Long Immortally Poems
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Embracing my retiring place
includes not only green and granite geographic dimensions
in space
But also extending back experienced roots
of 264 seasons past
having co-evolved this matriarchal wombing 2020 present
As if co-gravitation of historic time
with current place
were a creative pre-visioned design of space
dipolar co-arising deja-vu choice
to embrace, with coincidental love revivals,
or disgrace, with even more bipolar fear-mongering,
And usually something merely mortal
yet immortally cooperative
in-between what has been competitive Win/Lose explained
and what could become WinWin integrity
of exclaiming dance and song
Embracing my ego place,
How could that go wrong?
While not ignoring ecosystemic health
of this historic evolving space,
sacred integrity of revolving incarnations,
romantic race
toward multiculturing grace,
Withour fear's least merely secular
ZeroTrace.
I gathered the sheer notion that true emotions
bottled beyond one'sown soul creates
untimely gestures unlived out through
human actions through human emotions
we are then driven to a calm rapture
of emotional madness balanced within
the mere naught ofneeding or desiring
a taunting nature filled with lust why one
mustn't consciously consume such closeness
for another's soul without feeling foolishly wild
that one's own breathless panting could be
hopelessly taken away in an instance by thought
to be therefore left alone with only a fathom of a
profound memory of the souls own inner most
passionate heart while entering into a life force
of it's own to be catered lest we forget the bountiful
energy a source of pure compassion an intimate wanting
nurturing craving to be loved spiritually immortally eternally
When the time comes
and we depart two different ways,
I feel an utter hollowness within me
that I can't portray.
These weekends are like a gateway to meet with you,
to fulfill all those cravings throughout the week undue.
Throughout the day I stay addicted to you,
your eyes, your beards, your fingers, your wide arms...I want to pursue,
for long and long decades, for the eternity;
I want to smell your neck and I want to feel your vicinity.
I want to gaze at your lips,
those I want to kiss but are forbidden for now,
but that nectar has given me the vow
to immortal me and my verse;
Our love shall be immortally written by the universe.
Underneath all these layers of has been memory within
and should become remembered without
I have nothing left
to late evening evolve me.
An exhausted creaky ghost
of organic chemistry reunions
inside a worn dry and peeling boundary membrane
surrounded by EarthTribe's climate of perpetual
polycultural EarthMother becoming
relentlessly final unvoiced
unchoiced answer
Fluidly disturbing as pulpless onion water
free for nothing but hands to wash
this scent of ghost.
A randomly thoughtless feeling
almost enfolding smell-swell memory
of full-filled time
spatially dynamic
sustaining while straining
refining redefining
ghostly present flowing grace
of former future fine-edged life.
Immortally peeled of all spatial dimension
to be left only with timelessly unbound
reverse of future flowing time
ReMembering a fully unpeeled union,
embryonic promise of a sacred organic space
to recall original impassioned home.
Ghostly identity of unfeeling light
surrounding darker memory powers,
loving unformed organic chemistry,
integrity's unchosen potential
Memory regenerations
reconnecting co-empathic trust,
remembering unpeeled flowing
in and out Othered lust
for more belonging love
than unfelt longing life.
Having, with hope and faith, overcome
past moonless night-like trials and tribulations,
I meet today's sunshine-ones with Gilead's balm;
Be aware that each living day and night has its race,
and there is no need to jump the gun in disqualification;
for it's not about coming in first place, but finishing the race:-
Indeed, it's all about an old Japanese proverb's awareness:
"don't worry about being slow; worry about standing still";
for each challenge is about crossing over the finish line:-
We will always have trials and tribulations; even when liberated;
thus let us ever take heart in overcoming and fearing nothing,
seeking strengthening by the ever present hand of God's love:-
In the race of life, it's not so much about the dreamer, but the dream;
for along the trial and tribulation track, the dreamer may suffer and fall,
but the divine will have the dream's baton pass on towards the finish line:-
As Blk Bok and Langston long ago immortally pended,
the hustle and bustle of today, is as real as it has ever been;
life remains to crystal stairway, but an ever winding staircase:-
And in every winding staircase, around each and every turn,
we encounter new unexpected challenges starring us in the face;
thus, with Jacob-like hope and faith, we must track life's staircase:-
Listen, when the treacherous mountainous staircase of life challenges you,
poke toes of hope, heels of strength, and with tongue of faith, yell loudly
"get the hell out of my way, I'm on a God's finish-line-track; coming in first!"
The bloodthirsty reign of Angelus had ended, or so the story has been told,
that after feasting upon and killing the beloved daughter of a gypsy family,
the gypsy shaman cursed Angelus with a soul.
Damned to immortally walk the earth, never to know or pursue happiness,
for if a moment of joy were to be experienced,
it would release the hold of the curse.
His evil darkness would once again return.
His soul once again would be lost.
The power of Angelus's soul and conscience
would avoid this at any cost.
Blood, his only sustenance can no longer be attained from taking human life.
Surrounded by so many a human temptation
is the eternal challenge of Angelus's immortal cursed life.
He now must feed on the blood of vermin, chickens, cattle and swine.
never to know or experience true happiness
or evil Angelus will return big time.
*
"What's happening to me? Something's horrifically wrong.
Why do I have this overwhelming sense of fear that I no longer belong?
What is this crippling feeling that seems to surround me?
Is this what is known as being afraid?
I am Angelus. Things like fear are alien to me.
Just ask any,...just ask any of the many,...just ask,
all the helpless victims I so mercilessly slain.
Sometimes they wouldn't scream. They were too petrified,
but children, children always screamed.
My God, the poor frightened children would always cry before they died.
Why do I now see and feel all the terror I instilled
on all these faces who now haunt me.
