems
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I wish to reminisce
Upon the bliss
Of triumph
And the agony
Of tragedy;
Are they not twin and twisted ends
Observed as life occured
In random spurts and trends?
To calculate and gauge his fate
Man did create
The chime of time;
One more illusion born
Inside the mystic mind.
But once accepted
Does become illusion now rejected
And reality's new find.
As time is heard to tock and tick
We do begin to ration it -
Evaluate and allocate
Each tick and tock upon the clock.
Life is lived by few
Observed by many
And understood by none -
Not one!
Though volumes have been written
And creative man is smitten
By the elegance of eloquence
In erudite philosophies
Combined with feeble prophecies;
Man still can only speculate and fabricate
More trendy theories empty of all consequence.
The bard of Avalon
Knew nothing new would ever be
Found underneath the sun;
And though the bard is gone
His truth lives on and on and on.
Man's emotional devotion
To dissecting every notion
Into tiny bits from bigger bits
Until he finds a bit that fits
Within his pre-dissection so prophetic wit of wits,
Has only gained mankind
A loss of nonexistent time.
And in another galaxy
Far, far away,
There is a sweaty desert prophet
Eating crawling things and calling
All inhabitants to suck on worms
And be reborn
In squirmy wormy ritual rebirth.
Their prophet is quite similar to one
Found once upon a time right here on earth.
The Prophet:
"Repent, repent,
Prevent, prevent,
And then repent again;
Then maybe the creator of this hot incinerator
Will awaken His forsaken self, procrastinator
Self, and will begin his job again creating good...forgiving sin.
Now crack this crispy critter's back till flat between your teeth,
There's nothing like a juicy, chewy bug to feed your love;
It tastes a bit like chicken say the bug gourmets beneath
The desert floor who rarely speak to we who live above.
Go save your soul and eat your treat
And I will stay right here to greet
The Son of the Creative One
Who says His work is never done;
But after all He is the Son
Of He who always needs to sleep
And blood can run in blood so deep
Such lazy ways may slowly creep
And leave the Son of One too weak
To carry on the awesome dawn
With all creative juices gone."
(A Marriage of Poems)
A single glance is an expression enough
with eyes dotted with its punctual punctuation.
A sigh deep enough in loves' trough
that a trance can turn it blue,
if only a beloved statuesque-
emotion carved cold and true.
Coupled in that in, that love is
in,
ward to toast the cold of emptiness.
To thwart a lonely abyss,
by injection-fjord, Nile, Oasis.
A place inside, hides in love
a place we'd share,
if life breaks in shard
antithesis baring teeth-
that puzzle the lost end-pieces.
So do we be it, as love as it does.
I know the first way,- is honey to my lips;.
My lover has no answer that is removed of this.
No-answer can have any relevance,
be cause we revel unto it's mysterious madness,
roil in the mud of it's effervescence.
There a love is an adventures trove.
One which I must for now only mentally tear,
among Avalon's Mists.
But if no longer the future,
where do I, we go from here?
Has this way known as far;
It has its
sounding board-Shofar in Scale
of Angelic Harpsichord
soothing sorts upon a forlorn Star..
So tell me of more !,
and can I have
its keepsake recollection ?
of my dreams refection,
reflect, deflect, defect for now,
for twice at once my Spirit be.
So that I have a link to my Avalon Witch.
know I`'ll have a new name
in this dark world sea,
till what your soul feels to me.
Is a buoy to a squall,
cool shade on an arid beach.
Your covering, covers everything, but what The Lord
doth to us both bring-in His Mystery,
Magesty.
O Blanketed Mirth,
your security-warns of Spring,
on a coldest winter day you feeds me
by magical Autumnal Whirlwind of otherworld
in Cacophony.
Rebirthed, rich and smokey, stirring,
brewing alchemy.
Astral and Earthy, beginning of a journey.
A canopy at our feet
Light shines on leaves of rose petal
on a cobblestone street.
To give, love -and hope at tease in play.
O but know when a night?is as stark
as this as dark as this.
Then love, you
have your purpose s way.
For in you, my mind can only live the dreams of day.
Expecting your expectant pregnancy.
Deal to me your Trefoil, Diamond of Heart in Spades.
Dig me out of Worldly grave.
Deliver me from solitary singularity.
Virtues are more than they appear to be.
Ripples of connectivity.
Something switched on with the light?
A companion, manual, override.
Especially when storm clouds rear- appear to ruin the blue skies'-
But not like a knife,
that cuts the whole in holes,
of possibility.
Like procedural shears.
Is it Godless or Goddess ambrosia?
A poultice tea for the sick?
A placebo innoculation against lack of faith?
Selfishness in self paranoia,
Just for your sake.
A dark principality and clever mind-
Vampirism-Medicating prophylactively against
the stake, like an aneurism.
