A thundering heartbeat
echoes from the garage to
the stadium.
An subterranean rumble ignites
the quiet arena floor,
As radioactive currents course
through the waiting veins,
Unleashing a fierce,
tempestuous wave of
symphonic thunder.
They transform the mundane
into the fiercely monumental,
Weaving unyielding, anthemic
battle cries from raw
vulnerability.
The percussion strikes like a
sudden, electric lightning bolt,
While the vocals soar into the
stratosphere, cloud- split sky,
Challenging the internal,
shadowy demons that haunt the
mind.
Believers rise from ashes of
their broken, fractured paths,
Bound together by a
triumphant, golden thread of
sonic gold.
This is the majestic,
unstoppable roar of modern
giants,
Stamping their timeless,
permanent footprint into
musical history.
The workshop doesn't teach poetry.
It simply preserves
the threads of voices
woven into
words and emotions.
The diwata believes that every poem carries
a piece of its poet's soul.
Time stands still
in this enchanted world.
In the cloudless sky,
the stars dance
around the moon.
Beyond the window,
alitaptap drift
across endless fields
of sampaguita flowers.
Their fragrance lingers
in every corner
of the workshop.
Wrestling with two options without cease;
Your heart and mind at loggerheads.
Stuck between the rubicon of "Do" and "Don't!"
One flip of a coin lands erect in the dirt.
Now what? Take a chance; do as Nike says.
At last count Saturn had 293 moons
One is larger than Mercury, 128 solar system M & M's
But, if somehow we could mount his wings and fly there
We couldn't stand upon the surface and gaze at any
We would sink in the miasma of our own demise
Ingesting vapor rising up from far below
Choking off any aesthetics we might hold
For any goddess that we have imagined
Our ticket to this underworld held over
A head that's thinking we should capture Titan
Artemis, Diana, or Selene might pale before them
But wouldn't pale by what's reflected there
Artemis retaining her ire and her vengeance
Selene and Diana at the crossroads stand as well
Their color eclipsed the while they faded
And we, whose love it is to gaze up at their orbit
Would lose the inspiration of the ages
Aged without the grace of beauty's presence
That our small world o'er time has thus afforded
Size matters... but no more than our perspective
Midwinter feast-night
A black rune-stone blooms bright blue
Odin sends a heart
To be able to hear
the pleading messages
of the foremothers
is to know deeply
the healing light
of the dark moon.
One will know if
they've always been
the type of person
to heal the ones
shining brighter
than the sun.
Or will soon see them
as a once-thriving garden
that did not fully bloom,
with cold and dried stems
and dated petals that
have already fallen.
Note: This poem is about nature spirits.
I like to sit down and smoke sometimes late at night
while listening to music online to reflect on my life
and think
About why we as a species even go out of our way
to bash and hate and shame all those who are very
openly distinct
And why our society likes to shame my people into
hating themselves and denying and hiding who they
truly are
And why my people’s special attributes end up forsaken
and crudely positioned on the blankened faces
of other stars
Eventually the skies replied to my inquiry with bold,
intense storms of powerful lightning and
strong thunder
A fae then arrived and told me that so many of the people
around us are very disconnected from
whimsy and wonder
Note: I'm aware it's mostly global warming but one can't help but wonder if perhaps a lot of what's going on now is spiritual. Honestly, I think it is. But I'd rather let the weather experts do most of the talking while I continue to play with my imagination. Don't take this poem literally.
Little stars
shine under
the water
like
tiny specks
of
glimmering
moonlight
showing us
the beauty
of
the sea
He talks to the void and it often listens
But it feels like there is nobody there.
So he flew to the sky and tried to say hello
Except the sky never even welcomed him home.
Helen's was the face that launched a thousand ships -
so wrote Christopher Marlow
to explain what spurred their haste to take that trip;
but, I would like to ask him though,
this poet and playwright, wise and knowing -
which way were they going?
(“Original Sin”, 2016, original pen and ink, acrylic and oil)
Buddhists don’t talk of original sin
The way Christians do,
But they both talk about the same thing;
That in the beginning there was light
And the Word, and the missing of the mark.
For Buddhists this “sin” is basic ignorance,
The ignoring of who and what we are.
For Buddhists experience is divided
Into two basic categories;
Enlightened, or Nirvana, and
Deluded, or Samsara.
Nirvana is peace.
Samsara is suffering.
The experience of each are thus polar opposites,
But the simple original sin,
The fundamental deviance,
Is that Samsara arose from the desire
To improve Nirvana, our original nature.
So Samsara is Nirvana plus desire,
The desire to personalize it,
Put our mark of identity on what was
Already always perfect.
To extend the cross cultural metaphor
You could say we wanted to give it
The mark of the beast.
And that’s how we lost the light.
(8/16/26)
In the twilight's glow,
Whispers of the ancients rise,
Stars weave fate's own thread.
Cloaked in silver mist,
He walks where shadows converge,
Guiding lost souls home.
With every heartbeat,
The earth hums a sacred song,
Life's pulse intertwines.
Even in these
dark times
and on our
bad days,
there is hope-
if we are
willing to
remember that.
Walking Dante's ninth circle,
a pocketful of sunshine
and blood full of blossoming promise.
I'm alive
and dead.
The gods laugh at me—
or is it Bacchus alone?
A hedonist,
looking for approval,
unaware of mine own godhood.
Don't think they will stop this creative writing spree.
But they are free to keep the sunshine for themselves;
I’d rather continue being best friends with the moon.
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