Cleansing

Rain falls, steady;
pandering, pattering,
cleansing what life
has left, the dust
and grains of being.
Leaf shines suddenly,
as if surprised,
that the residue
has been removed;
so used it had
become, to what
was, instead
of what might be.
How easily we do
forget, the original
Self, so ready are
we to accept the
dust and detritus,
which we have
gathered in dry
and unforgiving
days and nights.
Rain falls, steady;
pandering, pattering,
cleansing what life
has left, the dust
and grains of being.

Death in life

There can be death in life, with no body cold and still;
the person gone but form remains, recognizable,
in the material at least, but not in the emotional, or in
mind, or thought, or action, or belief, and yet dis-
connected in a way never imagined; as if the warm,
loving flesh had been chilled and made hard by inner
changes; as if the one we love had been possessed. 

No bell to toll in this world, but perhaps in realms beyond,
no words of eulogy to be uttered, no coffin, grave or final
letting go, of something which no longer exists, and yet,
this phantom, corporeal but ephemeral, living in physical
form and yet not, in all the ways that made him who he was,
from baby, through child, to youth and man; all gone, as if
he had never been, so changed and unknown; transformed.

Can someone return from a living grave; throw back the soil
of dark consciousness, struggle from the depths toward
the light; grasp again at who they were, and what they were,
and in the doing, be restored to themselves and to those who
love them and who grieve for the loss of something which
cannot be quantified in any material sense, but which aches
and longs for the return of that which the heart knows? 

The bell does toll but it has a silent, empty voice. As if,
such questions challenge fate and the fine, crimped writing
of the angels; as if, acceptance, trust and surrender are
the only way to survive this life in death, where that which
was can no longer be found; he who was cannot be seen,
and only grief can be thrown, like dry sods onto the casket,
echoing sombre, dull, waiting for heaven  to weep again.

Perhaps the dew will moisten withered, hard earth of memory,
and call for life to break the bounds which hold so tight,
that Soul may see itself and find within the shadowed mind,
a thread of love which leads through caverns deep and halls
so wide, tunnels connected, threading ever upwards; the
siren song of hope, which holds eternal, a mother to her
child; a force beyond the realms of Pluto's world.

http://dversepoets.com/2014/01/30/form-for-all-prosepoetry/#respond

Haunted

Images slow haunt through headless days,
where time can only mock and ridicule,
and memories do gather in dark clouds;
how life can show us that we are a fool.

In wanting to believe of what might be,
in holding to the best that others were,
we fall upon the spikes of cruel reality;
experience as savagery, now does hurl. 

To gather from the fields of sudden death,
the corpses of the past and fallen dreams,
we drag our souls from bloodied soils;
so do the angels call us on it seems.

How black the clouds on far horizon sit,
how deep the suck of trampled earth,
as breath is forced determined, does repeat;
so Life does pull from death, to future birth.

The journey

A High Bridge by Night
Eijiro Kobayashi


Drowned darkness where water sucks at the edge of sky,
and lights shiver, shout in silence across reflected depths,
shining, showing, shuddering through waves which break;
as the boatman guides, drags, from one side to the next.

So we travel, through the nights of hidden, distant days,
with one bright lamp, holding full of hope in steady place,
trusting to the process, through misted moments drawn;
that when dawn comes, we reach the port of waiting grace.

http://margoroby.com/2014/01/28/poem-tryouts-lets-cross-that-bridge/#respond

Sighs

You sigh too much, he said,
why do you do that?
How could I say that my
soul sighed, that my heart
released held breath because,
of what it knew and could
not say, that with each sigh,
the sadness was expelled,
just for that one brief
moment, until life drew
back in again, the grief he
had ushered into my mind,
and which pulsated through
my veins, like blood, over-
salted, and sometimes bitter,
lingering in the mouth, clinging
to the tongue, washing teeth,
set, resolute and ready;
because there was nothing
I could do to change what
was, or who he had become.
And so I sighed. Too much.