Those pesky ghosts of darkness.
In the blood.
Possess your sconces, flame, dead.
After it burns your wick at both ends.
Seek to destroy, the lightbringing.
Your senses dampened,
fuse blown
guard down.
Darkness.
On the Rampage.
Rampant.
Their Entrance.
Gained instead.
your abode,
not yet
accepting the gift of Life ?
lone
you abide,
Crashing the rifts,
Is this right?
Do YOU still not believe?
YOU are a (A still born-unborn,)
that be's -
the one that grieves?
A loss.
Of integrity?
Keeps an eye on the prize.
Under the storm of seize.
The Gate Keeper with beauty under wing.
Keep an eye for.
The Ace up the sleeve.
--------
No strings attached, divorce yourself from responsibility, integrity.
Lies.
Faithful predictability?
No connectivity. No breath or girth
No cosmic sister. No brother.
Accident of birth, No love or family or anything home team.
Insignificant things or other?
Life, just random, little, quirks?
The illusion filament.
An antibody to judgment,
Ultimately, to be or not to be
sedated
by needs?
Deflated by deeds
Unplanted seed.
A Dawn to share.
Unborn fruit to bare.
No fear.
He IS near.
Integrity is there,
a silver lining that adds true colors hue
against the black and white.
The false and the true.
Out of the blue.
Something that makes Avalon appear in the misty near.
Clearly.
A magic against the shade of Night.
A cloak and warmth to pull tight.
Peace of mind.
I say piece of soul.
That is never changing.
Someone to be connected to is
happiness, an insurance policy against a reason to be.
for clarity, you may want to read the footnotes
the mute swan's song
has an ambiance
where motion moves naught
it hovers in an existence
where time becomes meaningless
lighting is aloof, a halo shining down
the white bed becomes a herald of angels
ready to move as the song fades
into Empyreal Heights never to return
lights dance in the mind
racing from red to blue into green
the machines are performing
appointed tasks, measuring vitals
in their ending throes
wires and tubes feeding each moment
a record of the battle
as life succumbs to the inevitable
your eyes are closed
breathing has become shallow
holding your hand, grasping at life
adding each precious moment
to a memory long embedded in happiness
we grew into this silence, holding hands
lost in a simple joy of each other's company
when our souls existed as one
i look up and the breathing has ceased
she is free of this mortal coil
i bury my tears into her hand
the lights are blue, red, and green
have gone silent
rising to my feet i bend to kiss her
whisper into her ear
please take me with you
Sweet Swan of Avalon, sing now for me
let your quill mark my wish in grief
please take me with you
life is an endless tide
that holds us within its laws
caught within the flood current
we have no power over its ebb
there exists no safe harbor
free from the tidal laws
mother's thoughts on this were
mourn a day and return to the plow
life is about the living
whose last whisper into her ear
please take me with you
OKC 9/22
The term “swan song” comes from the belief that Mute Swans (Cygnus olor) were completely silent until the last few moments of their life, when they would sing a beautiful song. Although this is an ancient myth and was proven to be false, as far back as 77A.D., the legend has lived on and the term swan song has become mainstream.
Shakespeare himself frequently featured this bird in his writing and was given the epithet “Sweet Swan of Avon.” He remarked that, although it was mute, it sang its swan song when ready to die. In act 8 of his play Othello, she was remorseful to similarly remark, “I will play the swan and die in music. “
I warned you about Mother telling her stories.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
I warned you about the magic
of golem and djinn,
about lilac walks
and mysterious circuses.
Stranded mice,
abandoned mice,
runaway mice,
unexceptional princesses,
all fodder for the worst sort of daydreaming.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Sisters telling stories in bird language
as they browse bookstores in Paris
and tapestries of tales
told by women who are unicorns
invite all sorts of imaginings,
nothing practical,
all frivolous flights of fancy.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Leave Avalon to lie in the mist,
allow the city of chains
to fall into the abyss,
let wolf-women run
through Rome’s seven hills alone.
Close your ears to Mother’s stories,
cover your eyes so you aren’t ensnared
by the magic of gesture.
Let the story end,
leave the queen encased in crystal
and the flower-maiden weeping
in underground halls;
don’t send the children out
to peek under toadstool and
fern forests for wee wicked folk.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Tell them no,
you’ll not hear the hoofbeats
as the horseman stalks the village,
rabbits don’t wear watches,
mermaids don’t dance,
fillies don’t fly.
Tell the children no,
abandoned princesses don’t wear crowns of stars,
maids don’t marry monsters
in return for a single rose,
they don’t marry the north wind,
they don’t spin dynasties
on outlawed spinning wheels.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
See what comes of Mother’s stories:
the children run wild through the wood
seeking musical menageries,
they wade into seaside caves
singing for selkies.
