Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Unconscious Love

I glimpse you peripherally and I yearn to hold you, to crush you nearer.
I espy you across the courtyard, amidst the falling leaves;
resplendently dressed in their last hurrah—your beauty outshines them.
I see you in the vanity mirror, but as I turn, your image flutters and fades;
slithering through my perception to the next past or future, never dallying in the present.
I'm taken aback as your face speaks to me
from the rippling surface of nearest neighbor's man-made pond,
prophesying events yet to come; my mind spins and you stay still, calming me.
I sense your presence as you tenderly brush my hair,
softly caressing nape of neck, shoulders, small of back.

My eyes roam carefully over your scantily clad body as we dive into the river;
foreseeing foretold events—experiencing our unions, separations, and communions simultaneously, arriving at a tumultuous explosion.
Fusing ourselves and our souls, melting into that cesspool of minds…
Losing ourselves, our souls, finding, loving, knowingly we choose to complete the cycle again;
to find each other once more as: man, woman, cat, bird, or fish—
realizing the bond.

I see your soul in adored flowers.
I hear your voice in racing breezes through laurel.
I smell your sweet scent in burning incense.
I feel your hot breath upon my neck as I walk in the sand.
I understand that which you have prophesied.
I love you in your absence.
I possess you in the mirrors in my closet, upon my walls.
I hold you close as storms crash onward.
I pull you tighter when it seems I've lost my nerve.

You are that which has no name.
You've been termed love by some—yet I see no semblance in you.
You demand my attention lovingly nonetheless and I succumb,
for this bliss can't be measured against mere wisdom.

Feel me surrender as you envelop me further; ohhh more,
if only we could...

What

What is not how or why or when or even where
What finds itself distinctly separate
from the above more temporalities and moralities,
as attempting to define some element
of truth in beingness in quality
in order to describe
the is-ness
of this particular
thing

Weaving Becomingness

Clotho once wove a weave so fine,
so exquisite,
its rainbowed hues left none
witnessing it without tears.

The fabric entwined
that thus clothed
the heroes who donned it
throughout the eons,
protected them from harm
and allowed them access
to the most private of seclusions,
the most secreted mazes,
the deepest cavernistic halls,
the highest mountainous peaks;
on the bottomest of ocean floors
they ambled slowly;
on the thinnest of clouds
they tread with surety.

Do you wear the rainbow robe
that makes of nine heads
a simple stoney sculpture?

Do you wield the power
interlinked with donning such responsibility?

Wearing and wielding such power
wends its way beyond
one’s blood fueling movement
and into innovative inaugurations:
life becomes
and constantly becomingness
generates,
rather than is
or simply being…

Watery Creature

Changing skin for clothes
and rending teeth for toothy smiles
a wedding soon ensues to treasure.
Skin secreted in hidden chest awhiles
where hearts beat much less
but whose pounding for fear of founding
leave detectable scents nonetheless
eventually find their winding way bestows
a replacing of haranguing clothes.
Children? Home? Husband? Culture?
All is shed for free watery pleasure…

Sown Words Drown Swords

Moving through reeds on the edges of each cool pool
what was carrion has risen anew with mewl
The leaved poetry on trees viewed as a macule
speaks passion only sweetly wafting past the fool
who instead of hearing all sees but majuscule

Brief Exegesis
The above word play is not addressed to anyone in particular, but to those who cannot hear the plain poetry of nature plied on the leaves of the trees, for all they can see instead are the $, which in this case represent the majuscule, and therefore everything else is blurry text (macule, as in mackle, not the macula lutea). So, despite the fact that they may have experienced a near-death potential life-changing event (at the will of Artemis in the cool pool, or Pan among the reeds that are Syrinx), and as walking carrion arisen they make weak whimpers (mewl), they yet remain fools when they cannot or refuse to listen to nature.

Soul Companion Whole Reunion

In the finding of the souls
A mixture of love and remembrance overwhelms

It is the strangeness of being one
Before one knows the other
Before one sees the other
But as one has been with the other

It is a reunion

Give me that new love
Beyond the old paradigms
The old ghosts of today through the past
Wherein people get lost
In the way it should be and not feeling what is….

