The essences of beauty
This admiration
her walk her appearance
a stunning performance
of perfection
She walked timely to
the grooves basset riffs
Making the most caring of
men stop to watch her
One fella called her the
shamanistic Satan
Her body made men
want to know her story
One on looker grabbed
his bass and riffed
Mocking her walk
The other grabbed his
guitar and whispered
the treble
Grooving until she
Stood before them
She pulled up her skirt
in and kicked off her
heels and danced
In front of her
Shiney new car
Grooving
Moving
Dancing
A
Sensual dance
Ooh wee
We circled the wagon
and watched
Categories:
shamanistic, car, cool, for him,
Form: Ballade
The detritus of consumer culture
Is coming down the chimney Christmas eve.
It’s a milk and cookies taming of the shrew.
It’s what we do.
I have a firm grasp on the mundanely ineffable,
But I’m not making any new memories.
All my memories are only passing through.
It’s what they do.
I’ve no time for shamanistic media whores
Who paper the landscape with billboard opinions.
They wouldn’t pass scholastic peer review.
They never do.
In order to maintain the appearance of sobriety
I keep a balanced rhythm of ritual and routine.
My survival skills are tested, tried and true.
It’s what I do.
I stay below the radar and far above the fray,
Attending to whatever task is presently at hand.
If I say I will, I always follow through.
That’s what I do.
But whatsoever has any of this to do with you?
My pupils dilated when we made eye contact.
I didn’t want to stare, but I couldn’t look away.
You dared me not to change my point of view.
That’s what you do.
Categories:
shamanistic, allegory, romantic,
Form: Lyric
The sublime chorus of voices
Bring out a shamanistic praxis,
With brevity displayed,
With bravery supported.
How do you dance with your own destiny
When you are betwixt and between?
It becomes a sequence of inwardness,
And askesis of the will,
It manifests itself in resistance
As a precursor to a life-long battle,
And great wonders of exceptions
And concessions we allow in life.
I evade the ambivalent truths
With passion of a prophet,
And may I be I with a touch of divine,
Every time,
And time again,
As a fable of life, and of death.
And may I be I, a particle of truth,
An instance of
Self-indiscretion that is opaque in eloquence
But transparent in stanzas
Of the living whether it’s challenging or ecstatic.
Reincarnate weeping of the Eros
Is an indication of a grim future,
Hissing whispers of a serpent
Tell of it in the depths of azure oceans,
Passing the message onto the sirens
Who surface in the shades of willow trees,
And may I be I as I watch them efflorescing
To the most phantasmic beauty
That makes the living free,
And the Eros alive and well.
Categories:
shamanistic, life,
Form: Free verse
THE FALL OF BAGHDAD
What rite of passage, moves one to the light,
and through the healing of all earthly ail,
bestows this breath of life, to make it right,
Oh Babylon, tis time for life to fail.
Harm thee no thing, no spirit in the sky,
nor any beast nor fowl who's meant to flyl
In algebric expression, your unknown,
will show the spirit world we fail to see,
Your recognizing from your flowers grown
In Poppy fields, your highs not meant to be.
We've paid the price, for all to bear your sin
And left you with no peace you have to win.
Each algebric expression drives us mad,
now your unknown is where we have to hide,
it matters not your ending will be sad,
Scheherazade may dance, but she has lied.
The streets of Baghdad--Babylon's decay
Are made to waste, they will not have their day.
No Shamanistic eye can bear your weight,
nor transforms what you've been to other things,
and when you see the truth, it's all in hate
that brings the end, of which all life now sings.
Witch Doctors all have read bones all the same,
It is our end, and Babylon's to blame.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Categories:
shamanistic, analogy, earth day, war,
Form: Iambic Pentameter
THE FALL OF BAGHDAD
What rite of passage, moves one to the light,
and through the healing of all earthly ail,
bestows this breath of life, to make it right,
Oh Babylon, 'tis time for life to fail.
Harm thee no thing, no spirit in the sky,
nor any beast, nor fowl who's meant to flyl
In algebric expression, your unknown,
will show the spirit world we fail to see,
Your recognizing from your flowers grown
In Poppy fields, your highs not meant to be.
