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Re: Poetry Sundays


Risen
 
 
Sky born, lifted above
Water, Earth, primordial mud.
Bare breath and lilting light waft up, carry ephemeral
tongues, frenzied yet exquisite. Exaltation, daring
to swoop, touch, climb, pirouette.
Path briefly complete in hover, amazed over
flowering waves.
Winter Gods freeze-glaze mountain peaks,
rocky rivers, mother's eyes.
She gives suck embalmed in vision trails,
engulfed in smoke of smelting flame,
gasping, tropically turning, blind, yet
beyond mistrust. She regurgitates paste of
air, dust, instinct, steeped with spit
and love. Taste her sacrifice.
A world drifts. Black night backlit in
pinpricks. Atmosphere composed like bioluminescence,
symphonic, symbiotic. Listen as rippling elements
grow words, symbolic histories, into a Summer game.
Out here, sparkling rain weaves rainbows. Reverence
casts poetry as shimmer and shadow play.
Up here, beyond boundaries of ordinary days,
the only Commandment to penetrate --
Be Peace
Apr/20/2014, 4:30 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Apocalypso
 
 
Last wrench of intestines,
bleat of waning blood.
Dirge cry: fine intentions
end in death sans resurrection.
Plague pyre stench engulfs.
Let the holy die, ghostly heathen
haunt
lost soul intersection.
 
Gargoyle on the piano.
Ghouls writhe and stomp.
Dervish flames on wolfbane
so damned hot.
Wailing and screaming,
this band has style.
Extremis trysts rise creaming
wet and wild.
Hell’s on fire.
We all expire
tonight.
 
Groove music shadows twilight.
Twirl through final fade.
Relax into madness,
dark magic
masquerade.
Our climax spasm of ectoplasm
ignites.

Last edited by libramoon, May/4/2014, 9:07 pm
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Whoa! Apocalypso. That is a poem. "Let the holy die" stops me.

Tere
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Mother and Child Meditation
 
 
Think back to the bond between Mother and Child
Do you imagine it broken by
internal jealousies, shyness against intimacy,
cringing before angry gods of tribal culture,
dying of a thousand casual wounds, volleys
of will and grievance cast into fragile frays?
Or do you see a pageantry of unfailing matriarchs.
Strong sons and daughters waltz in attendance.
Flowers bloom from every slip of finery into
fecund mud.
Mothers of our species tend toward
adaptability, bear challenge of balance.
Trying out touted trends, begging for guidance
when their own experience ill fits today's
terror and tantalization. Always someone must
be blamed; sentiments must be appeased.
Where is the ease, the joy, the sharing up and down,
familial care and comfort? Where is that not our fair
Command?
A child is a gift to the future; a mother is a gift
of nature and nurture. Each brings, receives
all imaginable possibilities. Each is a present day.
May/11/2014, 4:33 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Escape Velocity
  
 
RRRRRunning--Spinning-- rising to fly, to reach
and conquer the sky, the rooftops, the treetops,
outside city crowds.
To elevate,
escape gravity.
Ascend beyond all those petty groundling woes and fears.
Climb past the clouds,
among stars and moonbeams.
Steer to view
celestial omens extolled in fantasies.
Zooming through tickly, teasing, laughing ecstasy.
Catching up to steep snow peaks. Peering in lighthouse windows.
Prancing gaily so many feet above fields and roads,
glancing below -- can't catch me
not you dour, sour,
glum-faced cons down on the street.
Learning to fly, to soar, to race up high
where I can see for miles,
and miles recede.
Learning to say no to ordinary normality
and break free.
Learning to say yes to magic, and make magic me.
Spinning--running--dancing--flying
unlike anything before.
Learning to break out of bounds and take in more
Ain't nobody gonna tell me I can't fly
May/25/2014, 4:29 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Fish Tale
 
 
I didn't know the fish would die
flapping on sun-warmed metal.
Peacefully domestic afternoon.
Children discover death
and other worlds.
 
Sitting by the well
to draw inspiration.
Spinning yarn, weaving words.
Dusty work. Flakes of skin
embed the fabric.
Struggling through childhood,
the tales get twisted.
Little boys & little girls
separate language.
We think we know our place,
our destinies,
from the games we're given,
the words we've learned to imitate,
rhymes, reasons, rituals.
Imbibing passion body to body,
we awaken rules of blame.
The woman tempts.
The hero conquers.
The sad boy desires a
self-fulfilling fantasy,
stomping upon his heart to
start the flow of real blood,
real rage.
Out of water, out of earth,
out of air,
flopping upon some inert surface
the tale mechanistically repeats.
What world can we discover
nurturing life?
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Yeah. Expectations can determine roles which, in turn, become deterministic of behavior.

