Posts tagged writing

Dear Woman

Dear woman, fight not the tides of sadness that come
Just allow, listen, learn, discern.
This temporary storm, the waves that crash,
and tear and erode. This too will pass.

Come morning, the night sky gently dissolves
In hues of rose and peach.
You will also slip into pure release, deep down within.
Dear woman, it will come. It needs no instruction, no help, from you
then you will float into the arms of the mother and be renewed.
Such gifts are abundant as your blood flows.
Hush now woman, surrender to tranquility and peace.
Let me cover you in jasmine flowers, comb oil through your hair.

Tonight you will dream anew and you will awaken energised,
fresh inspired in spirit,
as a new song given birth to sound,
or a glimpse of green on a winter tree.
Then you can run, with the wild Spring breeze in your hair!

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Dear One, look, it is the rising sun!
The energy of the flames will infuse your heart with fire and sparks.
Live, love, express wildly the desires of your soul with passion and grace.
But remember dear woman
This too will pass.
The cycle will turn, your summer leaves will crinkle and fall.
Fear not to take refuge in the house of your heart
and know that the nature of life and death resides in your soul.

Written by Jane in tribute to Red Tent gatherings all over the world.
Original post on the Moon and the Womb blog.

 

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All Tomorrow’s Parties

I
Give me a thick coat to keep out the howling winds;
From those eyes, blood drained hate, mortal rust never
Sleeps alone.

Melancholia knew a boy blindsided,
I’d never seen the needle of death coming,
Skipped misery as a flaw.

How strange that happy words won’t turn the
Dissolving soul.

Young dreams now darker in the corner, bodies revolving
Towards the earth and heavens.

II
The way I remember your bed, may it never change.
In that morning light when I was not grey or tinned.
Potential, in skins; in the darkest blue of night
(the ecstatic fizz)
I still find you shining and fraying, twisted at the summit,
Drowned in concoctions of beauty and sacral liquid.

Step out with me on the feathered roads,
Spreading like nerves endings into the flesh of continents,
Where the winds map our backs and whip our necks into shape;
Dancing hair and minds invoke true love games tied in writhing knots.

Weave blankets over sinning dark rivers of doubt that flush the belly
Of freedom and potential; a familiar seasick feeling en masse.
Driftwood, our damned and splintered edges,
Finds soft lake lands beneath zero, shores of smoothed vermillion stones,
Wear this weariness like fur, easing away to hibernation.

The open road is no place for a closed book.

III
How long has this ghost lived here?
The heroes overseas with their own abstract endings to burden,
Hang on the free-winged as the horizon erupts like angry volcanoes.
The road is dug shallow, we reach for real but feelings soon fade
And muddy.

Excuses for religions blot ages and revolutions topple paper idols
Whilst the culprits lie low with serpentine illness;
Smoking balls of wool, laps lined with golden tweed
And seditious cocktails of hatred.

Never found a hometown, never settle down,
Never laid down rocks or rules, never cared for those odds;

The silhouetted condor picks at stars, tears through constellations,
Across the railroad track and I’m one way headed, no back ward steps.

Toothpicks and broken glass by the lazy stones not expecting
To find a penny in the mire or hands to hold.

IV
Back in our bed, I lay with your wholeness, wrapped up against icy climes;
36 and still young, just tender. Dreaming up names on the crumbling walls
Where rats raid our sleep.

Still nothing done, no words remain, no meaning-less
Than before, no scam that elegant, no ruse unique.
Alcohol still makes me burn and ruminate.

I hear the rain lashing down, renewing Turkish soil and the roses of the garden,
Tearing the dead leaves from the gutters, falling on the wolves of the forest,
Etching natural mandalas across the wilderness plains.

Show it to me again in dawn’s first blush, perfection breaks the hallowed canopies
Of the smoking village elders.

V
Maybe I’ll start wearing hats, take a vow of some sort;
Turn the grist in the internal grind, draw the white line engrained
Too far in timelessness;
Trace these migratory routes over rolls of red tape and wire fences,
To surely witness the making of an angel without crimson needles,
Dripping mania.

You can’t read about Picasso, take one snowflake at a time.