The note

 

Thomas Leuthard / Foter.com / CC BY

I read your note,
cannot think,
words are blurred,
nothing  is retained;
doomed exams,
I'm sure.

As if you care,

later I will weep,

now I focus 

on the page;

sentiments will keep.

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/01/trifextra-week-101.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+trifectawritingchallenge%2FIazs+%28Trifecta%29

Lunatic

Harsh words brought hurt,
humiliation, rendering null
the rules, relationship would
claim, as ridicule did crowd
the heart, caught in brittle
chains; changing who you
were; giving birth to some
thing new, brazen and
unknown; bone-hard your
mind now drew, a pretty
list of platitudes to pay
her back in pain, demand
translation from the heart;
your tongue would still
deride. Like tarragon
which runs amok, when
not brought to the spade,
the woman drowned
in water, tears; you watch
and will not say, that every
single action, each sacrifice
she made was obvious,
connected; the sky wept
tears of shame. Like bitter
orange, scented, no oil as
balm to grace, in desperate
asking she beseeched, some
answers; all betrayed.
In darkness deeply gathered,
desire from long-lost days,
as memory like locusts
spread; the lunatic you made.






harsh, hurt, humiliation, Annell
rendering, rules, ridicule, Jules
crowd, caught, changing, Elizabeth
birth, brazen, bone,  Nicole
pretty, pay, platitudes,  Marian
translation, tarragon, tongue,  Irene
water, watch, woman,   Roslyn
single, sacrifice, sky,  Robyn
obvious, orange, oil,  Barbara
asking, all, answers,  Misky
desire, darkness, deeply,  Elizabeth again
lunatic, locusts, lived,   Belva

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2014/01/27/we-wordle-4/#respond

Unexpected

Life brings the unexpected into our world,
things not once imagined, nor conceived,
and yet birthed raw and brutal as reality;
that which even nightmare did not bring.

We sail the dark and shining seas at will,
through heart and mind, past hope and fear,
touching lightly upon distant possibilities;
 never can we know what Fate draws near.

Shocked by sudden icebergs deeply hidden,
the horrors that rise out of oceans deep,
bright grief, dark pain which seeks to drown;
hard destiny, our future, closely keeps.

Perhaps the angels do protect and hold,
the truth of what the years will sudden bring,
for knowing what will come to be in time,
would only cause more pain; an endless keen.

Two sides

There are two sides  to everything we see,
dual ways to understand our hearts and minds,
the glass half full, half empty as it seems;
the moment split and seen as dark or bright.

Divided into opposites this world of ours,
made either/or and right or wrong declared,
with good and evil, black and white defined;
where 'and' is not allowed to even share.

There is no clear reality in what we see as truth,
for death in all its forms is transformation into life,
and living is a sequence of sure and certain endings;
the meaning that we give  is what decides.

For good can bring forth evil in its wake,
and evil can give birth to greater good,
while what was wrong in time is seen as right,
and what was right can haunt; pure evil's hood.

'Perhaps', the Arab sage did say, each time when told,
that something was a good, or something bad,
perhaps it is, perhaps it's not he would reply;
knowing that such certainty could not be had.



http://dversepoets.com/2014/01/25/poetics-on-the-other-hand/#respond

The words we write

The words we write
sustain, embrace,
facilitate through time,
draw aspects of our
inner state; emotions
sent, designed.
These strands do
weave, reveal our
plans and juggling,
in our minds, paint
images of realms
unknown, the country
where soul hides.

http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

The rains

Luscious and lascivious,
the grass grows tall and high,
redolent in brilliant green;
salutes all passing by.

Yet again the rains have come,
drowning from the skies,
sluicing soil and sanity;
soothing hearts and minds.

Maize sucks deep eternal,
gathers strength to rise,
bursts in unctuous cob;
brings hope and sacred life.

Stormclouds

In roiling, rampant clustering

The black clouds cawl the sky

And render daylight subjugate,

To lightning, thunder, rain.

