Long Mortal Poems
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Poetry and the Soul
The soul hungers now for true metaphors replete,
With real nuance and never a mention of a “pig’s feet.”
Poetry seeketh always that higher human intent,
As the soul cries out that it shall never repent!
The soul thrives always for a cosmic reflection,
Beyond human thoughts by a divine direction.
Soulful poetic images seek angelic attention,
As man’s problems exceed earthly redemption.
Poetry is a medium for true ethereal reflection,
That mirrors the mortal coil for divine attention.
The past, present, and future sleep deep within the soul,
And poetry’s the catalyst to awaken us to our divine role!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(November 25, 2017) (Couplet)
Humanity may emit a brief chortle.
However, he remembers he is a mere mortal.
Many of the towns and buildings he has been
are desolate and quiet, as they are no longer lived in.
There are reminders of tall, untrimmed grass.
In window panes, there is broken glass.
Fallen leaves are strewn on the ground.
Indications of abandonment remain all around.
For one reason or another, inhabitants did not stay.
They merely packed up their things and went away.
A lifeless shell of a village remains today.
All signs of human life we can no longer see.
Once again, it is nature reigning supremely.
Written after seeing a series of photographs.
"Parable"
When the other
side of night
came to collect its token
I was starlight
unsinkable invisible
some uncaptured mystery
that would never again
be broken mortal
like an egg shell
under the bickering feet
of men, listening to
their own voices
their pathetic arguments
lost in the loud egos
of the better-thans
and the small gods speak
like poets
conjuring sane insanity
resurrecting
events
on their daisy chains
counting numbers
like computus
Beded rosaries
loves me
loves me
not
until every flower
gone, plucked
and lifted up
inside all
reigns
the returning Parable
Water of Life
drenching all
doused in Love
lit,
each one
drop by drop
become an
Ocean inside an Ocean
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
Lux Vitae
Ludovico Einaudi - Night (Lørean Flip)
https://youtu.be/mNOoPEcfPLM
Bede -
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bede
Computus -
https://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Computus
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Date_of_Easter
Communion
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/communion_1007994
Rev 21:1-22:6 (NIV)
John 4: 1-26 (NIV)
What is the best available treatment
for cancerous climates of anxiety?
Well,
imagine you were born in a USA
time and place
when we knew only one retributive model of justice,
both internal theological punishment for being merely mortal
and external anti-ecological.
Now imagine you live in a Win/Win
time and place
wherein Restorative Justice Peace Warriors
are also PermaCulturing Designers
of natural landscapes,
internal and external,
and spiritual-experiential-sensory climates,
internal and external,
nondually co-arising.
Best still-available long-term therapies
for growing Wonder and Awe
and Grace and Good Karma Climates,
long-term restorative health co-designers,
for democratic regenerative polyculturing outcome optimization
WinWin planning and strategics and praxis,
and not so much merely against
Republican DeGenerative MonoCultural Income Hoarding for Plutocrats,
dissonance,
disarray,
dismay,
decaying Win/Lose
toward Lose/Lose (0)Soul Trends,
4D RealTime double-binding nihilistic
denialism of Win/Win ego/ecotherapeutic
sacred/secular co-equivalence,
cosmic cosmological co-incidence.
At the crossroads of time, where April flinches in buds parted,
Spring dwells in the temple, a priestess in a procession of timid lights.
A gentle breeze blows, carrying dreams stormy on the orbit of the stars,
Through the tumult of vegetation, it is reborn - the wild and untamed soul of the earth.
The murky water heads toward the ray, seeking the caress of the moon's compass,
And in the cosmic fabric, magically woven, her regal procession is a balm of rebirth,
An unseen pollen dance among rows of ferns whispering secrets,
Enticed by the song of caressed petals, she guides the day's eclat into disarray.
While her melancholy is the philosopher's stone that turns cold into caress,
Spring longs for the black-and-white template of winter,
Where ice and stone are clear demarcations, and feeling finds its well-defined shape,
And the discipline of the heart is pure crystal - exact and sublime as snowflakes.
But now - in fullness, the tumult embraces five spirits in a blossoming crown,
In a colorful stir, a variation that casts aside the royal ones to the wind.
Let the naive tangle in the breeze that sings symphonies in chaotic harmonies:
Spring withdraws ingeniously
And surrounds herself with fortifications of ritual and a rose's thorny fence,
Against the Unleashed Deluge of the Hooligan Season,
For no sign of revolt can scare,
With spells, with weapons, with mortal threats,
Not even in the name of the most fervent love.
