Entrancing sounds
Plucking at my heartstrings
Bubbling golden
Like champagne
Traveling through my beingness
And invoking
Distant echoes and
Long forgotten memories
Of life in fluidity
Unfolding choreography
A ballet of
Colors
Unknown to human eyes
Yet I see and feel
their presence
Opening up infinity
Connected through love

Sounds and rhythms
Reverberate through my body
Touching each
And every cell
Which respond with
Tiny sparkles
Creating harmony within
To music from without
Emanating
Soul sounds


© Jasmine, Wadebridge, September 2010

Divine Minds Transcend

Take a deep breath
are you ready to hack reality
Lay down and close your eyes
this is going to be amazing
Are you ready
ready to breathe into a cosmic smack down
and plunge into the great divide
Get rattled
Get shattered
Get snatched up from life
then drift into the glowing maze
a place to laugh and cry
Minds rewire during lunar flight
the blue monkey will grin from ear to ear
Strike a pose for your third eye
then return you back to life

Perchance*

A lovely word, a lovely sound.

Perchance,*

When I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days.

With the fresh taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
At a ripe old age,
I, rebirthed, and to the fore,
Risen.

In My Salad Days,
When words fell from smiling lips,
Rain and tears flew upwards,
Each and every breath was an

Amen.

All Per Chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Postscript:

“To die, to sleep -
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,
For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...”

― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

"To fall, but rise -
To rise, perchance to be reborn, ay, rub one's eyes in disbelief,
For in this reincarnation, who knows what dreams may come..."
~~ Nat Lipstadt, Perchance

I posted this poem  a few days after I joined HP.  As  is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions.  With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked.  Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week.  So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship

The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.

With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.

The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.

Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!

Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?

Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?

If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.



March 2012

For Caira Doheny, My Irish Muse


"Chameleons feed on light and air:
Poets' food is love and fame."

An Exhortation, st. 1 (1819)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
------------------------------------

Let us intimate a Poetic Competition,
Tween an Irish lass,
and a New York Jew,
I shall serve, and you,
You shall return

A contest:
Our tongues, our racquets,
Across the table,
The words shall bird fly,
Across the net,
Couplets and haiku
Shall smash and whistle

The winner will be the one
The God of Poetry
Accepts for permanent servitude

You **** my poetic soul forever
With the currency of praise genuine,
Authentic, flowing and fulsome,
Awarding me the Medallion Doheny
Cash value, a mere Irish penny,
But to the poet, the food of love and fame

Genetic to your nature,
You exhale word rhythms,
Excitable and interrupting,
Speech free flowing,
Tho I am of the People of the Book,
You, by birthplace,
Are unfair poetry advantaged

All your utterances
Are action heroes of the heart,
And I fail miserable to capture
The poetry you breathe out

Your Irish praise me awarded,
Tis now the
Standard and the Curse
This benighted amateur
Must now Prometheus nurse

One day in Dublin, shall we meet,
In a country where poetry is the
Iron in the people's blood

In a particular pub
Opposite we will sit,
You, a cowboy by adoption,
Me, the dastardly banker

You know the pub,
I, with my pint,
You, with your diet coke,
And the only lingua Franca
Shall be darts of poetry
In a language our own,
A collective work we will weave,
A blessed unity, a single tongue now,
Lilting, singing, bespoke

We will let the singer-poet laureate**
Of the island we now share, moderate,
Over his piano man's gin and tonic,
As we do as Yeats instructed:
Between us,

"A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem {but}
a moment's thought,
our stitching and unstinting
has been naught"