VI
When it’s your time you won’t feel the pain and your father will fall
Silently on one knee. Freedom falls beyond deaths shadows,
Where young hearts forever roam imperious.

Old sun, richer; sweet morning quality of being,
I’m drifting still in melted mind puddle.
No thoughts in my cave, buried alive by mundanity,
This material mutiny must be crushed.

Pictures behind closed eyes tell me more,
First real talk with my inner child, first time I loved there.
There’s fighting to be done, a war at our door,
No peace to be found until the last doubt fades
And the oak groves reclaim this island paradise;

A green revival trickles steady, drawn from the truth seams,
Scrawled jagged, ancestral, blackened minerals of fossilised wisdom.

For upstairs, wild mountain; in all tomorrows parties freedom comes,
In perfumed silence over purple heather clutches,
No one can live right steeped in senses.

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Insatiable Absolute

I
Embedded in flow
One diamond reflecting
The constant stream
Transparency alone
Breathes light

II
Interdependent states
Never warring
Peace the conduit
Filling space with hope

III
The insatiable absolute
Blissfully unaware of
The theory of life

IV
Mind arrow falls freely
Trajectory very natural
Razor edge cutting boundaries
In flight

V
Beyond the opaque
Sight settles in rhythm
Illusive crystal
Emptiness full

 

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‘In the brief dust and light’ – P.B. Shelley

“Man is of soul and body, formed for deeds Of high resolve;

on fancy’s boldest wings.”

“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”

Here is a very small excerpt taken from the lyrical drama ‘Hellas’ by Shelley, which he dedicated to the Prince Alexander Mavrocordato of Wallachia. This drama is rich in historic imagery, taking influence from a fascinating period in humanities great adventure; when God kings waged wars, blood, wine and romance were thick on the ground; Greek, Persian, Arab and Oriental imagery and characters all merge and mingle on the page.

Shelley is certainly a western seer, a sage with fabulous gifts of insight into the mystic and most of all, a brilliant story teller, renegade poet, political thinker and bizarrely, devout atheist (or someone who opposed organised religion and its norms at the time). Shelley died at the tender age of 29, he led what you could call ‘a full life’ (which seems a distinct underestimation).  He was outrageously talented and fearless, a true free spirit who embraced the burgeoning ‘free love’ movement (which only seemed to influence a handful of poets and artists at the time!)  Shelley attacked monarchy, war, commercial practices and religion whilst championing republicanism, vegetarianism, free love and atheism.

“Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number – 

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you – 

Ye are many – they are few.”

Every poet of the romantic persuasion should have a bit of Shelley in them.  Its the part that wishes to stay up all night long, lamenting the open, pale moon, sipping wine with Dionysus and making love with Sirens and Faeries.  The hopeless (and ever hopeful) romantic.  We all need a little genuine, joy based debauchery, carefree expressions of exuberance, if in word and image alone.  As Shelley once said ‘the poet is both a Creator and a Destroyer’ surely insinuating that the poet rides the waves of spontaneous creation which rise and fall of their own accord.  This poet wishes only to be with that which speaks through them in formless, uninhibited and timeless love.  Poets feel an unspeakable obligation to transmit the ethereal, the otherwordly, the unimagined beauty of existence via ball point, quill or keyboard.  Like divine spokespeople, they have an essential role in any civilised society and Shelley’s words speak as vibrantly and as intensely as they did all those years ago. He creates great vistas in our minds which cannot be washed away; conjures unknown emotions, challenges and soothes with tenderness and guile.  Shelley wished to be remembered in such a way:

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!….

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!……

Here is a flavour of Hellas, one of the choruses that inspired this post:

Worlds on worlds are rolling ever

From creation to decay,

Like the bubbles of a river,

Sparkling, bursting, borne away.

But they are still immortal

Who, thought birth’s orient 

Portal,

And death’s dark chasm hurrying to

and fro,

Clothe their unceasing flight

In the brief dust and light

Gathered around their chariots as

They go;

New shapes they still may

Weave,

New gods, new laws receive,

Bright or dim are they, as the robes

They last

On Death’s bare ribs had cast. 