The last trailing tendril filaments
of moon beams nocturnally trace
fashion an illusory gilded chariot Ark,
whence upon celestial runners,
the approach of dawn's early light
illuminated terrestrial space
which nebulous solar city flanges
revisited since time millennial
hubbub of human race
nsync with Zodiacal constellations,
which appear to shift
as planet Earth axis place
alternated in accordance with
inexplicable universal teenage
mutant Ninja turtles joint pact
with power rangers assumption
sans quotidian playstation remotely
controlled by aliens upon
oblate spheroid figurative stage
set whence commencement nudged
village people foment quiet riot rage
and rant against
uncontrollable catastrophic frenzy,
when cosmic creator
rehearses another page
from playbook, which
color coded cobbled Bible
emanates with radiant hues
of yellow and osage
nonetheless, no mortal adept to predict
(only within plus and/or minus
some marginal variance of error).
oft times punishing atmospheric phenomena
incarcerated, pistol whipped
(if anther incorrect),
whiplash unleashed, oppressed, imposed
challenging condition testing ground
flora and fauna could thrive,
whereat most hardy
plants and animals didst abound
linkedin upon terra firmae
murmur of orchestrated
organisms devising fitting
evolutionary survival traits
plentiful glory vis a vis L'Chaim;
gnome hatter outlook required
sprinting thru uber vanguard,
where zero sum game pitted
disadvantaged Feng shui
living things poorly sparred mismatched
against itching attired egghead,
kickstarting netzero beastie boys
indeed emulating hotmail prodigies
holding greensward ground.
scrimmage fostered, elicited,
dictated, commandeered nature
going full throttle with pings
across biological labyrinth
positioning glommed, peeved,
mis tweeted seeds of life, and white lily,
within soil lent green grubby business
whereby herb and woody stemmed
recalcitrant proto flings
wrote toe rooter bakers
gave Gaia a run for her money
to buy Buffalo wings
chasing miscreants nimbly
outwitting, out-rigging
outsmarting nettlesome stings,
and sage protuberant fungi,
released messengers where rise home
spore ports left nada mushroom,
though symbiosis wood
bark a roll a cord.
My soul’s confession knows no ordinary
penance—nor knows, nor feels, another mind
the nebulating sorrows therein maligned—.
I doubt my own can judge the cemetery
of bygone thoughts, dead dreams, and funerary
pathways—twisted in patterns twice entwined
through one and another—lurking behind
my steeple-belled conscience. On the contrary,
sermon is held just out of sight of that
sinister scene. By holy spirits spurred,
and righteous indignations, high exactions,
my preaching psyche’s overzealous word
inflames my anxious system’s charged reactions—
Leave it to the black cat to catch the rat.
Time is an illusion
By Michelle Morris
08/01/2022
Tick...Tick...Tick...Tick...
The clock tracks the seconds as they move past...
Time is our illusion but it's how we note the moments around us...
Sometimes they move faster than the numbers show...
Sometimes so interminably slow as to make us wonder if Time has stopped...
Time is an illusion but we still need to use it wisely...
For we are but mortals navigating our passage through this maze...
Our lives are built by Fate and Choice intermingled beyond that which we can sometimes fathom...
Are we products of our genetics or our experience?
Or a fateful combination of both?
Tick...Tick...Tick...Tick...
The clock pays no heed to our mortal debates...
It appears that the illusion is that we always have more Time...
But unless you know the day of your demise, it's best to make the most of this moment...
Be present...
Have faith...
Be hopeful...
Have love in your heart...
And Time will go by with Serendipity in tow...
Fate and Choice wisely smiling at you for evermore...
© Michelle Morris, 2022
Child of sun and sky, child of isle and sea,
the moon and stars to light my earthly trail -
his the taken road, the unmapped journey,
his the unwritten Oscarian tale!
When beyond mortal youth this world you quest
leave behind unworldly comprehensions -
seek it wide, seek it wise, and seek it blest
and beseech its higher interventions.
Long may the Muses sing when your heart sighs,
true your lyre echo, your mighty bow draw -
estrange yourself from the Gods in disguise
and believe in you and all you care for.
When the blast of heavenly trumpets come
yours eternal will be a new kingdom.
Written: March 2010
Pic above: Oscar at 4 or 5 years old.
Sing sweetly, with joyful sound
Pass some smiles all around
Before you lay me in the ground.
And if you believe as I do
That life will resume anew
Though we meet not again
On this frail mortal plane
Light though a windowpane
Will draw me back again
For a quiet little stay
That may brighten up your day.
My peace I leave you happily
Knowing where I will spend eternity.
Leave me here with a final prayer.
Whatever else I had to say
Look not back, but walk away
For if I had warm words to share
Or hugs or kisses or just being there
Just remember, Love goes on.
So do not leave love lurking here
Waiting with cut flowers and tears
Spending your lives on yesteryear.
Be assured that my Love goes on
Please pass it daily on and on.