Long Conjures Poems
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What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
if zee al chemist trump doth win go hide in the bunker
to save your ass
brace yourself as this don holed
confabulates that gold iz brass
and conjures prestidigitation
like spinning false hoods in2 truth - crass
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
a synonym force head fabricator -
will threaten democracy, thus be afraid
as this pompous voice quotes
from hiz playbook, which = a charade
the hard core truths, he
(who i liken to the plague) doth evade
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
and dreams up fault of Barack Obama
for extinction of dinosaurs,
crucifixion of Jesus Christ
down fall of the Roman Empire,
or far tethered Fred Flintsone ca fetching an escapade
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
yea...this rip pub lick'n presidential contender
evinces a psyche that did brexit n got frayed
building and monopolizing castles in the sky -
nonexistent as a grade
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
school fib - or donning role
as play ground bully teaming with ivan
the terrible to dominate the greensward
in the above fiction, but...man
that loose canon dressing his
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
"make america great again" gag line - whar i ran
and mid eastern countries will rise
as one cheering him as star of global hit parade
despite any raging oppositional pandaemonium
birth er ring a conflagration
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
kenya believe the world acquiesces
to thine projected masquerade
blocking im grate shunning crowds -
which number of people rival in size
taller (if stack one atop thee other)
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
than the trump tower casino or high rise
with his signature - hm...mebbe funds provided
by drug lords, the swedish house mafia
or terrorist ties???
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
whom security details silence by tossing a hand grenade
sham on you Potemkin village people for quaffing draughts
from elixir purportedly to transform visage with trademark
swept back, wavy and coiffed hirsute.
Form:
This imprisonment of clay,
this putrid jarred tint subjected to time's defeat,
this cankered vile contagion.
tossed to and fro as on a sea with unrelenting anchorage of ease,
this worm, ephemeral in the bay leaf of existence.
this dirt of appointed time, fixed by irreversible decree,
fleeting by clipped tickle,
here mere mortal toiling to gather stones, hay and stubble.
with diseased brow,
worms fighting worms for passing fame.
Finite frame transiting through ceaseless vanities
myriads from these pains,
willingly oblivious of the power of Time,
throng the gates of mammon to hideous and dreadful apparition,
little minds, unwilling to enlist in the real battle.
And multitudes ignoring the signpost in rush to gaiety
several on sensuous doorway to doom.
As captives of Lust, enslaved by Ashmodeus
This Frame wears Luciferous garbs
Pharaoh and Herod bodied
The beast of pride, despising the breath of his nostril
conjures theories of atheism from his erratic emotions
arrogating his existence and all to “second cause”
despising the first cause preceding all causes.
They go on and on they go.
There were abject who in time past, cut the cables of belief
sailing over the tempestuous ocean of free thought.
reviled the coast of revelations
seeking Life among the dead,
and rushing on the mad voyage,
wondering through confused obscurity
In search of life in all vice to the very extremities,
wearied by wasted years,
came to their senses.
Looking up to His hill,
To Yonder Light through the Cross
casting all dependence aside
they enter the Ark
These now deal in matters of eternal realities,
unknown, unsought, conscripted to miseries still,
pangs shot through their faces as arrows piercing a foe,
These have deceased bodies and suffers too,
Longing for the returning of the King
these likewise are subject to the monstrous ills of the decaying filth
but for a time,
the dying body, taunted, Jeered and calumniated.
carrying about a third force unknown to all, the Spirit.
They do battles with unseen foes to keep a pace with Him
unseen spirits their attendants.
Myriads watching the match from vantage confines,
though among men, mere men no longer.
Come in No Luxury required
I wander through the corridors of my mind,
a labyrinth of echoes and whispers,
Where each heartbeat is a drummer of destiny,
and each breath a sigh of the cosmos.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet—all are bound by the threads of imagination,
A tapestry of madness, love, and creation,
each thread, an untold story.
The lunatic, lost in his own abyss,
sees devils where none dare tread,
His mind a vast inferno, a prison of phantoms and fears,
Where every shadow is a specter, every whisper, a scream,
A world where reality bends and breaks,
shattering into shards of despair.