This is an incredible passage and is a succinct description of what some would call a very ‘spiritual’ description or insight into our conscious state of being.  There seems some esoteric understanding being exhibited here and it is fascinating to think of what influenced Shelley or his reactions to such reflections.  A form of fertile inspiration and eloquence which is awe inspiring!  They certainly don’t make atheist like they used to!!!!

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Comets, Ghosts and Sunburned Hands

Over dried creeks flowing 51 States (of mind) in a submerged desert……

Comets, ghosts and sunburned hands, uncut outlaws of the far lands,
Poisonous pastures line the Mexicola border, malignant, circling the desert with crippled thorns,
Amongst vulture and Mezcal flesh, come night time galaxy cloaking lonesome urinations.

Each fading town aflame with howlin’ rains and wolves, a guilt-less crew,
Only two choices in black and white, bible belt bonanza, heaven or the long gone,
Wings or warts, tumbleweed intention brought us here, a fireball with coffee stained lips,
To superhero cemeteries in dead meadows.

The wicked wand, a wooden fist, the flashing lights of the wrong sided,
The neon bible, the fakir void, the portal of adult clouds mean no joy zippers,
Selling sex for seashells,
all imitations,
simulations,
mutilations.

Sunburnt hands, out in the desert motel, facing the powder pink skies,
A fearless wreck of contradictions and tattered Coleridge and poisonous Wilde snakes,
All art melts beneath the perfect sun, the king knelt in saccharine ice cream pools,
The ocean,
the drumming,
the depth.

Not fearing the ticking, metallic rains, corrugated dreams line hanging hovel,
The highway is open season for curious rattlers, voodoo born to strange eggs
In this ashtray of existence, far from flowers or wreaths, fit only
For dancing over Indian bones in flashland. Mr Holy! Are you freedom?
Otherwise, you cannot light up the sky.

Yes strangers, I am ready! Some celestial boogie-woogie rearranging the burial stones
In dive bars serving guilt with sweet cherries straight up, parched wayward at the devils fork in the road,
Manic tongues babble and drawl crude incantations, unfathomable fears, crocodile skins
And rocking chair hobble, all tangle and trapped in the cattle wire, savage mutts and fenced off
Wilderness expanse.

Incomprehensible lazy lizard shoots the breeze, new outlaws hatch reaping sour smokes,
Light a match, gather sticks for warmth, plant a cactus whole, don’t drop out, without kicking on, without laying some roots.

Barn doors creak in the storms, asleep on fresh hay, beautiful people in burning man child melodies,
Make no trouble, lay low, skin crawling with potent deviations, judgement day has passed on by, warped
And wakeful in Santa Fe.

Dead ahead,
Sunset over barren expanse and bullet holes.

In the reverb of no man’s land,
The killer wakes, loose in crimson vision.

Feel a rising, higher,
No one is watching this cosmic romance,
Blood thirsty no more.

 

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His Soul Dream

His soul dreams in shapeless clay;

A dust filled rapture

Ever calls a momentary bliss.

 

The unconscious music resounds

Where hearts are torn in flux

And radiant the sleeping sound

Pressing blind truth earthbound.

 

And man is free in form

To join the wind’s unknowing breath,

A bottomless well of joy

That greets the union drift.

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A Peaceful Break

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The way sweetness melts effortlessly from the heart eclipsing  all things,

The way infinity calls internally of a marriage with bliss so close,

The way we sit and wonder as majestic stars leave us disarmed.

 

To listen through the sound of rain, to become the grey clouds and clear sky,

To touch the earth, gently rested, merging with nature and the festival of seasons,

To seek love within the great furnace of creation and return with immutable nought,

To peacefully break the binds of earthly bondage and realise divine union in the feintest

Flaming rapture and flickering truth,

To meditate upon the mighty mountains floating in the vastness of the open seas,

To become immersed fully in the voyage of existence, at a point one step equals them all.

To no longer fear our shadows and this darkened revolution,

To transcend the minds rich veil and retire within the light of purest perception.

 

When the flow is felt, a gentle hand guiding, far beyond instinct and sense,

There can be no delay in the great surrendering.

 

Now we are freed, now we are inconceivable, now we are invincible,

May we as one alight, enticed by our inherent potential released!

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