Tere
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Of an Age
 
 
Two old men
at ease under a banyan tree
share musings of philosophy,
their darkest nights, coldest days.
Was Nietzsche right?
Did life amaze us
with frightful beauty?
Did we survive precious trials
to reap rewards,
treasure we could never find
without misfortune as clever guide
into a promised land?
Magical lovers through wondrous ecstasies,
dared fantasies come true.
Sons marching off to war,
a father's pride.
That sickening loss and horror
when they died.
Derision flung from socialites
on fallen streets, defeated.
The dismal sight one becomes
once all hope has retreated.
Before and after,
that haunting laughter
never ends.
Yet, faith can be replaced;
better friends may follow;
true amends may allow
new strategies to form.
Deafening nightmare, desperate storm
give way to rainbows, peaceful dawns.
Two old men,
weathered, withered, wise.
Listen, be risen,
by the music in their eyes.
Surfaced in gentle loving smiles
echoes of poetry
inscribed
upon the cave walls
of their minds.
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Sagittarius Full Moon
 
 
The many faces of illusive Moon
reflect starlight in her artful glide,
entrance the sky.
My mortal eyes want to believe
gleaming quests, brave truths, romantic rhymes.
Tell me, hoary elders,
rejuvenated for your fling
in sacred moonlight,
swaying from your ivied castles
to mystic mountain
legendary glades,
tell me why I should give credence
to magic codes of
spells and sacrifice.
Is the wisdom of the ages
so constrained?
My species may be blind to
naked eternity,
but we mutate,
find and define
new ways to see.
Fixed space is far too limiting
for me.
Dear Sister Moon, separate entity
from birth, entwined destiny
with Mother Earth,
patterns re-cycling reveal
what we regard to be real
is but reflection.
Face to face to face, fluid
to change.
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Summer Again
 
 
... movin' into summer
Wind plays in cloud formation.
Drift into deep elation.
Sun rise
blossoms to a
rhythmic peak
sending out, sending out, sending out
radiant vibration
reflected through summer skies.
 
New esprit conjures a story.
Fantasy and careless
fling into tall grass,
fruit full trees, languid leaves.
Ebullient sunshine warms
soporific
melting melodies.
The tale unwinds in brightly
colored ribbons,
high jinxed gypsy comedies
of breezy, dimpled romance.
In silken perfumes bathed,
flagrantly scandalous.
Deign o dainty smile.
Laughter bubbles out,
bursts. Minstrel raucous flames
fill summer eves'
glistening fairy light
 
Tell a rollicking tale,
we demand of the piper.
We have paid all the long
seasons of darkness.
It is time to reap an early harvest
of rapture dancing to dawn.
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Q & A
 
 
I need you, out there,
to ask delicious questions,
feed my liminal factory --
imaginal machinery set to
engineer exquisite ideas
in shrink-wrapped phrases.
Tell me your shame-held
secrets, fears that track you
in the night.
Let me meld them with
trenchant fairytales,
legends that recapitulate
on cable news, vibrant stylings
of the Blues,
surreal cartoons rendered by
Nietzschean travails.
Let me knead this recipe,
sprinkle with inchoate memories,
bake at near 99 degrees
until brilliant fragrance overtakes the air.
Now, open wide and taste
enchantment, as your questions
and my answers
meet, mingle, mutually complete.
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as out, so in
 
 
Lake silent, opaque
mirror to reflective Moon
complete in stillness
 
Wind escapes ghost maples,
catches satin leaves
to whirl, to howl
 
Integral, self-contained, this world knows
dense sorceries, senses unspoken,
helpless rhapsody eternity allows
for now
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boys and their toys
 
 
It's not about religion.
It's about what it's always about
ultimately, power
boys and their toys
and their pissing contests
blowing up bombs
to etch their names in the sand
no matter who it destroys
like stomping on ants
because it feels so grand
being the stomper and not
bits of skin and juice
ready to play ever again to win
by your own rules.
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Veneration
 