My God, all these faces of all these people I killed.
You'd think that with my many centuries past,..
...the past which boasts of all the horrible things I have done.
You'd think that with all I have butchered, killed and maimed
that I wouldn't be able to remember every single last one.
My God, what is happening? Where have I been?
Why was I this monster so consumed with the total embracing of sin?"
He hovered in the corner alone, frightened and cold.
All of his past horrors committed continued to unfold.
The vampire all vampires feared was no more.
He was now cursed with a soul
and the power of conscience is a power that evil can never endure.
The bloodthirsty reign of Angelus had ended,
but there's still more story of this vampire to be told.
Such as his quest for redemption by protecting the helpless,
as Angel, The Vampire with a Soul.
Everything
and everyone
we have ever legitimately loved,
we will lose.
Mentally embracing
facing this problem
of biological mortality
is half of our potential
multigenerationally licit grace.
The other half,
more redemptively front
and ego/eco-centering,
Everything
and everyone we licitly hate
and have ever feared,
we may never legitimately choose
to lose.
Embracing these opportunities
to let go of misunderstandings,
neglect,
and abuse,
cowardice,
and avarice,
avoidance
and active dissociation,
failures of chronic irresolution
and climatic dissonance,
Lack
Of appreciation
and healing support,
Of legitimate wellbeing acceptance
rather than merely licit tolerance,
These are a legitimate moral problem
of immortally illicit injustice,
bad eco-political systemic karma.
Letting go of hate
is a new
free
freeing win/win growth opportunity.
Grabbing onto love
is an old growth risk
of inevitable ego-autonomous
deeply personal loss.
Legitimate loss
for those relentlessly engaged
in not counting these self-identified costs
against compassion's globally timeless benefits
is also illicit win/lose monocultural suffering
for a win/win multicultural
nonviolent trans-communicator
Restoring EarthPeace
LicitHealth
LegitimateWealth
Eco/Theo-Justice.
Sometimes,
sailing in ebony blades
of saturnine seas
brings forth a forsaken froth
of scarred reveries,
when musk-ochre
tints of sunshine cease
to slice through solemn
scarlet skies and
cruelly-coloured black-pearls
shimmer as an obsidian beacon
of forest-green intentions,
caging pantoums of peace
in glass-jars of
bleeding sandalwood-scented
butterflies, entrapped in
sapphire patterns.
My spirit is often ablaze
as a crematory where
opal-gold truths are buried
eight feet under the raven crusts,
and I rise as feathery-flames
in hot-bronze furnaces
of diamond-dragon's
chauvinistic cave,
so that heart's papier- mâché
cells never sacrifice their
rosemary plasma to
eagle-edged egoes and
noiseless yet suffocating
sonatas of narcissistic
nestled woodpeckers.
I believe, life is wistful
like wilderness of a white-wolf,
growling besides midnight's
brim and howling to the
carmine moon, wrapping
peach-sunsets of serenity
in fluid-time, unfolding
scattered shades of
sonorously rustling foliages,
shimmering in breezes of
crumbling claret twigs and
satin seedlings whining
to the list of traitors,
for their unborn lavender buds.
So, swear not under the afterglows
of august skies and
let me float on the
crest of azure waves, in my
snowflake-capsule, being
immortally evanescent,
As every promise is like
a betraying magenta melody
of crepuscular youth, fading
in forged futuristic pastels.
I'll color you in red
My blood is in my hands
Your vision blurs
When you look
At me in pictures
My arms cut wide open
The drugs in my veins pour
I drink down the alcohol
It makes me bleed more
I'm up to my knees in
My own blood pool
Lemme take this pill
To see a different world
I choke it down
But it does no good
Why can't I die
IMmortally misunderstood?
Unkillable
Until I am
Only if i could
Until I succeed it's
The end...
The End...
Damn that's what joy
Feels like
I forget that a gray world
Would look prettier in red
I die every night,
Alone in my bed
Screaming and clawing
At these thoughts in my head
I tear off my flesh
Until theres just nothing left
Slit my thoughts on my
Last breath
It doesn't matter if it's still fresh
I died tomorrow a long time
Ago.
Ago...
Ago my words meant something
My life felt something
Goddess that became nothing
Except!
Only dread
Misread
This pain is
Left in my hands
Red
Red. Red. Red.
It's red again
Burnt finger tips
of the red fire
Now extinguished
Those that matter
Touched and turned to ash
So its only that
I love you so much
To let you go
Grant me the same manner
Or leave me in sorrow
Just remember love isnt red
Red is the color of what I left
“The Surreal Mind of a Basic Green Dilettante”
In the flow Life washes in waves around me
I am buoyed by the seductive call of a crowned Blue Sky
the Sun shines upon the surreal mind of a basic green dilettante
immersed in cerulean dreams singing oceans of mysterious siren songs, an odd being
rippling over, ever-reaching, to touch this foreign corporeal vessel, contracted and sealed
something alien, never-ceasing from the deep light of being, in a place unseen
connecting with the mortal feeling of the immortal deeply hidden within
watching all, lying in wait entrapped internal, banished by the ever-present Seen
like spreading sonar from the depths the senses are touched,
penetrating the barriers the controls are read, manipulated, and switched off;
in the silence I draw in immeasurable clouds that ride over me,
their shadows pass over like holy ghosts, mute banshees, as if I am gone to ground;
in moments like these I gain entry to that other veiled world,
poetically pulled out of the now, through gleaming spurious dimensions
hypnotically devout the addressed undressed – what ripe dreams do spill?
like a hushed romance on knees praying
byzantine blue in a room with a complex view
ever closer mortal, immortally towards you
Candide Diderot. ‘25