Gathering

The seas were raging from the fire that was burning.
To yield the life that was waiting upon the shore,
It collapsed when laughter ceased to be no more
and filled our lungs with something old.

It gathered upon the doorsteps of the ancient wonders.
Till all the ancient wonders became no more.
And high above the cities, where many black things flew.
The images that haunt us now is the one we never knew.

The Wayward Dove

The wayward dove drove to paradise.
Under split wings and partial decay,
under the wooden steps she took her last flight in a Cadillac.

She spoke her secret to no one and the mumbled, fumbled words
transpired into hums from her throat.

Oh Lord!

Forgive me for being on this fast track,
This train keeps passing the stations I’m suppose to be getting off.
A night here in paradise has my soul tumbling down a muddy hole.
Talking to the spirits that might be around.
With a candle lit, tears are muddled with super nova voices I can’t seem to hear.

Knowing

In the tide of once was
In the forest of once knowing
That further from the light was the truth
That swallowed such kings whole

No minister sprang words from his throat
Nor wolves gnashing their teeth at new born babes
It is the words of such foolish tales that keep men at bay

A Time to Love

There is too much hate and very little love

Now is the time
The time to love

There is too much greed in this world
Most everything is getting higher

A time to love
Should become our desire

Now is the time
The time to love

It's comng from the heavens
The heavens above

Now is the time
The time for sharing

A time for love
A time for caring

It will endure these hard times
and we will never be apart

Now is the time
The time to love

It's coming from all around
And the heaven above

From guest poet Larry Jamerson

Doors

There is nothing more exciting than walking through a door.
To the steps of the mundane or to the next adventure.
We always know where we are going 80% of the time.
The clinking of keys in our hands, locking our doors to keep our family, possessions and secrets safe.

What if the next time we go through a door
We abandon our clothing and run down the street.
To be touched by wind, sun or rain.
And to escape the voice of reason that binds us to our daily ghost.

The Hands of Dryad

The souls of Dryad sleep no more,
The hands of Dryad caress no more
Now that the Phoenix flies and the earth burns.

They are traveling far, weapons in hand.
Of those who destroyed the realms where the ancient owls once roamed.

Lady Mantles

Lady 1


Here she lies within the sea, filled with images of the sun and moon and the twinkling stars. Once she emerges from the sea she realizes there is much work to be done.
Magic is strongest when one is young.


Lady 2

Pondering while lying in the grass and climbing trees.
Here is the dept of expansion in the world of learning and dreaming.
What will I be when I grow up?
But for now, who wants to grow up?


Lady 3

She dances to a rhythmic drumming and the wind that whispers incantations in her ear.
The calling of autumn, the smell of bonfires and the skies painted with a somber glow.
Mystic forces have taken hold.


Lady 4

Captured..
The first frost of responsibility begins the subtle death of freedom.
But it always lingers in the forest, the ocean, the desert and the heart.

Lady 5

First love and heartbreak, Is love really sublime? To love and lost, to cry and rejoice.
She has no time for toads or malicious princes. Only noble hearts who love to laugh and ride pink elephants.

Lady 6

To give birth to a child, An idea of a distant dream? Pursuing the passion of one’s heart. No women’s spirit should be held to the typical role of society’s box.



Lady 7

As the skin ages so the soul flourishes.
Becoming the crone, mixing elixirs or baking cookies.
Is there any difference between the magic?

Pieced Together

I don’t own a sewing kit, no one has ever asked me to sew a button or hem a skirt.
I never mended the holes in my socks when I was older.
My grandmother taught me embroidery and the thick colors that hid each pattern,
It reminded me of her story telling, exuberant tales of religion and magic, her history that bleed a wild imagination into me.

Later in life, I took up quilting and knitting but soon lost interest of the quiet afternoons, the truth was I became bored. The patterns were set, but the colors didn’t weave stories or held the beauty of her face, there was nothing but silence except for the ticking clock and my breathing.

