Strangers came to grace these halls
awash in amber light
to bask in the joys of new life
Precious and fragile,
they behold a glimmer of hope
The tabula rasa of ideas born anew
without any connection to the past
yet, reminds them of theirs.
And behold clear, bright eyes
as blue as sapphire stars
Angels shining in the vastness of the abyss
once more.
Women in agony
still brooding for passions swept aside
who, by their own hands
worshiped at the hearth
repeating the mantra:
‘Cleanliness is next to godliness’.
Women swept up
in socio-political condemnation
expected to pass education aside
for maternal instinct
leftover concepts
of the gynaeceum
fostered by interpretations of religious doctrine.
Women alive and well
submit to their own indoctrination
cloistered in communal affairs
and care so little for their own
smothering the next generation
in plastic spheres
to stand agape at the product of their efforts.
Twenty years later
broken and ineffectual children
without the means to stand tall
on their own two feet.
There is merit in breaking the old patterns
and learning to function
as any individual sees fit.
Yet those same women who forsook wisdom
for the doctrines of their forefathers
callous in cronehood
lecture at the modern woman
like the cackling of crows
condescending and dictatorial
that all she lives for
would too become shattered
by the rule of Man
and the placement of motherhood
away from social eyes.
Dictation that a woman’s life
becomes meaningless
stripped of every ounce of self-worth
and all passions torn asunder
by the arrival of the next generation
but they didn’t arrive by happenstance.
Crones suffering the mystique
unwilling to admit self-defeat
forewarn young mothers-to-be
of matters that are not static
Neglecting the ultimate truth and virtue
in how we choose to perceive such changes.
And that all we give our children
shall be returned tenfold.
I could regale you
with the splendours of the ages
or recite platitudes
given to you by the ancient peoples
But time is thin
as your shades draw nigh
Your sight is dynamic
in its transitional reign
And I too feel the pull
of the inward resonances
that call me to take a seat
before the spectral altar
in the depths of the dreamtime
Where shadows dance
to the rhythms
of your ancient and soft repose.
And, dear lady
I have come not
to seek reprieve or salvation
from the demons I now face
yet ask for a glimpse
into the starless mirrors
in search of the strength
to stand long and proud
emboldened by the embrace
of the fate at whose stars
I cannot change.
We bare before the abyss
with broken hearts and empty vessels
and across the veil
pale with reflections of mirror images
solemn and without wit.
Accepting sympathies
with thousands of hollow ‘thank yous’
that never seem to cut into the core
of how to say goodbye.
Bound intimately
by the preconditions
of the most awkward of social affairs
Nobody tells us why.
“Out of respect.”
Respect to whom?
Have we as individuals
with our technologies and philosophies
our religions and the lack thereof
still succumbed to the plagues of civil cohesion
bound by gossamer threads of social behavior.
Or have we nothing else to say?
Tell me what you are
and why my passion for you
is a sin.
Two children of the heavens
living in separate worlds
worlds that judge us
and declare to each of us
what we may never be.
Trapped by the confines of hypocrisy
in a self-professed, progressive world
yet remains blind to a love
free of expectation and constraint.
We approach the stage
as equal players – all
and hear the carrion call
images to pacify
images to parade
the writing is on the wall
Holy ladies of virtue
enchantresses
goddesses of seduction
all washed away by the ‘new woman’
the model of mediocrity
in a culture possessed
with the widespread practice
of a single unified ideal
The mindless elect, en masse
without regard for the virtues
of the aged or injured
whose various skintones
and shades of grey
offer more versatility
and greater wisdom
than the generic implications
that will finance
ritualizations and social mythologies
for years to come.
Who then gawks upon
the faithless
and independent
as mysteries concealed by contempt
for such daring and devisiveness?
As waves of faithful worshippers
at the mirrored altar of deception
rise to power
few are left
to carry the torch
that burns in the name of independence;
a natural beauty all its own.
Ours is the oldest dance
and once more we’ve come
to walk these astral halls
to play ritual games of hide and seek
on the eve of our Beltane.
Ancient lovers run in circles
to behold the virtue of the roles we now play
yet so few remember us these days.
And still I find you there
setting snares for my capture
aghast it took me so long
to remember what you are.
When awake I breathe the toxic fumes
of the dying and former Serpentine
who clouds my vision in the milky white fog
Yet nocturnal slumbers re-unite us
in abysmal reflections of delight.
In spite of the agonies
memories of severe brutality
to which we entreat one another
I would choose to save you
even if just one last time.
Better to put my heart to work
than let it grow cold.
And like the fires of just one
star-gone-Nova
she will tear me down.
For all the savagery and obsession
of my former grey-eyed lover
could never burn half as much
as when my heart overflows,
do I burn myself.
In truth I am told
a love like ours
could raise the deathless ones
and consign me once more
to the bitterness of Oblivion.
Let then, pen to page
be my soma
to path-work my relapse
instead of chemical neuro-stimulators
which only offer death and blindness
to a mind that remembers.
Perhaps my brother was right.
Iconic as you tower
over your plot.
Some unlicensed charlatan
severed your limbs,
and torched you through your core.
Then with great admiration
of his own artistry
rather, butchery,
Nailed his calling card
into your deepest roots.
Statuesque
and prostrate
in contemporary form.
In another color and shade,
one might find you
A centerpiece
In a downtown loft,
soul-less and uncanny.
Yet here you stand,
Defeated.
In a north county suburb,
broken by the machinations
of man’s mastery over nature.
Small plots
and the roots of irrigation
rivers tapped
for the sustenance of Man
on tiny tracts of land
cut out – Manifestations
of the developments
of our ancestors.
One man’s land
shrouded in mists
is another man’s
Every-day.
Building mysteries
Like ants build colonies
Carving empires into sand
As we hover above
to behold the beauty
Of vast tracks of land
Leagues above the fray.
Talk to me.
Show me your scars
what this world has done to you.
Tell me about the parties and adventures
show me your superficial skin
and all that you have etched
upon that fleshly canvas.
Pour me a glass of that delicious soma
pour over these thoughts and inflections
and help me to forget
the things I cannot ignore.
Sing to me your lullabyes
as they echo through the parlance of modern lips
Lullabyes,
that if not for you
would be long forgotten.
Dance with me
as we spin ’round one another.
Two celestial forces
erratic yet seeking escapism
afraid of what tomorrow may bring.