We've paid the price, for all to bear your sin
And left you with no peace you have to win.
Each algebric expression drives us mad,
now your unknown is where we have to hide,
it matters not your ending will be sad,
Scheherazade may dance, but she has lied.
The streets of Baghdad--Babylon's decay
Are made to waste, they will not have their day.
No Shamanistic eye can bear your weight,
nor transforms what you've been to other things,
and when you see the truth, it's all in hate
that brings the end, of which all life now sings.
Witch Doctors all have read bones all the same,
Is this our end, and Babylon's to blame?
© ron wilson arbuthnot aka
Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Categories:
shamanistic, allah, arabic, war,
Form: Iambic Pentameter
THE FALL OF BAGHDAD
What rite of passage, moves one to the light,
and through the healing of all earthly ail,
bestows this breath of life, to make it right,
Oh Babylon, tis time for life to fail.
Harm thee no thing, no spirit in the sky,
nor any beast nor fowl who's meant to flyl
In algebric expression, your unknown,
will show the spirit world we fail to see,
Your recognizing from your flowers grown
In Poppy fields, your highs not meant to be.
We've paid the price, for all to bear your sin
And left you with no peace you have to win.
Each algebric expression drives us mad,
now your unknown is where we have to hide,
it matters not your ending will be sad,
Scheherazade may dance, but she has lied.
The streets of Baghdad--Babylon's decay
Are made to waste, they will not have their day.
No Shamanistic eye can bear your weight,
nor transforms what you've been to other things,
and when you see the truth, it's all in hate
that brings the end, of which all life now sings.
Witch Doctors all have read bones all the same,
It is our end, and Babylon's to blame.
Categories:
shamanistic, allah, imagery, war,
Form: Sonnet
THE FALL OF BAGHDAD
What rite of passage, moves one to the light,
and through the healing of all earthly ail,
bestows this breath of life, to make it right,
Oh Babylon, tis time for life to fail.
Harm thee no thing, no spirit in the sky,
nor any beast nor fowl who's meant to flyl
In algebric expression, your unknown,
will show the spirit world we fail to see,
Your recognizing from your flowers grown
In Poppy fields, your highs not meant to be.
We've paid the price, for all to bear your sin
And left you with no peace you have to win.
Each algebric expression drives us mad,
now your unknown is where we have to hide,
it matters not your ending will be sad,
Scheherazade may dance, but she has lied.
The streets of Baghdad--Babylon's decay
Are made to waste, they will not have their day.
No Shamanistic eye can bear your weight,
nor transforms what you've been to other things,
and when you see the truth, it's all in hate
that brings the end, of which all life now sings.
Witch Doctors all have read bones all the same,
It is our end, and Babylon's to blame.
© ron wilson
Categories:
shamanistic, adventure, angst, art, black
Form: Iambic Pentameter
I hear the familiar sounds of Korea,
Of the crowing of roosters in the morning,
Of the fields, streams and marketplaces.
The tunes of shamanistic music band
The swirling of fire-lit cans of Jwibul nori,
The soup boiling sounds in a huge pot,
A crisp “tak, tak” sound of soybean burning
And the crackling sounds of dry branches.
Chanting at planting & threshing paddies
The singing of Hori and Gyeori songs
The striking of the bronze bell of Sangwonsa
Chanting-Beompae to Daeung Amitabh.
In the far-flung village of Sangyu
The flames of the daljips in the rice fields
Soars high in the sky on Jeongwol Daeboreum
Higher the flames, the greater is the harvest
Promising bounteous year and good health.
People dance Pansori at the tunes of Nongak
A feast is being prepared there,
The full moon catches people’s prayers
And spreads it to the high heaven.
Jwibul nori’-Mice burning game is on
Somewhere yet in another village.
The traditional burning of the rice paddies
To chase away the mice from the fields.
With crackling sounds of fireworks,
Warming and fertilizing the frozen fields.
=================================
Third Placement
Contest: Sounds Familiar
Categories:
shamanistic, life, people, social,
Form: Pastoral