This is not as we are….

Whirlwind of embraces
Sounds traverse woods of lost loves
Leaves speaking languages hidden
In caves of learning
In wombs of memories
Crafting what we shared and know
What felt itself before we lived again
In the midst of echoing traces

We elevate over instances
What once grasped and held
Holding us without warmth
We gave into all…transforming energies

They flowed through warming us
They became us
And in that instant we saw self, I, me, we and ourselves as one….

This new mythology arises into a semblance
Of revelation not borne of redemption
Or any other archaic notion

Where doth the information come from
Doth it channel forth from voids in Chaos
Doth it channel forth from unspaces in Gaia
Doth it channel forth from unlight in darkness
Doth it channel forth from undark in lightness
Wherefrom matters little as whatwith and wherewithal matter

Smatterings of this and thou resonate
Into summer reverie of dismemberment
It is the knowledge of the integration of death
And of life that enters psyche and soul
Herein is import for reform

Riding mutual energies into oblivion
We scream streaming sweet release

For we know the known and the unknown
We’ve known what we thought and what we unthought

Where did the losses go?
Where did the chances go?

If we find nothing other than us
We have found the changes that make a world!

Seeking Fresh Searching True

Seeking, ever seeking, who is this searcher I sometimes call me?
Is this searcher more aptly called myself?
Or perhaps the searcher would prefer self?
What if the searcher should see its way to Self?
Other times, this searcher definitely seems like I;
And, still, at moments most quiet, the searcher is all of the above at once
And, none of the above,
But, rather, much like the seeker, ever seeker,
Whose goal is not rest,
Whose goal is no goal,
Yet, whose aims continually move further inward
Further outward to interiority and exteriority
Of unknowabilities and unthinkabilities…
Thus, the searcher and the seeker wed
Realize there is no ultimate finding of any of the faces above,
Only momentary moments of recognition,
Of which each moment thereafter proves unrecognizable
The face that once presented.
And what of perennial questions of suppositions of oppositions?
What of any of these polar pairings do we attribute to whatever of our faces—
Ourselves thus appearing momentarily to be begrudgingly labeled such—
In whicheven moments, we make of ourselves as completely taken over by it,
Should we allow such to occur we are possessed,
And in the possession of archetypal forces and energies
We are no longer just that face that presented, we are myriads of faces
To be better represented as ourselves as a rainbow of faces in one
Ever shifting, ever moving, ever giving landscapes beauteous colors
Landscapes of humanity and of places, and so on…
What then of these pairings comprises or nourishes our roots—
We now being akin to kin of world trees, to brethren and sastren strong
Trees standing tall and wide with deep and long roots—
Is what we perceive, is what we rememory, is what we think,
Is what we act, is what we see, is what we speak, is what we hear, is what we feel,
Is what we imagine, is what we fantasize, is what we intuit, is what we create,
So that what we do makes of us what we are…
Questioning what forms our roots nourishes and strengthens our trees,
But obsessing on one or another, especially the inherently toxic samples,
And wondering if these be within the fibrousness of the roots
Requires energy from the tree be redirected in order to heal the psychic wounds
Such wondering entails: to stem the sap from oozing outward into the ground.
Rarely does anything or anyone truly trick all of us
Except for if we dive into faith without its just due
So, let us look deeply, feel fully, sense surely, and intuit openly
And in so doing worry not over trickery, masks, guile-filled breezes and false windows…
Thereby, we can instead see over that hill and into that vale
The sunsets and sunrises, the forests slowly marching
The mountains breathing and growing to slowly sink again
The very land exhaling and inhaling to meet and depart is not heresy

Soothsaying Necromancer

Seeing shades of death wash over, all around are touched by its dank feathers
Rancid, the smell of rotting death, swooners'd sooner fair better than be necromancer;
Yet none there is who has escaped this fiend called death whom some refer to as friend.
Bitterer the war that hope loses glimmer, graces chase the strayed shimmer,
Seeking always to keeping that radiance nearer, not even creaking, to allow the steeping gradient
To wear dictator's clothes, or those of emperor, for though hope hastens close,
Never does death run scared from, leaving some intended freed forever.