They ask for tales told
by orphaned princesses
hiding in palace gardens
and songs sung by shieldmaidens.
They want stories
of women made of glass
and sagas sung by lionesses,
princesses who save miners’ sons
and princesses who save themselves.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
No good will come of Mother’s stories,
I said,
and now all is topsy-turvy
and the children have run off
to the goblin market.
Copyright 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
POETIC LYRICS BY RENATA (THOMAS) L.H. ANDRESS
Gilbraltar and Rock...monuments...amongst the Stars!
White Knights...and castles...hills and giants!
White sails...and cabin boys...giants amongst the Stars!
Scented Knights...dreams and dragons...climbing beyond the Stars!
Gilbraltar and Rock...a sweet guitar...His song and Mine!
Strings and Flutes...a hallow...sounding...deep echoes in the Night!
The day we set sail...AVALON...A LEGEND!
MY HOLY GRAIL!
An echo of a dream...riding fast...branches in the Night!
Glorious burst of Lightning!
CRACKS...of Thunder!
HOOVES...beating...FAST...riding fast!
A Legend A Terror...in the Night...with my White Knight!
Gilbraltar and Rock...THE BEAST and BEATS...riding fast!
The day we set sail...AVALON...A LEGEND!
MY HOLY GRAIL...in hand...A PRINCE...in Hand!
Black Nights and...Scarves of Purple...Silken...RED ROSES
And Legends...A SWORD...A LEGEND!
Smoky mirrors and legends...dreams in pink...CHAMPAGNE BUBBLES!
A Toast...A Tear...A Legend...A Hard...Riding Legend!
Gilbraltar a Rock...HIM AND ME...ME AND HIM!
It was THE...SWEETEST SONG...AVALON...TREASURED!
THE HARDEST...KNIGHTS...RIDING HARD...THROUGH...
THE BLACKEST FORESTS!
And when I awoke...Merlyn Came...THE WISE...in white robe and hat...
LEGENDS...THEY...COME AND GO!
Gilbraltar and Rock...Strings and Flutes!
THE SWEETEST...MUSIC...IN PANOPLIED...GOLDEN STARS!
Gaunlets of Torn Hands...ROSE-MENDED...AND BENDED...
TORN!
A RING...A JOURNEY...A PASSAGE IN!
Your Ship Leaves...The Legend!
Your Passage...TO SANCTUARY...AWAITS!
AVALON...AND THE LEGEND!
Gilbraltar and Rock...THE LEGEND!
ROSE-MENDED...and...BENDED...
TORN...AND...TESTED...TORN...TO LOVE!
It was...Gilbraltar and Rock...A...KNIGHT'S...FLUTE!
Poet's Own Notes:
Renata Miller, beloved daughter of MacPherson and Mae Miller...
Of Miller & Scott Tissue...who died circa 1967 (at the tender age of 7)!
"Waiting in Vain" performed by Annie Lennox, "Thank you kindly!"
life is a messy slurry
Tyson fury
an Olga tumble
an Ali shuffle
a low cal rumble
in nuclear jungles
hammer and sickle
stars and stripes
a polka dot pickle
citizen cocaine in the middle
PURPLE PEOPLE EATERS
living is a tsunami ripple
a wobbly foal
a quick snort
napalm ponds made by bombs
divorce court
building doomsday arcs
your first kiss
soccer moms
dodging pervs in the park
a cachexic dream
preppers become the wise men
of a crack house society
butterflies sipping cream
OWLS FURRY DREAMING
grand slamming the babe
sand made into glass
back stabbers
section 8 scammer
just for kicks perform conception
watch the tadpoles grow into nervous tics
where the hell is thAT bubble headed babysitter
Its 66 minutes past 6
life is jaws that kill
jaws that lick
kids wilding
the earth is far beyond sick
life is smart phone indifference
boomers and millennials navigating the river Styx
with floaties and a soggy boat made of paper prayers
life is a forgotten god
gaming in his lair
searching for us
in the muck
finding attic junk
a crucifix
a triple six
circles and cycles
tricycles and unicycles
flat wheels
banana peel religion
slipping
into
wiccan ditches
warlocks-angels with phds
living on the street
with lepers kissing pristine witches
life is one big blurry lake
sipping opaque
rolling of the dice
felt tables aflame
its all a game
cardboard homes
the man tossing bones
convicts in nursing homes
brevity versus eternity
caskets and bassinets
golden years sacrificed to red hat enraged
under waged ogres...with no impulse control
what will be etched into my stone
"he was a self centered prick of a father
couldn't be bothered with the kids
wielded a big cold ugly stick
long on criticism short on compliments
but slick with the iPhone
knuckle walking drone
E=MC I got Hammered
...all lives are to soon forgotten
even by the weeds circling pauper crosses
and the granite monuments of Avalon.
