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Best Poems Written by Pippa Gray

Below are the all-time best Pippa Gray poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Bone Lady

Bone Lady. 

Pippa Gray

If you have come for romance, please leave.
Follow the fireflies and they will lead you 
back through the woods, to your manmade path.
There is no sweetness or solace here. 
I am a thunderstorm, a fierce force of nature.
My heart is a patchwork quilt of tattered skins,
Hand stitched with lengths of bloodied sinew. 

I shall decline your perfumes and silken robes.
For I have my bones.
I throw them upon my thighs and listen
as they whisper of your future.
The dark to come,
Creeping in through the corners, from all directions,
To disturb the parts of you, that you refuse to examine. 

As for necklaces or gold               
I have no time for tin trinkets. 
My jewels are mustika pearls,
Dug with my hands from the corpses of snakes and foals, from red fox remains and oak tree roots.                               As I roll them in my palm, 
their spirits share secrets such as you'll never know.

There's no polite conversation in this space.
Tell me of your descent into madness,
Where your mind wandered through worlds
not known in your pleasant awareness.
Where your limbs were torn apart by 
winged shadow creatures,
Who devoured your flesh.

Do not ask to stay the night.
For salamanders sleep with me,
Gliding through the embers of the fire,
caressing my skin with their warm licking tongues.
And my journeys to the other worlds
are not to be disturbed by lonely, snoring men.

I am not to be rescued or conquered.
For I am vast, unchained...
Indeed, freer than you could ever hope to be!
You there, shrinking, stinking in your self imposed conformity,
while you weep at night for the lost parts of your soul.
They flew, my friend!
To be with the talking swans in the faery glen,
Where they could live the life that they deserved...
I spoke with them in the lowerworld!
And they do not wish to be returned to you anytime soon!

So leave quickly while you can.
Return to the old sprung bed where you were born,
Before you are forever changed
by the reflection in my eyes. 
For once awoken,
You can never sleep soundly again.

Copyright © Pippa Gray | Year Posted 2019



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Love Spell

Love Spell.        

By Pippa Gray 

He's the soul for which I wait.
I'll feed him darkest sabre grapes
and lead him to a bed of moss,
with velvet spread and moonstained cloths.
His sweet and salty skin I'll bathe
in goats milk and black forest oats.
His will shall loose with every sip
of rose leaf tea with calamus.

Not king, nor prince, or knight or knave,
I chant his name just all the same.
And long I’ve gazed and fed the flames
and twisted grasses to his shape. Oh,
I could reel him in like cheated fish,
hooked on twisted lines of fibs
and dragged to heel to suffocate,
a'feared  to meet his father’s fate.

But that’s for others, darker still,
who wield their wallets, pockets filled
with hypnotising sparkly bait and
wicked lures of titles gained.
No, I need only breathe and sing
into sad willows round his home,
a perfumed mist of liquorice,
the musk of me, and cinnamon.

Copyright © Pippa Gray | Year Posted 2019

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Wild Horse

The Wild Horse

He who seeks only control
becomes drunk
on the clouded waters,
drawn from the wells of will.
And his heart,
remains the size of a thimble.
He is the flamboyant fool in the velvet coat,
whose starched collar
chaffes the wrinkles at his throat.
He grips an ancient map
charted by ancient men,
plotting a dark dead land,
where he has heard his own castle awaits him.
And so filled is he with his own assurity,
so intent on his own success;
that he straddles the wild horse.
The very essence of life itself.
He wears razor spurs at his heels,
and he is not regretful at using them.
He believes it is permissible
to inflict pain upon the flesh,
if it should make him lord
over what cannot be tamed and 
should never be reined.
But long before his journey's end,
his life force is expended.
And as he tires,
he spits harsh words and curses 
at the same magnificent animal
that serves to bear his weight.
In his path,
boulders fall and break,
to slow his way, make him think again.
But he forgoes the warnings.
Lush pastures he passes,
where the wild horse longs to 
explore or graze.
But he ignores them.
Instead, he forces his way
through the sacred trails,
long ago reclaimed by the pixies.
And then;
just as he eyes
the distant grey fort that he has longed for
upon the cliffs of his ambition,
he is tossed and bucked
and flung into a bush of thistles.
And there he lies,
broken and bruised,
all fancies forgotten.
Left only to his  pleading and weeping
for the very life itself
that he attempted to
squash into submission.

Pippa gray 2018.

Copyright © Pippa Gray | Year Posted 2019

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Gnostic prayer


Assaya,
lay your holy hands upon me, enfold my shame within your robes.
Invoke the presence of the Mother, solicit those who shine in gold.
Lift up your eyes and look upon me, for I renew under their gaze.
Your tears are medicine for mortals , they flush dis-ease from twisted veins.
Infuse my soul with lights of violet, and place the rose within my heart.
Utter words unto your angels to light the star above my crown.
Have them kiss my faith with feathers, transmute the fog that has me blind.
Have them weave a bed of sweetgrass, where scented dreams suffuse the veils.
Anoint my brow with sacred wisdom, wash my hair in perfumed oils.
Lead my will towards deep surrender, help me forgo all earthly spoils.
Fan the threefold flame within me, so higher essence may descend.
Teach me of balance and of wholeness,  for I am bride and I am groom.
Intone the sacred notes of ages, vibrations pure and free of flaws.
Bless me with sight that pierces falseness and with forgiveness for my wrongs.

Amin.

Pippa Gray

Copyright © Pippa Gray | Year Posted 2019

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The Tale of the Smoke Crow

The Tale of the Smoke Crow

His wings were made from those he'd burned.
A crow of smoke, without true form.
A thief of sorts, who sought to hide
the carbon stone that was his heart.
I smelled him first on Eight Mile Way.
A puff of wind, first nothing there.
Then hints of sizzled skin and hair
and middle notes of fresh decay.

He must delight in maidens fair,
he circled wide to scout his prey.
His feathers fluffed, they hid the truth
that nothingness lay underneath.
He tried to play the broken bird.
Lay down on rocks, I heard him caw,
'I'm helpless, lost, bruised by storms', but
his stories morphed and made no sense.

So he flew through trees, cast snows of ashes,
till I was blind with dusty lashes.
My hair was greyed, the sky grew darkened
and the edges of his flint eyes sparkled.
He rustled up a faint warm fliicker,
stolen heat from his last victim.
While she lay charred upon the grassland,
he’d struck again, this time was faster.

He pecked a hole into my navel,
Poked in his spark and hooked my innards,
Fed by day, was gone at night
lest someone note he owned no light.
And there I burned like ne'er before.
He'd singe my heart, return for more,
confuse me with his changing clothes
that sought to dress his hollow soul.

There was nothing there but nothingness.
Nothing more and nothing less.
A feeding force that simply lived
to use your pain to lessen his.
To those that claim there’s only good 
I press upon you...learn the truth.
Not all with wings are chaste and whole
and often light attracts the crows.  

Copyright © Pippa Gray | Year Posted 2019