Aye that I were the necromancer, the living, walking necromancer, the walker and talker
Among the dead, but also communing with the living: if I were the necromancer
Those who've passed and those to pass and those passing would all find a bridge;
One worth crossing over, under or above, spanning both sky and earth,
And connecting heaven and hell for all to be as it is meant to be,
Connected and interconnected, not disconnected.

Could it be that the shades of death were every rainbow ever colored,
Every cloud ever floated, every rain ever rained, every sunray ever shined;
Could it be that all those colors, shapes, sensations and lights would uncover
Realities of life, answers about life or reasons for life, a proverbial gold-filled pot,
Pandora's miseries rebuked to let the jar-stifled hope out in bright sunspots;
Then it'd be we'd all rejoice, as ailments and suffering vanished.

Aye, here in this light, in this midnight irradiance, in this luminescence,
Moon drenching the subterraneanic nightscape—
Here is a space akin to that peace place,
That place of calm where love infuses,
Where the light is the love and the love is all of life—
There, beneath a golden, hovering, harvest moon,
Shall the transformation unveil another prophet hero
Aspiring not for platitudes, meek and full of gratitude
For station and chance, predicting futures only the dead know.

Excerpted from I'M DEAD—Osiris

The cadaver horizon is a mountainscape
that spreads from my eyebrows across the world
spanning outward evermore,
for death is everpresent within everpresent life,
and so it is not purely chaotic
to see in my death the death of all
and within that all
a nothingness some would call a void,
but which upon closer inspection reveals but another me dreaming it,
the dream and me…
life within the cadaver is the promise blossom
awaiting blown seedlings to scuttle across the desert
of a once rain forest
under the glacial ice’s memory of millennia,
is a world tree,
a stately scented sycamore…
If plants waited to expand because another glacier were coming,
then all would be desert or ice.
Nonetheless, we are all a carnival dressed for funerals
and upon our pyres we dance
the macabre cadaver dance
regardless of peregrination
chosen as a soul before entrance to the dance,
despite our willingness to unwillingness
to comprehend the choices now,
we yet journey.
Dying each day,
stinking and rotting,
and living each day,
fragrantly renewing,
leaving stenches intermixed with aromas of beauteous sorts.
No poem is a poem as self identified,
or self unidentified,
for in its own recognition or dismissal
does it fail as such or its antithesis.
So, call this nothing, but read it deeply…
And, what of a life pretending to be dead then?
Does death pretend and feign so readily life?
Is a wound but death making light of life?
Wounds heal and reopen,
countless times in a moment,
scarring providing us skin
and tissue
memories to jolt physicality back into psychology,
as if we need to recall and cannot without their assistance.
A wound in unthought fields of chaos reels
over black flowers
dotting ever-steeper valleys and ever-lower hills,
bleeding black flowers with heady stenchy odors
wafting warily nearer and further
from until surrounding all Osiris
emerges
reborn from Isis’ chaotic womb…
the glacier but a memory
of her moonlight fading
in the unconsciousness
of Osiris’ dead memories.
The memory returns,
now a rememory:
Osiris is the sycamore,
is the plants reborn out of a desert or tundrascape,
is the sun born from the moon each day,
is the cadaver horizon,
is the life carnival,
is all of life and death
one arising out of the other…

Fanciful Imaginings…

In the beginning of light within the dark and dryness in the moisture,
Four cougars craved solace and while crouching on lily pads
They suddenly were transformed into lotuses,
Which many deities and their devotees noticed.

Millennia later, they found themselves reified in cults as a posture,
Which spread over tropical zones and became fads
They realized then that they were the only ones
Who knew what lotuses really were…

And, accordingly, they sent a message to some
And me who seemed to not hear
And continued instead to reify lotuses,
Until one day a radiant lotus dared speech practice…

I heard a soliloquy seductively whispered from a Goddess.
She was not a cougar, and so I wondered…
A roar sounded primordial colors into existence
And the space that wound in that place fondled
A creature into a plant again and I witnessed happenstance.

