“It is myth that God questions us. God is Pure Consciousness, reflecting mistakes & well doing. God guides the Soul’s evolution. We face Him-Her when free from garb. To stand ***** is to know that we learnt our lessons, completed our soul contract with Divinity, graduating onto next rung, into a progressive mission or completely merge into Oneness.” GhairoDanielsQuotes

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Death is a best friend
she visits often to dissolve old cells
tweak dioxyribonucleic acids  
carrying silver sword and bamboo pipe
to draw breath, pointing to moon
caped in indigo velvet with hood
her whispers are silent breath on
white linen pillow

I invite her to sit on my bed
she admires an octagonal quilt red
removing her cape, accepting offering
of camomile tea, her eyes smiling hollows  hyena, warrior, eagle, dung beetle
all at once, elegantly slow she settles
closer, ******* my ears, cold breezes
ripple down my legs

With sidelong glance she asks :
“So what is your claim to fame ?”
I reply : “I know not a name. Fame is
a shadowy flame, an orange-purple
one flickering to become lame.
All the same, I claim to be the highest
version of what Source intended
nothing more, nothing less.
This is free fame, oxygenated.
That is my game, if insane, let it not
be a shame, or a blame.”
Smiling, she asks next : “How have
you helped fellow humans ?”  

I reply : “With Pluto Sun squared as
a dominant in my Chart, I undertook to
integrate escaping gloom into Light for
Self and others. As God granted Ketu
long periods of rulership over my form
I pulped Self in backwaters, where
angels fear to tread, to be a Presence
for fellow humans.”

Her hollow eyes with high cheekbones
move closer to my face. Sipping from floral teacup, fingers spindly, she asks :
“How ***** will your spine be before
THE ALL ?”
I reply : “Not as ***** as when I practiced kundalini and hatha yoga, though I detect
zero regrets, bereft of debts, slate clean
as an uncooked bean.”

Laughing, she replies that Divinity
will be pleased with my use of poetics
whispering : “Know that your spine will
revert to 21 years when I draw your
breath into mine, to gently carry to
Divine. You will sway on your way
into a ringlet bay of rosy everlasting days.
17 more good cheer years, hear my Dear.”

I watch quick footsteps across the
garden path. A thoughtform follows
slender caped back : “My claim to fame
is to be what ****** desires me to be  
~ Co-Creator of my own destiny.”

Next time Death visits, I will word it this way.

______

*[new poetic form: L&N : Letters & Numbers]

SIMPLY YEATS

My verse under Yeats’ carved door
             he merrily chuckled at white
             envelope, sketched butterfly
said he preferred to receive
verses this way rather
than reading them across
post-modern websites

                             a languid phantom

He invited me to an idyllic tea
we savoured small
cheese squares, crumbly
scones watching a squirrel
chomp a cheerful chestnut
                          LOST AND FOUND

          What word can describe
              fleeting images, dreams of poets graduated, yet living on ?
          
                           V A C A N T

….a vacancy that awaits a letter
        wandering ethereal
a word manifesting __on old desk
        a Lover expecting his
Beloved with cherries and hat

                   a shadow across
                   poetic spaces
                   Yeats, gone
                   ye  t, HERE

                       ~~~

It is here at the point where no life exists
where shadows lurk and life is made
while Creation does nothing but watch itself
in a hole that never ends

Ether dances and joke at beginnings of dust
as we bring to life that which longs to smell
misty dew, try luck and fate on stages of illusion

Here we eat pomegranates in custard
apple skin, breathing in salty spice from
pink peas in tunnels of horns
here throats are channels of finality
columns of joy in hope

Here silence is the loveliest sound
sights contest to bloom on trees of golden chandeliers and flimsy nightgowns after
dinner mints

At this point of open fluid blueness
sightless serpents mingle with  lights down
their spines
bracken love is made then broken like
crockery on a shelf overburdened with fear

At the beyond orange magic exists in
hair without roots, round and round
in bones without marrow, mouth to tail
as God puts together noses and arses
makes granite curves with candy floss fingers

Here man is woman, woman man
goddesses in curls and red sequined
slippers witness Tarzan at work eating
pineapple with prickles, tongue to tongue

Here a point becomes the only space
space falls into time, time into circles
numbers into letters, letters into nothingness
while black Persian cats cavort on blankets
of faith

At the beyond things jump and don’t move
spring by standing still, guitar notes run
along in blessed focus, locked in flights
of danger

Here you fall and fall, scream a soundless scream ~ blond lashes in a teacup filled
with **** and *****, where a flame is
not a straw to hang on

At the beyond it is so !