The lover, consumed by the flames of passion,
sees beauty in the most improbable places,
Helen's grace in the brow of Egypt,
his heart a cauldron of desire and ardor,
His soul dances on the edge of reason,
a waltz of ecstasy and sorrow,
Where every glance is a promise,
every touch, a whisper of eternity.
And then, the poet, with eyes that see beyond the veil,
Glances from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
in a frenzy of creation,
His pen a wand that conjures worlds from the void,
giving form to the formless,
Turning airy nothing into shapes,
dreams into reality, shadows into light.
In this enchanted twilight, I feel the pulse of their existence,
A rhythm that resonates with the deepest parts of my soul,
As imagination breathes life into the unknown,
crafting stories from the ether,
Each word, a spell, each verse,
a thread in the infinite tapestry of time.
The moon, a silent witness to my musings,
casts its silver gaze upon the world,
Turning night into a canvas of dreams,
a stage for the dance of shadows.
And in its light, I see the reflections of the lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Their lives intertwined in the delicate web of my thoughts,
Each one a mirror, reflecting the facets of my own existence.
In the end, we are all lunatics, lovers, and poets,
Lost in the labyrinth of our minds,
where imagination reigns supreme,
Each moment a spark of madness,
each heartbeat, a note of love,
each breath, a whisper of poetry.
And as we journey through the realms of our own creation,
We leave behind a legacy of dreams and desires, a testament to the magic within us,
A poem that sings through the ages, a melody that never fades.
Not that you asked,
or ever would feel free to inquire,
yet perhaps you grow ready to listen
to a voice inviting exit
from your,
and our,
long loneliness,
self-contempt,
isolation so shelled-over,
so embedded,
you are sure we are each and all
unredeemably alone
In our envy of others,
the positive deviants
with apparently healthy organic
and resonant
and resilient relationships
While we remain powerless to conjure enough curiosity
to discover
and/or rediscover
our own win/win potentialities,
personal
and political,
economic
and ecologically regenerative.
Depression conjures
dark apartness messes
all your own too-competitive fault.
But, your depression,
emotional and/or economic,
political and/or environmental,
like my own,
is no more or less your fault
than is Donald Oompa Trumpa President
of all anti-ecological wisdom,
a new ungreen post-millennial oxymoron,
and Earth's algorithmic degeneration
into lose/lose fragility,
And privileged human SuperEgo's declention
disarray
dismay
despair into xenophobic rabidity
oligarchical madness
global depression
mutual suppression
liberally invested in every thing
but love,
curiosity
recovering win/win birth canal memory,
a magical moment of hope for Earth's warm light
of lifetime win/win recovery.
Your depression is your fault
only in this warm right-brain accompaniment sense
of feeling and knowing we are a fluid,
yet stuck, State
that is our shared win/lose fault
of left-brain dominating culture
parsing compassion stingily,
saving for glorious and
win/win right-brain interdependent
un-lonely Rapturous sacred end.
But, as every community organizer
and integral permaculture designer
and restorative justice advocator
knows from win/win v win/lose v loselose
retributive v restorative justice experience,
we cannot end a resilient health-building project
that will include
any and all multicultural win/win faith
if we did not embody already inside
as we began
pushing through our original organic tunnel
toward Earth love's first light
and unmuted sounds
of greeting,
warm accompaniment
universal co-present love,
Hope
faith in EarthMother's warm feeding breast
from whence we each compassion came
come
and go.
Brave New World
A 'world' it is and it spins around in mad circuits of loopy loops.
Has reached an infinite array of denominations in which foolish
insane clowns have taken over the asylum once more as bedlam
pretends liberation as the counterfeit currency of nauseating progress.
'New' I have my doubts though when fiddling with reconstruction
conjures novel aspirations from Holocaust to Hiroshima from pure
race unadulterated megalomania to narcissistic greed ‘all can be
done’ but the genie emerges from Huxley’s toxic bottle unrestrained.
'Brave' should pertain to courage when golden means and common
sense of virtue defaced by ugly grimaces facades mascara of tainted
moderation succumbs to mediocrity construed by disingenuous evil.
An aberration of jesters plotting naked feasts of blinded engineering.