Court the Raven, count the birds
Seven there is, flying above
She waited for my soul, but got my body
I challenged her, to sleep herself
While the dead air, whipped her hair
I brushed back strands of time behind her ear
When she awoke, pistol in hand
Counting graves, adding sins
Her eyes were black like a death,
Her body was long, just like Hell
Seven there is flying above
Checking for the ones whose time has come
I find her beautiful, what is your name?
Tell me why your fingertips are laced with ice
Who are the people that walk behind you?
Just those that trade life after
The mist has crept back towards her
Seeking that she cometh apocalyptic now
Bang! Bang! there goes her pistol
Sounding the ponies of avalon
A million years I watched her walk
Never smiling, just watching like me
The ones who tried to win her heart
So bad, they wished to die
God sentenced her this inheritance
Unbiased to Heaven or Hell
Although she gains a passage to both
Dragging souls from mortals
And leaving their shells
In a casket closed
When the living will be a lie,
The sweetest secret she shared with me
When the dead be of truth,
My black bride came a walkin' to me
I carried her pass a threshold
Where the ancestors murmur and grieve
The jagged bones and skeletons
All began to drip dusty tears, on a hearts sleeve
Court the Raven, for that be her name
The Reapers daughter, I fell in love
Her love took me as high as the Seven birds flown
Her sensuality grasped my breath a deadly
She puckered on my cheek
A death without a name
And it came unseen
Like a midnight entertwining to bewitching
Shot down by her hand
Turned down by her hand in marriage
Just another lover without a mate
Watch black Ravens, interpretation of a love game
She is a masterpiece of wild contradiction,
fuse blown by a wick, of litmus tongue in your senses-
her moods shifting chameleonic shades everything at once
in candle wax trick or residue residing nowhere.
Heart's firework pinwheel blown
by a wish everywhere
and summoned without lips service-
to neither Hades, Avalon nor Loch Ness, lore.
In her magic lies a silent non disclosure appeasment,
a benediction like a life preserver of electric feel.
Her trinkets are cursed idols, in a pool of profoundness laid- imply at your feet, dewly spilled.
She sheds jade droplets of faceted
watershed moments,
strings them like pearls
to loose your balance on your
precipitated emotion.
She is "in the field"- set of runged abominations-
of a fools notion.
Jade droplets of faceted conglomeration
bathed of precipitale- emotion-
swimming your head like electric eel.
She is a storm brewing inside a jewel,
vagabond bauble non descript versing of
evident residual haunting your soul to steal-
new horizon, taunting virgin territory, with infatuation, lightning.
Underwritten page of felt covertly, subtly everything hunting, seasoned overtly sensory heightened display.
Moraed morals, moreover-sustained
of overlay fonting the atmosphere
cover paged as she wears where she lays.
The sky, a distant dream in the ocean of her gaze,
Wind stripped bare in a pool of borrowed
rhymes swimming your head in amaze
as we scramble for the right words to parlay
in her charms way.
In her voice lies a silent romance
leaving more questions than answers in her wake,
as her moods shift, atelier 'steem-roller,
like runic winds
of intolerant display, mind, screen-controler.
Touchstones in a pool of profoundness,
sun ray sing song at hand after the reigns.
The Holy Land
The butchers slab of Hell, of Christian and Infidel.
Swords slash and cut lose the soul, fear! not
conscience pays the toll. And yet with battles
endless plight, the cut and thrust, ferocious might.
For all the dark one ray of light, that gentle kiss
one moonlit night.
Antioch, no quarter asked no quarter given, the
sword from blood to bone is driven. Then in the
twinkling of an eye, the pain a sickening cry. Thud
the arrow hit my chest, piecing bone and armoured
vest. From horse to earth I did fall, with failing
breath her name did call.
And there he stood with coal black eye, be still
Christian or you will die. The arrow is close to
heart, I must remove less the poison start. With
those words I drift to sleep, back to Avalon and
a promise keep. Was it hours or was it days, the
Devil tricks and mind it plays. When I woke he
was kneeling east, offering prayer to man and
beast. He saw me said rest Christian your heart
is sweet, it is full of love but incomplete. A
greener land and softer hue awaits, it is not we
who control our fates. Pray tell me what's your
name, he said call me friend are we not the same.
Jealousy and greed corrupt our aim, in our Gods
name we create our shame. He gave me rest he
gave me balm, kept the fire and kept me warm.
I asked him why. He gave me that soft dark eyed
look, he said Christian it's all about a book. A man
who stopped to aid an injured man, a man ignored
by his own country men. Yes I said the good
Samaritan, and my book has these stories to.
Your stronger now your wound has healed, time
to leave this foreign field. My family awaits with
open arms, peace and warmth and all its charms.
I clenched his hands and kissed his cheek, as if
brothers in words did speak.