‘Tree, come to me,’ She whispers…
Whoever heard absurder a perjure of sanity?
In the shadows, I observe, goosebumps and chills—the profanity!
Wheneven shelters wrestle and perspire…

Wait. A Shadow stretches to reach my heart.
And a heartbeat pumps of energy brainwaves impart.
How shadow reaches thought reveals to inspire
The telling of “whenever stories” of diverse characters,
Even trees’ slow Sahara sojourn provides witness!

No more do cougars and lotuses challenge
What once proved as truth for me for truth has no bearing
For in its telling doth truth become else
And when a goddess fills one spilling outward into all
What is shadow is light and all paradox seeming real…

Disassembled Beingness

Once upon a time there were three no we’ll make it four, little bits of time running a race that actually paralleled that of an anaconda digesting its large prey; a grizzly hibernating on a bighorn; a swan singing in sunlit daisies in white-butterfly-intermittent-clouds, and-quite-unpredictable, despite observing hours to days to weeks, which stretches forth wings of glory to rejoicingly introduce the prophetess from the west with no agenda or attachment to ideals: Isis!
What happens when three billion are expendable?
One sneezes…
It is that easy, as has been proven over millennia…
What happens when no amounts of billions will perpetuate anything?
Shivas eat everything and no rumbling sounds so deep…
What happens when a forest of ancients is timber?
In a week…
It is a rumbling deeper and more ancient than Changing Woman as she has been known in the present day.
Changing Woman of many moons ago found no solace in fields wider than two peaks could comfort.
Changing Woman saw continents, islands, galaxies, universes, and found the worthy ones here called alcreatamythos….
They seek whatever realms of revisioning have not yet seen the shapes of four such riveting minds.
Bowing dew splatters in diamondlike chatter
Crackling birch flirting with a pit
Crab apple blooms internal / external
It is…
Give me now this life I soon see no more…
Reassemble me, oh, Isis…
I, your husband who was tricked by horrid sibling rivalry, implore thee…
And, if you ask But, what is the fourth?, then you have not seen or read closely enough and so you must return and revisit the words, one by one, until you have been through the four again, and for some again and again….

From the Mouths of Babes

Infants speaking in ancient tongues heft the weft
Left bereft on the loom of arcane weavers
Leavers of the clothing of original ones
Wondrous fabrics of rainbowed hues
Humors would not allow done garments instants

From Within the Without of Yggdrasil the World Tree

Fondly hang thee witless nine nights
wee the dawn tickles the upmost boughs;
hang thee well and upside down;
see thee into inevitable breakdown;
see thee into the eye that e’er floats below;
read the meaded messages even though they flow;
read the runes as one does ingredients in low light;
as above ravens, eagles, and hawks aflight;
and below otters, coyotes, and monkeys excite;
see into, between and beyond;
myth is but what we find most fond,
but how we forge our strongest bonds.

Eating My Tail

Herein is the uroboric return
Move downward spiral within
Grooves etched echo the downturn
Begin improving after the tailspin

Horus Forgave Prometheus

Driving into an area where the sun drapes darkened benches when the moon’s lost its light to campfires when I learn-see again…
Underneath the sheen of the milky way herein fairies roam and dwell; for, they seek something similar strange…

Aged carvings tell pillared stories:
A birded flight of winged Isis
Mounts a spectre named phallus
Removed from Osiris whose twelve pieces reassembled
Nearly whole on cold unforgiving stoney slab
He somehow begets a sun
Rising on the horizon is Horus

I AM Horus!, says he.
A hore of us is part of us
and we move on into the we of us
Here we reside for most of the time between
But, she runs beyond the stars
On a sunlit wave step that I could not reach
not on the sunnestmost beach…

In disobeyance, I dream
Not out of will or a need to try
Rather out of the coursing energy surrounding
I see myself a thousand pieces strewn about
Every one of them tells a lie about the whole
My Promethean slumber sees on the mountaintop I’m dismembered
Though in nightly dreams I’m rightly remembered
Gusts blow beyond fire as images stir and twist
Ashes transform from the former alive.