Temptation is an ancient theme and just because we are capable to
plot our own demise does not preclude some hesitation or valid
inhibition as courage must incorporate the rationale. Not to follow in
wolf’s clothing a script of Faustian cloning just because we can.
Manipulation of chromosomes through twisted recombining helices
as a stairway to hell gave us Dolly the sheep. Another incarnation
braying ‘Give me body parts’ to harvest stem cells modified amino
acids like little devils on steroids and protein shakes of unpredictability.
The most cunning argument for creating whole new persons brought
to the fore the notion that if we the ‘good ones’ do not follow science
to create what evolution failed to build from nature’s garden and God’s
promise then the malign others surely will and consequently all is lost.
The mind boggles in the light of self-righteousness and the delusion
that refusal and resistance are signs of cowardice and the misconception
that two or numerous wrongs result in right and law when duty could
prevail as guardian for another world of sanity and accepting our limits.
The thought police and miscreant paradigms of Dolly’s dogma will surely
try to silence my opinion that courage has another merit than the scientific
infestation that my mind and brain needs to be cloned in order to restrain
my voice of caution but when I shout ‘enough’ at least my dignity remains.
Can you see the radiance in her smile? That beautiful row of white goodness that makes me forget there are other people existing in the world. Can you see the sensuousness of her skin? That caramel chocolate sensation I love to drown my thoughts in... I know you can see the way her hips sway with such perfect synchronicity, the image alone conjures thoughts loving in perpetuity. Can you see her hazel eyes? Twin pools of perfection to cool this body on a hot summer day. I am but a watcher; if I were a collector of beautiful things I would spare no exertion to have her be mine.
Can you smell the scent of her femininity? An aroma so intoxicating that I will never want another high. Can you hear the sound of her voice? That calming husky baritone that brings waves of peace to my conscious mind. I know you can see that lovely mane of hair, that black hair with the specks of gold and red to entrance every eye. I am but an admirer; if I were a man of means I might have the courage to speak to her.
My eyes avoid catching hers in a moment stolen, so afraid am I that she will see the hunger brimming therein. I look at her and see everything that I am not but everything that I need. I see laughter and that carefree nonchalance of youth and brevity that I so crave but that elude me. I envy the water that gets to cascade down her body when she bathes. I envy the wind that gets to caress her long luscious legs as she dons that skirt that invokes feelings in me that are not easily suppressed. . I envy the sun that gets to warm her body when she is chilled. I envy the moon that watches over my sleeping beauty as she dreams of people she does know. I envy the man who gets her sighs and knows her dreams. I envy him not only because he is all she wants but because he is all that I can never be for her.
While my heart is the one that loves her with the fervour of a thousand fires and the intensity of a million lifetimes; he kisses her, touches her and holds her and she loves him to a place beyond distraction; he is all that she thinks she needs, he is her man. I am left to watch and admire from a distance. How can I compete? After all, he is the man of her childhood fantasies; all that I am is a girl who fell in love with the wrong goddess.
"I am no more witch than you are; and if you take away my life, God will give you blood to drink." —Sarah Good, July 19, 1692, before her execution during the Salem witch trials
I tell myself it's an accident, hurting this man, making him bleed. The Impala is hot; I’m sixteen. It’s 1989, and drive-ins have wired speakers encased in cast-metal boxes tethered to poles sunk six inches deep, spaced at intervals wide enough to fit a family car.
late summer hits
We hook the heavy speakers inside the lip of each rolled-up window. It’s barely intermission before they fog up—I’m pushing off my date, yelling stop. We haven’t even gotten popcorn yet. He pulls me toward him, I yank back—each lurch of Impala brings loud thuds of protest from the speakers pressed against its glass. Then a sharp crack—windows shatter, spraying piles of safety-grade diamonds into our laps. That **** goes everywhere.
starlings screech in surround sound
Cold night air rushes in with the collapse of glass. I smell the salt and tang of heat-lamp nachos, remember I’m hungry. He sits gravestone still, calls it an omen. I laugh out loud. Look at the mess you made, I say, running my hands through the shards, fingers reflecting like stars in the light of the big screen. What will I tell my parents is all I can think.
murmur south for food
He turns his big eyes to mine and calls me a witch. As if yelling stop, stop is the problem, a spell that conjures small gods to break windows—throw hell-bending elbows as hard and unforgiving as his wedding band glinting in the dirty cup holder.
fall is beginning
He drops me at Taco Bell, six blocks from my house. I shed a trail of fractured glass the whole walk home, tell myself they're white sapphires when they crunch under my soles, already rehearsing my side of the story.
feathers green now gilt with gold
The next morning, I wash the rest of the night from my hair. We both tell different versions of what happened, cut different details, people, in and out of it.
invasive species
Hummingbird..