Three o’clock morning
a solitary hour of pillow turning
                 I gaze at a dark open tunnel
                                             lacy funnel

Are your pursuits still with me ?

                eyes odes to life’s quests
                       now starseeds luminous
                           where there was a nose
                                  a pyramid of pink rose
                           perfume perceptible sweat

            tears trickle silver snail trails
                                 toward a waiting grail
                                    salt grains down the drain


Your voice
                   a whispering white butterfly
                                        fluttering gold
                                    on bare shoulder cold

                 Rivers circle bronzed
                                body and fingers in
                                      torrents of knowingness                          

in waiting garden a Tree of Life bears globular fruit as daily offerings from hot dark roots

                          a quiet hour
                          dissolves into luminous light
                             of spaceless  heights

bells ****** gently as I remember
                    our togetherness, watching
                                   cows in spring September
                             a celebration of Awakening

    now arms are shadowy
                   veins across a waking sky
                         justice, equality, freedom, Love as lessons dug in loamy Earth, passed ~

     my resilient heart opens wide
                             merges with your silent smile
                                             designing a
                                                            Peace Lily


©GhairoDanielsPoetry2020

I swore I meant to get baptized
you ended up with my head under water,
just alittle too long that time
and it should be cold instead of hotter.
I fight against the rough waves
my arms reach out for you instead of splashing.
I prefer that method where I’m being saved
instead of receiving a verbal thrashing.

Rooted in ground, meant to settle down,
hiding under the rubble,
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
While I’m bound to always maybe poke around
believe me I don’t want to cause trouble.
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I’ve always wanted a bigger bath tub
she craves to have a yard once more.
Everyday I trade both for a back rub
you ask “is your body even sore?”
I tell her who doesn’t feel some strain
and that her hands have always felt healing,
infact they cure almost every single pain
that I’ve had the misfortune of feeling

Hearing no sound, except the counting down
too far and deep in a puddle
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
A trick I found is to always use a spin pound
straight from the knuckle,
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I only want the best chocolate
but I won’t pay for it out of pocket,
I expect a free taste to know if it’s worth my time.
Like picking doors and lockets
and sticking your fingers into sockets
it’s the type of thrill you don’t want to define.

To be Among                                               My Owned Script-U-R-
the First, No Greater Thrill!
                 <>                                                              ­  <>
a small coterie,  a cohort,                        this mess of thoughts and
not too big around, that                           prayers, poem notions,
reads me regular~like, who've                come scattered & disordered,
been for the long haul, know my            blunderblus shotgun spewed,
foibles, my excesses, my habituals,        all leaving a pockmark upon
but of late along comes a suprise!          soul, a mental scarring of an IOMe

new poets here, with 0/very few             These indented scars, some fresh
followers, touch me with a forefinger,    some old enough to be ancient
perhaps unawares of my traditions,         that I carry the Imperative, to
makes them my most favored nation,      complete, turn feat from defeat,
for I am well supplied, with ample          satisfying a necessary condition  
supplies of courage + encouragement     to exist, therefore I am, a being!

for the honor, for the thrill, to be           each poem transformed from scar
among the number of their first             to shoulder stripe, turning what
followers, to leave my intials on              was mere rank, into a high rank,
their someday colossus, to bask               with each completed poem, I  
in their fresh glow of new extra               stand taller, *****, lighter, bright,
bright light simply enlivening                  bright light, simply enlivening

Spilled pill pieces
like crushed up Reese’s
I found my thesis;
in an empty stomach.
I formed some habits,
they reproduced like rabbits
and if I couldn’t stab it
I’d try to make it plumbic.
Decide to destroy at any cost,
I can’t hide or play coy; I’m my final boss.

I’m so messed up that I used to enjoy the battle;
while I lost, I lost to myself so I’d win.
Lamb to slaughter but too much guilt for the cattle,
maybe a sort of pacification that we can begin.
No cheat codes for this game we play.
All we sow is the seeds for another day.

Blurry scenes
and forgotten dreams,
no ends to a means,
but it started quite simple.
It began with quiet sighs
and tired bagged eyes
my grin would rise
but it seems I lost my dimples.
I was stumbling and swaying yet so lost,
fumbling while playing; I’m my final boss.

I was so messed up that I used to enjoy the game;
while I lost, I lost to myself all the same.
There’s no contra code and no extra lives,
no easy mode, no new game plus to replay twice.
No cheat codes for this game we play.
I keep wishing I could pause, wishing I could just stay.

There’s no save spot in sight,
no shrine and no campfire.
My hands gripping on so tight
my mind and my eyes tire.
I wished to be the hero of time,
always scared that I’d become a Ganon.
It took some work but my Zelda’s mine
I hope that ending stays canon.
But life is something that can’t be cheated,
destiny can’t ever be defeated.