Blue Dragon

Today

Today is something that comes from nothing.
All is clear and the landscape twist and turns,
displaying the grace of an acrobrat.

It is the time when all is calm,
And the passing afternoon is made for lovers.

Agents of Despair

We are the agents of despair knocking on your door.
If you answer you will see a sickle and scythe,
We are not malicious nor will we come after your children,
We will leave that torture to society.

We are the agents of despair,
Knocking upon an old man's door.
Bound to a wheelchair and breathing device.
He is harmless and feeble but has lived a good life.
But ask him what he did with his fascist uniform from 1944.

We are the agents of despair opening the gates to swollen oceans
and burning skies.
People may fear us but we are just the beginning,
The real beasts have only begun to take shape and awaken.

Flowers for the Dead

It was the disappearance that churned my stomach and turned my heart black.
It was not the veil of fog that was lifted and revealed the distant sight
of vines and spider webs that joined to trap me in.

The pavement where so many enjoyed walking, before the rain.
The accumulation of saliva and food, everything turned white and tasteless

The marching of footsteps.

It vanished into oblivion where time stand stills and black cloaks cover the eyes.
It is where people say that the sparrows sing their last song,
and hide when their wings are broken.

Dear Charlemagne,

I saw you upon your horse today, galloping with head and steed held high.
I tucked myself behind the brush so you would not catch sight of me.

You then stopped and observed the landscape.
Your eyes shone with contentment of the all that was quiet in the forest.
I even thought I saw a smile sweep across your face.
And all the horrible memories of what was in the past slowly began to fade.

What is your legacy? As I studied your physic and the horse you rode.
Your beast had burrs in his tail and mud was caked on his back flanks.
You yourself looked short and no magic seemed to be given to you by those
who believed you to be part fae.

Yes, Charlemagne you have captured the imagination and tales have been spun with such a colorful weave. But to a simple girl hiding near by, you were not a man, but the King of the Franks.

 

Coal

Where Will This all Go?

Where will this all go?
Into the abyss where screams are not heard
Where laughter becomes a chuckle behind concrete walls

Where will the weary traveler unfold his belongings?
Lay his head on the sand and call it home
Where will the women give birth to her child that will never live to be 30?

When the rivers swell and the oceans disappear and mud is caked between ones fingers
Does this have a happy ending after tears swell and evaporate in the shadow world?

Where will this all go?
When in the tiniest of creatures all forms develop and bloom
Heading towards the sun and moon.

Sometimes

Sometimes I don’t know what the world is like anymore.
It sways and tips and then moves two steps backwards.
I see the lack of compassion and the shallow eyes that never look up,
to afraid to speak without the use of facebook or text messaging.

Sometimes it is a cocoon that I wrap myself in and find contact with those
who do smile.
It is the other half of the street that stays away from the touch of humanity.

Blue Gypsy

 

The Blue Gypsy once weaved tales of pure delight.
And through her voice a magical sojourn took place;
Her audience was enticed by every word,
the movement of her hands posed a delicate structure where she stood.
Then she would break into song where her voice would cast a spell..

"In the distance beyond the mountains,
My heart once traveled to see the man I loved.
We danced around an open bonfire
to see the morning light come.

And when the first light struck upon those who were sleeping.
My lover left me by the sea
Only to emerge as a ghost in my dreams".

Edward Gorey Was Once My Lover

Little Beast

Little beast was once a man.
Covered in ash and mud
He sat on his porch smoking his pipe,
telling tales of swallowing humming birds whole.
He was known as a giant, but had a small heart
It barley had enough thumps to keep his humanity in tact.

As he got older, he would boast about no longer swallowing humming birds
but had moved on to small children, puppies and then adults.
He never laughed or cried,
He would just sit smoking his pipe,
Rubbing his belly from his latest feast,
Till the earth's inhabitants became deceased.