 
Honoring peace.
Honoring essence left behind
not blessed in sanctified fields
open to air and sunlight,
tended to father by father,
mother to sacrificed child.
Dust denied transcendence to
holy loam in presence of love.
Lives not given, not shared, but stolen,
ripped asunder --
limbs, guts, glory.
Shrieking abodeless waifs,
wailing abandoned intimates, kin.
Screaming bombs, squealing tanks.
Arms, throats lacerated.
Vision scathed, scarred.
For peace, for country, for prosperity.
Today, smoke, cinder flecks
obscure a longed-for Sun.
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Instant Message
 
 
I read your missives.
They tell me all across the planet
symbols mingle in shared airstream
meant for me.
 
I feel your loving.
Though I've never met you in the
biblical sense,
what do bibles know?
They were written for other days,
other ways of relating.
Love's not based on seeing,
smelling, touching, tasting
more than survives
neurons’ translated senses.
My love embraces you,
who somehow see me
through impassioned words,
shared images
savored safely in recognition.
 
Love is eternal, but not forever.
Love is awareness in that esoteric space
visualized, realized, as all of essence
rushes dizzily through each private
wired net, lighting here and there
to display brushstrokes of ecstasy.
 
Taste the pleasure, take a bite.
Treasured freely growing fruits
nourish rich synaptic flow.
Emotion, luscious nectar we each create anew.
Together, synergy expands our reach,
our world
viewed.
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Peace on Earth Montage
 
 
Banal terrors,
tortures entailed schoolyard to street.
Hostile besiegers leap out, shove face to ground,
strike with weaponized names,
galvanized noise, militant toys.
No space to listen, reflect, learn how
we could peacefully heal.
Its all teeth and claws, everyday wars,
every night prayers of repent. Every
penny spent to hold back the blame,
shame, certainty that all paths forward
lead to more of the same.
*
Battle wary, ready for rest, to shelter.
Close this sorry chapter; relax, restore.
Warm, reminiscent of
the peace we would gladly fight for.
May wise rapprochement emerge, endure.
*
Ease of peace in contemplation, bliss of
transcendent imagery, artful conversation.
Heart strings ring in symphonic actuation.
Bring forward radiant pools of welcoming
within cooperation, reflections change.
*
Energy dervishes, drunk from fruits of Earth, swirl
into ecstasy; face becoming. Sun falls from Western skies.
Inner space aligns.
 
*
Soft sensuous clouds drift and blend
as crepuscular iridescent glow descends.
Below, welcoming evening lights,
drowsy trees, cozy homes, familiar rites.
Recall of feasts, merry meets, gift of returning friends
evokes deeply desired peace, belonging, generous amends.
*
Caught up in days’ parade; now take it in.
Peaceful moments safe with friends and kin.
Joys of open grace, sad tinge of loss.
Simple blessings, call of goals beyond.
Under dispersing clouds, upon solid ground,
jaunty walk intent on happy thoughts.
*
Joyful thoughts, peace, ease, mirth,
the elation of happy news lilting through the Earth.
I send you a bubble of better days.
Breathe.
Feel complete
if only for this moment.
*
Surprised by a cardinal --
Cadillac red against white blossoms.
Kind wind; lazy, cloud sheeted Sun.
Bliss, no distraction discerned.
Fresh semester blessings, seeds return.
Earth spins; we want answers that
assure us yes, so wise, we are the One
promised. Cardinal bright, distinct,
against amorphous grays. Fancy and free.
*
Celebrate Laziness!
Mentor of Invention,
this easy first cousin to Peace.
Proclaim, reclaim, claim
such lovely virtue,
calmly, with gentle elegance,
languid flourish, impish wink.
*
Wealth of starlight, bed of Earth
Every miracle seeking birth
Clouds arouse the care of air
Music flows through every where
Simple glass of lake serene
Holds my I to reflecting screen
Turn to turn, each glint a prize
This world revealed through peace cleansed eyes
*
Taste the bittersweet of long accumulated earth.
That metallic tang, carbon bonds long descended through time and dust.
Skeletons broken to rebuild from waste
carry potential energy into ancient deserts that tomorrow
we learn to bloom.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Beautiful, Libra.

