Long Otherworld Poems
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art deco was considered ultra-modern in the nineteen twenties
fashions were outrageously risqué, women were slim, flappers wore fringe
I would have been a flapper if I had been born then,
after I escaped the cave of my parents and their rules
If I had known about Berkeley, I would have gone there in the seventies
If I had known about Woodstock, I would have stayed away though.
I detest crowds.
But art deco, that is something I can embrace.
In some ways I wish I had been born in the twenties,
then I would have gone to the otherworld before my mother
who was not born until 1931.
Another reason to be a flapper.
I'd been the fire in the rain
the sun in the storm
I'd been everywhere
and nowhere
my broken back arched
once in defiance,
a monk chanted and
the moon stood still
I told him,
don’t pray for me I am a
godless goddess
the white fire burns in me
and no other
through a tongue-less mouth
I screamed for release
into the otherworld
having a million words to say
I was speechless
~~~
the sun rises in me again
healing my wounds
the answer to my cries
I am free again to dream
my monk friend,
take my hands feel my faith
my broken back now healed
arches in exaltation
I dance on moonbeams
sliding the light of beauty
dream catchers spin with
the sound of my first word
I am reborn and new once more
only my joy will be the death of me
The veil is there for a powerful reason,
And yet some of us can see what prances from the other side
Through automatic writing and psychometry
We can immediately feel loved or frightened.
It is best to not intentionally pull back the curtain
Unless you are a shaman or wise woman with roots
That are deep, clear, open to unthought of possibilities,
And you are willing to face the consequences
Many of us can travel to the otherworld in our dreams
Some go nightly. Astral travelers
Yet do we remember in the morning?
Often if we have not developed language of this lifetime yet
The veil is there not as a warning
But as a protection
When we sense something is wrong
The warnings come from beyond the veil; pay attention.
Your spirit guides might be trying to save your life.
Of course, the demons use this avenue too.
This is when you really need to listen to your internal feelings.
An evanescent bouquet of skewed briars,
is how a tinsel laden tawdry essence wickedly unfolds ,
scuppered signpost to a fetid human compost,
faint light pendant on soul crushed quantum migrant,
who might chortle at vivid veil flimsy vacuum,
skirt recklessly around bogus symbols,
peer behind the squalid limp sodden hedge,
mock myopic moribund mist upon boundary busting dawn chimera,
sneer at synthetic spectrum elastic in its irritating tidal wave surfeit,
cerulean fabric‘s milky way escape plot,
in a perilous quest for that eternal tape loop mantra,
the synaptic heart of that vainglorious horizon,
self-knowledge under charcoal moon and silver cloud veneer,
or feral waste rapid fire contagion,
the indecisive day glow dither on the margins ,
of fly weight feeble frantic dash,
that velvet shadow treason daubed pettifog,
known as tangential wanton cobweb fester creed,
the mind a bloated ripple vortex numbing in its scope,
golden mirage but faux fur real concoction,
against the banal backdrop of complex-ridden superficial eddy,
from floral garland poseur stricken en train,
some vox pop indignation mere shrinking violet showcase waver,
the gleam-hued truth has this dastardly demonic derailment,
that I brush aside as spiteful oxalic sting repost,
that deceptive mint green forest of chameleon cant,
sly nuanced molten maple syrup hint,
from out of kilter tree pierce otherworld,
unseen yet bliss-edged virtual garden of firm conviction,
not just from isolated enigmatic individual script,
such as torrid turbulence or mindless scattered rim shot,
when conventions can be altered in exotic prose,
human zeitgeist has this far too often penchant,
for silkworm rapt effervescent double speak,
whilst plain unvarnished uplifting utterance,
resides within the deep crystal spring well,
of us torch aloft emerald earthling sages,
please augment the rock buttress stark phrase,
whose bluntness is a carrier pigeon of candor,
devoid of muted gray cloud blind waffle,
aromatic sprig to giant spasm of bold pluck,
quandary of human race at hearth,
frightened cliques, hidebound yes men who yen,
to swim the azure gulf of august freedom,
to the Eden where lucid tongues herald pristine witness.
where values at the centre of our being should blossom
Have we not awaited, danced under the surface;
Awakening the sleeping spirits, and warmed the hearts of the cold?
Are we not Everlasting; were never born and can never die;
Ever circling the sacred groves, and the Land of Old?
Have we not fought battles; in Light and Dark alike,
Created Elemental creatures, others arising with own Mind?
Have we not closed our Circles, Past with Future through the Now,
Passed times anew, and places; to awaken memory of greater kind?
