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dark of the moon, of the sun


The darkness of the moonless sky blended into the inky mystery of the river, so opening her eyes showed her nothing. She could smell dank, pungent organic odors, feel surrounded by the river, the forest, the moist air. She could hear the splashing, slapping of the water against the boat. Insects, the occasional nocturnal hunter and hunted, breeze moving through the trees, all added to the aural ambience. Her senses assured her that she was present here, without human companionship.

There had been a party, she thought, maybe. Loud music, laughter, jocular outbursts, smells of stale smoke and booze, vague memories, but sensually distinct. Were there drugs? Was there an argument? Loud anger, breaking glass, sharp pain, indistinct, receding. There may have been pain, but not now. No post drug wooziness, but memory vague, without certainty, a broken thread drifting away. Like this boat, untethered, drifting in the slapping water.

She laughed briefly at the thought of living in a metaphor. Strangely, having no idea of where she was or how she had gotten there was issuing no concern. Perhaps this was a common occurrence. Images from movies about memory disorders randomly flashed into inner view. Still, no fear, no concern. She felt calm, relaxed, at peace. Breathing in the night air, cool enough to invigorate without chilling, enjoying the sounds and smells of a natural order, she let the thought of memories drift away.


Twilight, the wee hours,
the dark of the moon
liminal spaces,
places where magic reigns,
crossroads, crises, cusps.

There is static on the radio.
A song
my voice was singing
taking flight to surround me,
the sound of music,
a comforter of down
to ease my soul.

I’ve been trying to define a taste,
a sense of bittersweet and salt.
I’ve been trying to find a trace
a footprint in the desert,
a sound, a scent,
a memory.
I’ve been trying to find a trace of me,
a piece to fit the puzzle,
my contribution to the grand design.
Seeking in the shadows,
the space between
myth and matter,
those places words
cannot define.


Moving inward.
Spiraling
into deepest silence.
Feel me here,
oh my most darling.
Here is the free-est flow,
river of bliss. Bounty
of years of grey resistance,
incrementally awakened to
swirling shades —
mystic purples,
mad magentas,
sky-eyed blues.
There is ancient music,
crescendos to peals.
Layered millennial ears,
creatures of seas to trees
murmur through.
Ripples of soundwaves,
broker wisdom
not yet condensed into words.
Romances spun of clay and sand,
woven into fashion’s fabrics.
Hearty voices join,
create regaled mythology.
Star-shaped world story
reverberates with
chill and heat.
Nascent strive for enriched clarity
that must open ever more widely,
a luminous spiral
up, out, in, around.
Come, brave as you imagine.
In that brief eternal interval
all of energy
coalesces.




In the still of the dark of the moon,
after the revelry has passed,
deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep,
we, walking, silently, along the riverbed,
breathe in ancient ash of woodsmoke,
breathe out long-growing tears
to weave ghostly tentacles
along our path,
take each other’s hand up to our heart
to pray, to kiss, to whisper,
thus casting an eternal spell.




I have traveled beyond the waters,
acrid, poisoned water,
bound and bleeding daughters,
wail of senseless slaughter,
blinded by the rain.
I have walked
sands of endless hatred,
crumbled stone as hate did,
explaining “It was fated.”
relinquishing the blame.
Dark of the Moon night, quiet,
unable to lie,
I search for the truth of
my age in unfathomed sky.
Not Heaven, not Home to a
rescuing I — the Mystic’s mystery.
Hugely greater than a Creator of history.
Stars, Galaxies
without end


dark of the Moon, dark of the Sun
liminality, intense opening of magical portals — where do you see your being on the other side?
Perhaps what I am finding so profound is indeed simple elementary knowledge to others here. That take on the human narrative is: our entire “reality” is an abstract construct based on what we perceive as the general social narrative into which we are born. Much as some religions refer to a “maya” an illusory story we blend our self-narrative from, or as visionaries, madfolk, psychonauts perceive a vaster reality beyond the veil, we all have the capacity to see through the story and recreate it in an image more suited to our individual pursuits and pleasure. In fact, religion (yoke) is a social construct to better control the flock by self-appointed shepherds who may have a greater picture than apprehended by the masses, or at least a greater instinct for the prerequisites of power over. Ultimately, the more profound power is not power over, but power within, the power to move beyond the socially accepted narrative and write one’s own. This is the essence of Magic.


 for the dweller
on the threshold.
The search is for clarity,
expanding borders, introducing
elasticity as integral character.
To see, to feel, to merge and undulate
through; to discover, uncover, swim
in the glory of original grace,
ecstatic beauty.
To see, to feel, to breathe in
all exquisite luxury of prescience; to hold,
transmit as cellular energy.
To paint upon translucent canvas
subliminal etchings, private symbols
generously revealed.