Hummingbird with light brimming
Sing a song to awaken flowers that are hiding
On the gentle breezes I see you riding
Peace to all you bring
As if by magic you hover in time
The divine quiet of your wings drumming
You remind us to be still but never rigid
Sending us love to open our hearts
Softly you plant a seed in our doubts
When the seed begins to bud
One by one our doubts fall away
All pain dimming
Resolving lifes contradictions
Imbuing our world with every colour of the rainbow
Filling our souls with joy
Soothing heart and mind
Never wanting to be caged
To always fly free
Teaching us to live in harmony
~*~
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Inspired by Debbie Guzzi's newest blogs..
I like Hummingbird because of their magical qualities, Hummingbird feathers have long been used for the making of love charms. It is said that Hummingbird conjures love as no other medicine does, and that Hummingbird feathers open the heart. Without an open and loving heart, you can never taste the nectar and pure bliss of life. To Hummingbird, life is a wonderland of delight!
If Hummingbird is your personal medicine, you love life and its joys. Your presence brings joy to others. You join people together in relationships which bring out the best in them. You know instinctively where beauty abides and, near or far, you journey to your ideal. You move comfortably within a beautiful environment and help others to taste the succulent nectar of life.
If Hummingbird has flown into your life today, get ready to laugh and enjoy the Creator's many gifts. Drop your judgmental attitudes and relax. Hummingbird will no doubt give you a flash of the spirit, darting here, there, and everywhere. Get ready for a strange new burst of energy which may send your senses reeling.
Hummingbird hears celestial music and is in harmony with it. Hummingbird may invite you to an art museum or a concert. Follow Hummingbird and you will soon be filled with joy and experience a renewal of the magic of living!
Is it a butterfly out in the blue,
poised in its daintily delicate flight—
nebula N G C six three oh two—
offering rhymers a poem to write?
In our galaxy, that is the Way Milky,
with structure bipolar in particular,
appear those elongated wings so silky,
from the gas that’s spewed forth perpendicular
to the doughnut-shaped dust ring pinching its core.
Talk about outer space distances far,
this butterfly stretches two light-years and more,
half the distance from Sun to the nearest star,
which is Alpha Centauri, to be precise.
This fairytale picture, a magical treat
like sugar and spice and everything nice,
doth awaken our childhood senses sweet.
Found in the Scorpius Constellation,
it’s known as the Bug Nebula as well.
Yet in this versified celebration
its Butterfly name suits the tale to tell.
With dust belt that gives it an hourglass mien,
though appearance deceives and perceptions can spoil,
one conjures up quite an impression serene.
But cauldrons of heated gas furiously roil
within each planetary nebula wing
of the butterfly that it’s resembling.
The gas tears across this immense outer space
at six hundred thousand miles an hour!
Imagine a butterfly at such a pace
frantically flitting from flower to flower!
So Butterfly Nebula’s not as it seems.
Like the bubble, bubble, trouble and toil
in nightmarish witch Shakespearean dreams,
it is seething in inner and outer turmoil…
And with dying star center five times mass solar,
no wonder that poor butterfly is bipolar!
~ Harley White
[Inspiration for the poem was from the article, 'Butterfly Emerges from Stellar Demise in Planetary Nebula NGC 6302' ~ Image: NGC 6302 (Butterfly Nebula, Bug Nebula) ~ The image is a composite of separate exposures made by the WFC3 instrument on the Hubble Space Telescope. Six filters were used to sample narrow wavelength ranges. The color results from assigning different hues (colors) to each monochromatic image. ~ Image credit: NASA, ESA, and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team]