Have we not walked shadows; In Otherworld and Under;
In realms afar and near, and within seen forgotten faces?
Have we not, I ask,
and silently, I wonder
Are we not the masters; teaching wisdom which we hold;
Guiding the lost to their Light, the awoken to their Truth?
Are we not the whispering voices; words spoken from the Source
Weaving silently the patterns of the Stars and the Journeys of our Souls?
Are we not the flames of Old; forgotten sparks to the Ever-going
Awaiting the Rise of the Sun, and the Emerging of the World?
Are we not, I ask, in this Time of Gathering
Awake, dear Ones, in this Time of Unity
It has Begun.
she dreams under crystal raindrops from lightning drenched clouds
slivers and shivers from a magical place unknown to most
diamond sparkles sprinkled on the grass show her feet the way
prancing in delight, she visited the otherworld in its entirety
Enjoying tulips, lilacs, lilies, gardenias, and succulent smells of orange
A perpetual dream that keeps her safe and unaware of daily worries
given to her by ancestors whose souls went to heaven long ago
she stirs briefly, and there is a hush in her heart, but just for a second
then the dream resumes and she is saving puppies, kitties, and children
An idealist, a humanitarian, and a caring woman, merely dreaming
(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.
Vivid scrolls,
in tantalising yarns,
fantastic that reveal,
exotic envelopes of vista,
that have me transfixed,
and transported,
my brown hazel eyed,
gladsone gaze,
oe’r lush depiction,
bold brushstroke of,
myriad science fiction,
vibrant character snapshots,
that dispel monotony,
douse mundane patterns,
gap-filler of trite,
vacuous daily plod,
as I clasp otherworld,
enchantment in a dash,
novelists who exude,
endowed flourish with,
pockets of fly plots,
misleading labyrinth,
convoluted and intricate,
shady, cagy, fly-by-night,
side routes veering off,
adding riddles shadowy,
step by echoe’d step,
in hair-raising soundscape,
rushes of exhilaration,
stoke and fire,
iridescent wonderland,
escape into mythic mists,
entwined flames of romance,
laced with sumptuous,
dream moon flotillas,
a swooning heart march past,
yet I bystander engrossed,
by segue after segue.
He ruled his kingdom with an iron fist
all looked up to the earl of otherworld.
Women sighed over his handsome face,
his manly stature and his sense of humour.
His heir and son was cultivated and charming.
Yet the earl's wife was a fiery woman of red hair
with an hourglass figure she tempted and teased.
He was putty in her hands when she flirted.
His warriors would follow him to certain death
such was their trust in his leadership and skills.
His earldom was both strong and rich in arts,
jewels with bounteous harvests of fruit and grains.
His once many enemies were now scattered and few.
He gazed out over his kingdom and knew with certainty
that all was ready for the day he was no more
that his son would carry on capably in his footsteps.
He knew he would be remembered with relevance
that many would mourn his Rite of Passage
after all he was the patrician all he beheld
and he ruled all with wisdom and strength.
written 07/17/2015
contest Patriarchy
Sunday cockcrow nascent
aural essays reveal
laissez-faire raptures.
Enigmatic silken piece compost ushered in by
trenchant trademark tremulous signature.
Doe-eyed instrumentalist’s strident brass ensemble,
wakey wakey for the pier gazing loiterer whose blasé
sashay amble’s out of kilter.
Maverick antennae on a radio safari,
hawking hourglass heritage lodestone.
Closet Peter Pan’s astride transistor, literati goggle eyed and glued.
Silhouettes of wistful mint leaf tract,
navigating hoarse throat shellback allegory.
Earnest weekend welcome mat to madcap jester, laureate, bohemian.
Religiously the listener’s transported
from a humble tepee sanctum
to alluring levee inundation area,
far flung folly edifice,
nomad siren hymn sheet to mount Half Dome.
Long wave bounder in my dreams,
I limb skip oe’r fiction world simulcast entanglement,
snoop beneath rogallo-wing parachute in a Middle East plot,
“twin peaks” would be awestruck by this labyrinthine concourse.
One can flit invisibly round medieval black market cobblestone arcades,
ghost novelist’s ethereal penchant for pinch and pilfer retro-fit infringement.
Melting pot cinnamon dispenser, whiff stick fix antidote to kettledrum ennui
the blight of urban jungle setting and rural folklore.
Otherworld contortion with a shard of drama for magic carpet flight of fancy broadcast
Lineage derived from ancient epochs now assumed but for an inkling, icons I become with card shark sly booth legerdemain.
Maybe I’m that fictile clueless hiker, destitute, indigent