The demon dance diminishes

The power of sun to shine,

And holds the elements in hand

Through drenching, roaring ride.

http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2014/01/look-to-clouds.html

Soul does sigh

Soul does sigh and bend me back,
to conjure spirits deep; cap the
curl of destiny, to trickster time;
neglect, then spirits nest like
trinkets and fold me to myself.


http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2014/01/19/1035/

death in life

There can be death in life, with no body cold and still;
the person gone but form remains, recognizable,
in the material at least, but not in the emotional, or in
mind, or thought, or action, or belief, and yet dis-
connected in a way never imagined; as if the warm,
loving flesh had been chilled and made hard by inner
changes; as if the one we love had been possessed.

No bell to toll in this world, but perhaps in realms beyond,
no words of eulogy to be uttered, no coffin, grave or final
letting go, of something which no longer exists, and yet,
this phantom, corporeal but ephemeral, living in physical
form and yet not, in all the ways that made him who he was,
from baby, through child, to youth and man; all gone, as if
he had never been, so changed and unknown; transformed.

Can someone return from a living grave; throw back the soil
of dark consciousness, struggle from the depths toward
the light; grasp again at who they were, and what they were,
and in the doing, be restored to themselves and to those who
love them and who grieve for the loss of something which
cannot be quantified in any material sense, but which aches
and longs for the return of that which the heart knows?

The bell does toll but it has a silent, empty voice. As if,
such questions challenge fate and the fine, crimped writing
of the angels; as if, acceptance, trust and surrender are
the only way to survive this life in death, where that which
was can no longer be found; he who was cannot be seen,
and only grief can be thrown, like dry sods onto the casket,
echoing sombre, dull, waiting for heaven  to weep again.

Perhaps the dew will moisten withered, hard earth of memory,
and call for life to break the bounds which hold so tight,
that Soul may see itself and find within the shadowed mind,
a thread of love which leads through caverns deep and halls
so wide, tunnels connected, threading ever upwards; the
siren song of hope, which holds eternal, a mother to her
child; a force beyond the realms of Pluto's world.

The Goddess speaks in symbol

The fruit falls swiftly from the tree,

the bulls stand silent in the lake,

the figure crucified is seen

upon the framework of the dream.

With arms spread wide and silent eyes

they lift her high upon the boughs

and turn her face towards the south

where white-flanked cows raise shining knives

above the meek and pious brows.

With sure and steady strokes they strip

pink flesh from each initiate,

to bathe in sacred waters then

the raw-bled truth of god and men.

The wise man watches, monkey-faced

and clasps each paw in full embrace

around the pierced and bleeding feet

of Woman, raised … her Self to meet.

Then gathered in small, blackened arms

the corpse is carried to the edge

of water, sanctified and deep

wherein the Goddess counsel keeps.

To lie beneath the water’s chill

and watch through full and empty eyes

the blood-washed sacrifice above

has been her greatest act of love.

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2014/01/23/prompt-197-prophet/#respond

Curled imaginings

Pillow-huddled, curled toward her own imaginings,

The bones held loose in panting flesh,

She lay upon the self-breathing bed,

almost as if, they rose and fell as one. 

This bed of life could rise and fall,

With one sure touch, with pure  and practical intention,

Prepared as it was, to hold lightly

The shrivelled soul that sought sanctuary.

Sounds of breath and sounds of bed,

Drew patterned hopes in steady weaving

And eyelids closed in weary fall

Upon the days, the dreams, and visitors.

How many years had drifted past

Upon this stark white cushioning?

No answer, for she had none, and neither did she know

If she lay upon reward, or punishment.

If truth be known, and it rarely is,

The answer must embrace both offerings,

For in the suffering lay peace,

And in the sanctuary, brewed torment.

But such things had all become as one

Through years of curled imaginings,

And now she simply lay and breathed …

In what was life’s last offering. 

 http://dversepoets.com/2014/01/23/meetingthebar-bedtime-stories-tall-tales-the-art-of-story-telling/#respond