Invigorating fire—I hear a sound past the inane
In the midst of what was once sparking fire
A lady’s cry answered by bufoonic antics
Related to putting out a fire—
What I see here is plentiful loving fire
Regardless the winds that treacherously overtake
Fire, rather that one could warm themselves over

And we build our fire with the logs that remain
Reveling in the warmth and light that is reborn
Out of Prometheus’ flesh and suffering
For us…

Breathing in and Breathing out Mythology

If ever you should by chance encounter some snakes copulating
lest like Tiresias androgyny you start advocating
seek not the counsel of even the wisest of deities
and instead breathing deeply into shallow vales
where rattles give their place seek the council of whales

When vision Hypnos visits—
whose thoughts implore us
a journey take in underconscious—
with amazing alacrity:
who sees with any clarity?

Speeding slowly past the holy gates
of Erebos what souls shine
that are solely stolen from the Fates
from the horrible knowledge that glances
like the burning sun, seek not chances

Leftovers from the fevered feast
blithering butts of swift-swine
prickled wrath of the Erynies:
suckling sows gift no kindness
itching sight into blindness

The herds of Hermes once pilfered from Apollo
are not always the most fortuitous guests
as razing fields and stampeding wolves suggests
though many forget and their elixir swallow,
habitually harried, haoma follows

A chariot rides a bit too close:
Phoebus flicking his wrist,
misses the red-burnt chorus
chanting as one: He sees us; He sees us!
as horses’ foam sprays and coats

Experience the heat of amour
without the distinct pleasure
feverous sweating amidst
Aphrodite’s displeasure
the choir is wondering What for?

Once, after smelling sweetest-Daphne-Artemis—
her fragrance wafting through branches assaults rank hounds—
I knew too late not to breathe deeply her essence
and though fortunately I knew not staghood
what wisdom stuffed me fully then words were not found!

Metamorphosing into a tree:
wondered I if the leaves would
wind their way into the wood,
therein transposing the once could be
from breathless flight to rememory…

Hearing not the admonishment of Hebe,
concerning more than fun, play and infancy
embarking on surrealist wax-filled fantasies
of fanciful flights following the free bee
sound diminishes now awfully slowly

Who it might be that astutely connects
astral feathery flight through the ionosphere
with this piercing dizzy knows the disconnects
when liquefying wax Icarus won’t fear
and neglecting father’s calls, falls, a killdeer

Naked vision of Poseidon’s fury—
seething foaming, salty spring deemed unworthy
after losing to Athena’s olive tree—
pronely shivering on a wave-crashed blustery
lonely island in the cursed cold wintry sea

When the fetus Athena grows
gestating pains of kicking slows
not, so soothing Zeus’ aches shows
naught but ignorance in shadows flees
disillusionment the captive pleas

Then, the instant the infant Athena’s born
the aches like bursting open turn to pains
of splitting apart and breaking asunder
as grey matter a’splatter from skull is torn
and anesthesia becomes empty thunder

But, let us not be timid in the telling
lest embodying Prometheus’ horrors
lungs in chest reeling, doubled up in his terrors
of unrelenting pinioning fast chains
and jagged beak tears we forget the swelling

Finding myself stuck in a pale loop
of repeated ritualistic romps with Ah-Shoo!-Hades
I now tire of the gray wracking group
for who desires to be smothered
or who spattered, grisly covered?

Instead of seeing formless shaded reflections
of myself in every shielded mirror
it is the mug of Medusa in my visions
whose turning visage feeds every terror
‘til seeing sees nothing but hallucinations

At darkest hours when Hephaestos works
and then on his anvil he pounds
oh, the panoply of quirks and jerks
as lumbering becomes wishes for reclining
and slumbering alters wishes from confining

Everyone enjoys festive feasting
until afterwards when they feel the effects
of Dionysus running his course of visiting
whereupon the notion of overindulging
loses its attraction owing to the bulging

Finally said, there once was a troupe
who never left the billowy tent
Bacchae one and all willowy rent
and though springing were the desire,
and back more, still danced they higher!