Sun and Moon embrace
as one
for brief eternity
all mystery reflects recursively within
 .
Black and White
create gradation
radiate kinetic energy
We can achieve,
believe,
begin, begin, begin
.
Gardeners, planting vibrant fields,
planting food,
planting future flowering in
nurturing soil
 .
Healers,
perceiving wounds
to be sewn,
relieving loneliness,
revealing pain denied,
held in; applying benevolent medicines
to salve twists of ardent toil
 .
Teachers,
adoring mentors of their wards
discover with them
questions, keys and doors;
realizing history is only destiny
when explorations cease;
invitations from ideation over time
come complete
with choices
 .
A choir of voices
from softest spark
to fervent blaze


Mar/11/2021, 6:00 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: dark of the moon, of the sun


)

The darkness of the moonless sky blended into the inky mystery of the river. Opening her eyes showed her nothing. She could smell dank, pungent organic odors, feel surrounded by the river, the forest, the moist air. She could hear the splashing, slapping of water against the boat. Insects, the occasional nocturnal hunter and hunted, breeze moving through the trees, all added to the aural ambience. Her senses assured her that she was present here, without human companionship.
)
There had been a party, she thought, maybe. Loud music, laughter, jocular outbursts, smells of stale smoke and booze, vague memories, but sensually distinct. Were there drugs? Was there an argument? Loud anger, breaking glass, sharp pain, indistinct, receding. There may have been pain, but not now. No post drug wooziness, but memory vague, without certainty, a broken thread drifting away. Like this boat, untethered, drifting in the slapping water.
)
She laughed briefly at the thought of living in a metaphor. Strangely, having no idea of where she was or how she had gotten there was issuing no concern. Perhaps this was a common occurrence. Images from movies about memory disorders randomly flashed into inner view. Still, no fear, no concern. She felt calm, relaxed, at peace. Breathing in the night air, cool enough to invigorate without chilling, enjoying the sounds and smells of a natural order, )she let the thought of memories drift away.
)
)
Twilight, the wee hours,
the dark of the moon
liminal spaces,
places where magic reigns.
There is static on the radio.
A song
my voice was singing
taking flight to surround me,
a comforter of down
to ease my soul.
)
I’ve been trying to define a taste,
a sense of bittersweet and salt.
I’ve been trying to find a trace
a footprint in the desert,
a sound, a scent,
a memory.
I’ve been trying to find a trace of me,
a piece to fit the puzzle,
my contribution to the grand design.
Seeking in the shadows,
the space between
myth and matter,
those places words
cannot define.
)
)
Moving inward.
Spiraling
into deepest silence.
Feel me here,
oh my most darling.
Here is the free-est flow,
river of bliss. Bounty
of years of grey resistance,
incrementally awakened to
swirling shades —
mystic purples,
mad magentas,
sky-eyed blues.
Ripples of soundwaves,
broker wisdom
not yet condensed into words.
Hearty voices join,
create mythology.
Star-shaped world story
reverberates with
chill and heat.
Come, brave as you imagine,
in that brief eternal interval
)

)


In the still of the dark of the moon,
after the revelry has passed,
deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep,
we, walking, silently, along the riverbed,
breathe in ancient ash of woodsmoke,
breathe out long-growing tears
to weave ghostly tentacles
along our path,
thus casting an eternal spell.
)

)

I have traveled beyond the waters,
acrid, poisoned water,
bound and bleeding daughters,
wail of senseless slaughter,
blinded by the rain.
I have walked
sands of endless hatred,
crumbled stone as hate did,
explaining “It was fated.”
relinquishing the blame.
Dark of the Moon night, quiet,
unable to lie,
I search for the truth of
my age in unfathomed sky.
Not Heaven, not Home to a
rescuing I — the Mystic’s mystery.
Hugely greater than a Creator of history.
Stars, Galaxies
without end
)
)
dark of the Moon, dark of the Sun
liminality, intense opening of magical portals — where do you see your being on the other side?
Perhaps what I am finding so profound is indeed simple elementary knowledge. That take on the human narrative: our entire “reality” is an abstract construct based on what we perceive as the truth into which we are born. Some refer to an illusory myth we blend our self-narrative from, that visionaries, madfolk, psychonauts perceive a vaster reality beyond. Yet we all have the capacity to see through the story and recreate it in an image more suited to our individual pursuits and pleasure. Ultimately, the more profound power is not power over, but power within, the power to move beyond the socially accepted narrative and write one’s own. This is the essence of Magic.
)

)
For the dweller on the threshold:
The search is for clarity,
expanding borders, introducing
elasticity as integral character.
To see, to feel, to merge and undulate
through; to discover, uncover, swim
in the glory of original grace,
ecstatic beauty.
To see, to feel, to breathe in
all exquisite luxury of prescience; to hold,
transmit as cellular energy.
To paint upon translucent canvas
subliminal etchings, private symbols
generously revealed.
)
)

Sun and Moon embrace
as one
for brief eternity.
All mystery reflects recursively within.
We can achieve,
believe,
begin, begin, begin.
Healers,
perceiving wounds
to be sewn,
relieving loneliness,
revealing pain denied,
held in; applying benevolent medicines,
questions, keys and doors;
invitations from ideation over time
come complete
with choices,
A choir of voices
from softest spark
to fervent blaze.

)
Mar/11/2021, 9:07 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 


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