Thanks,

Chris
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Enchanted Garden
 
 
Homespun among
cozy field of roses.
Gated inside lush technicolor paradise.
Who would think once?
None would think twice.
Overpowered by rose scent,
velvet elegance, dazzling sensation.
Safe from dangers outside
this cinematic fence.
Who would knock once?
Who would knock thrice,
open the spell?
Who would give wishes a
wishing well, instill water with
witch’s wiles under potent roses?
Remember the curse.
Remember fairies bedecked in roses.
Remember you begged for a chance,
a second of sight.
Then begged to forever forget.
Stoic soldiers,
wistful roses of forgetfulness.
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October
 
 
Entering into a joy of its own,
love long subdued, yet never
denied . . .
Deeply buried, muffled calls from
memory's tomb.
Embedded in layers, perennial autumn leaves.
Empty years
temporarily deluged by tears
tumbling like coins
through torn clothing.
Hard earned but never spent;
I weep for you.
 
Entering into a joy of its own,
elation of interchange incomplete.
Crepuscular darkness of Autumn,
solemn, ancient, descending,
anticipates consummation.
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navigation
 
 
Stalling at the crossroad,
on the threshold,
unsure of correct direction.
Whose reflection
calls to follow?
The Moon, she shines
brightly, suffuses sky,
so hard and cold and unaware.
Where is my soft strong melody?
Where is that voice, sonorous glee,
tug of eerily familiar tune?
Running through umbra of night,
hoping to surface, wild and free.
Yet, as Sunrise obscures
my vision,
sense recedes. Lost, treading
miles of exhaust and grease.
Chain fast food, car shops and fuel, infest
this secondary road.
No wavery door marked by ornate
gargoyle knocker shows.
I reach for higher substance, better trance.
Mystic keys, clues to advance vast scavenger hunt,
peek discreetly along arid, apocalyptic trail.
When each clicks into place,
a lock will open.
If I am wise, I will arise,
walk the circle,
traverse the threshold,
up the stairway,
home at last.
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Merlyn Enchanted
 
 
In secret unlit chambers
guided by wizardry
all eternity his(Hers) to see.
Omniscient night, he(She) stirs wonders,
bubbling sublime,
catches fluid rhythms in catechisms,
spells out vivid ceremony,
illumined rhyme before his(Her) avid mind.
Walls of obsidian crystal, unable to penetrate.
What we do for love’s allure; allowing
liens upon a will of magic.
Enchanted inward, intense, piquant elixir.
Decanted pure fumes,
deep draughts of ecstasy,
conjured music
commingle to frolic with merry sprites,
lost in beauty and laughter.
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Shrodinger’s Dove
 
 
Darkening, heavier impression,
molten heat compresses.
Density increases toward
event horizon.
Twilight
on the apocalyptic battlefield.
Inside the box
are we dying
or transforming?
Starlight peeks in.
Do we suckle cosmic energy,
grow strong and wise?
Or demand incineration?
Phoenix or dove, or cawing raven
beating mortal wings
against emerging stars.
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Sodden Trails
 
 
Rain approaches.
Dampness forewarns, and gusts of
anxious hissing.
Warmth of November’s ambivalence.
Flocked leaves gossip of their frills.
Just a night. Just a forward movement
through the year. No storm unburied secrets
appear to inform morbid musing.
Lost in music, mews of distraction.
Surely long simmered treasure trove, untapped
trauma whispers
incantations, emits smoky regret or revenge.
No more. These games pall.
I am weary of hate, that special hate called guilt,
that dark choking fire, berating, suffocating,
defeating.
There is an alleyway, gothic iron gated,
back when the world was young and gay.
When I was freer than I understood.
There is a sudden meadow,
sedate evergreen statuesque tableaux.
There is a verdant sultry roadside,
Southern in ambiance. Sweat cling, dimming
air.
A child who became me was there,
collected these cerebral photographs.
In quiet intervals, she has tried to structure
colorful montage from fractured pages
thumbed through, over viewed.
No neon You to co-author my plot or toss dialog.
Nothing meaningful comes easily.
First language must be grown from seeds
tumultuously accrued, deeply carried.
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To feel so free, clear sailing in and out of every inner sea
Unhitched from fear of harsh accounting, exile into barbarity
To know we each see differently, and that a wonder to behold
Gifting visions as they unfold, float acrobatic up, adjacent, touch,
glide under, then retold changed from journeying
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Rising Night
 
 
Divine darkness.
Sparkling stars promise eternal light.
New days, new dawns, new destinations
open endless, unforeseen segues.
Wonder creates, merrily navigates veils
as each falls, cast away.
Luminous celestial array.
Lightning aurora bursts
expose prospective trails.
 
Breath of pine teases thought’s horizon.
Crackling branches carry fire’s
beckoning warmth.
Eventide soothing cup, succulent sup.
Ebb of anxiety. Ready to slumber.
Latent chant again and beyond and ever
peace, sacred peace.
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night blooms
 
 
Come, say I!
Enjoy the desert night blooms --
rare, exquisite, alive.
Quiet, the primeval cold,
parched, freeze-dried.
No purposeful future
divined.
Old, alien
unmarked steps upon the Earth.
Stories spin ...
unsettled,
lost from warmth.
I abide, seer within frigid landscape;
dry, clear, eternal,
to enjoy the blooming.
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Sound Check
 
 
The soundwaves whirl inside my ear
Evoke old lessons tucked away.
Sometimes the world is very clear.
 
I spoke to you of this last year
That night we each knew what to say.
The soundwaves whirl inside my ear.
 
At times I feel naught but fear.
At times life seems a scripted play.
Sometimes the world is very clear.
 
I haven't had the lull to hear.
Muddled in this mire of gray.
The soundwaves whirl inside my ear.
 
I hold your recalled visage dear.
Smiling like a sunshine ray.
Sometimes the world is very clear.
 
I listen, but I do not hear
shots that shattered yesterday.
The soundwaves whirl inside my ear.
Sometimes the world is very clear.
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Musings
 
 
Love is like a looking-glass
And Life a long, arduous voyage on an uncharted sea.
I don't know what to tell you;
I don't know what to say.
Listening to talk of madness in a candlelit bar/cafe.
The snow outside turns to unhappy slush
    on a Sunday evening.
I want music,
    but settle for words and imported beer,
    watching the players before my eyes,
    playing my silent bit part at a corner table --
    while those onstage speak their chosen lines.
The beer goes to my head like a tight cap,
    as does the nostalgia spouting from the barmaid:
    distillations of books and movies
    still etched on my brain
    from those ever remembered nights
        of hipness revelry
    Greenwich Village 1960s.
    Oh so serious flights of youth awakening
        -- Yeah . . .
    it all comes back.
    Nothing's ever lost, but, like energy,
        returns in different forms.
        Metamorphoses.
It's a night for musings.
My true purpose? as yet disguised.
Life is like a voyage
    and this epistle,
    merely another page in the log.
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Grey Sky
 
 
People I became over ages.
Foolish sages.
Slave to wages.
Humble servant to whomever
gave a glance.
Always ready for a game with chance,
burning bridges to
swim in fate's brave waves.
Summer days, bare of larder,
footloose, daring perils
over zealous ardor.
Winter nights, warm in fantasies’
strong embrace, kept safe from waking.
Betrayal trills a theme distance can’t quell.
These stories, myths for believing,
self-cast spells to conjure meaning.
Selling candles to pay that piper, fear.
What is the price of surrender?
Gauze white, ghost quiet.
Flock and lost agree: all born to die.
Years dissipate. I wander under roving sky,
breathe greying air.
Jan/25/2015, 3:13 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Poetry Sundays


Generation
 
 
Infinite, eternal, these are words,
maps to definitions, not what is.
Creation never ends, never begins again,
not repetition but reflection.
Legends and runes. Ritual regression.
Significant omens.
Ravens forsake flocks, ranges skewed.
 
In primordial recesses of a sigh
trembling hearts enact a pact of solitude,
invent machinations of separation,
journey through despair.
Sovereign brains evolve, adapt to dangers;
patterns that evoke anger, fear.
Scanning eyes, ears, nostrils
filter through parameters,
call out Warning! Warning!
far too often, far too loud.
There is no guide, no authority,
none but me, repeatedly mirrored.
Each step, each succession
undertaken
in idiosyncratic interpretation.
What will become of all these "I"s
staring through, demanding
retribution, bare, raw justice?
Respectable explanation.
Rigorous notation.
Scores, codes, clocks, keystones.
Laws and theories developed to describe
thin segment of encompassment
accessible to sense and reason.
 
Early morning of soft savannah
wakens to cloud and mist.
Waft of tranquil distillation
soothing startled breasts --
Feb/1/2015, 3:50 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 


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