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Shadow Dragon May 2018
Purple and pink
glooms of hope
spark in what
I like to call life.
But my sweet darling
this is no life to live.
Full of regrets
that sail across
the passive mind.
Only to relive
what once wasn't
yellow and orange
juicy drinks
at the beach
with stars above.
The colorful hope
serves limited time
but at last it gives
an after glow.
mindmatter May 2018
electricity
runs through my veins
remaining eager
to take away your pain
to break your chains
sending sparks
lighting up my brain
shooting down
with the rain
it carves your name
with flames
onto my skin
my hairs begin
to stand thin
across all four limbs
my breath within
the depths of my sins
travels to cleanse
your heart
that craves to mend
the color blue
is an energy
I never knew
would lead me through
the darkness
walking beside
a person like you
with nothing to do
but to adore the view
the lightning
proves I’m alive
that the wires
wrapped around my spine
stay intertwined
with your being
finishing the design
the storm defined
as a miracle
made to stop time
and to shine as bright
as the electricity
that has helped
me survive
Chris D Aechtner May 2018
__

Alpha

While thunder clapped for an encore,
we put on iron boots
and danced in puddles
that reflected the obsidian
of Raven's crick-craw chorus
between the ripples.

I splashed with rod in hand, and yelled,
"You are the hammer and anvil,
I am the lightning! I am the quickening!"


II

They came from the East.

The ground shook, and cracks spread
from the pounding of their hammer-steps.
Wisakedjaks fled from roosts now pitched askew
by fingers that brushed the tips of pines
with every swing of lumbering limbs.

Lofty mouths inhaled the clouds
and blew out smoke rings on the wind.


III

I charged across the ground—a bolt—towards
the nearest Cyclops.
Like a sparking pinball, I zig-zagged
up the giant's shins,
past his thighs, and higher still,
then struck him in the eye.

And we became one—euphoria!


Omega

The Wisakedjaks repaired their nests,
and have less space in the minds of those

who found a scapegoat for mythologies
preached in smoke-filled rooms
where followers choke on the want to be saved.

Words were curved into a staff
that false Hermes uses to shepherd his flock:
people who pocket gold coins for Charon,
having surrendered the kingdom within—dead, though their bodies continue to pulse with life.
March 16, 2013

The version of "Omega" posted above
was written on May 6, 2018
_____


This poem is more than 5 years old.
It involves a mix of reinvented mythology from 4
different cultures (and time periods).
Over the years, I've played around with the poem,
especially with "Omega", including how it shifts
between past and present tense.

Some people are probably more familiar with the
modernized, English classification of the bird
species, Wisakedjak (there are many variations
of its spelling according to tribe): Whiskey Jack.
In some North American-based First Nations
mythology, Wisakedjak is the Creator that caused
a "Great Flood" to cleanse the Earth of a creation
turned rotten. First Nations flood mythology existed
about 12,000 years before flood mythology first
sprang up in ancient Sumeria.
I believe that religions incorporate a regurgitation
of mythology.
Also, I believe that the strongest historical accounts
are a hybrid of fact and mythology, regardless of how much that might go against surface logic.
When historical accounts are comprised of supposed cold, hard facts, who was it who wrote such historical accounts? Why? What were their sources, biases, subjective angles, and perspectives?

In a lot of First Nations mythology, Raven, Coyote,
Turtle, Wisakedjak, etc., are not separate creators,
as they are shapeshifted forms of the same Creator.
Also, in such belief systems, it's understood that
the Creator, in all its different, shapeshifted forms,
is simultaneously singular and plural. That, and
the different forms of the Creator, have caused
problems with the translation and understanding
of First Nations mythology amongst some non
First Nations people.  


This post was formatted in a way that won't
cause unintended line breaks when viewed with
a smaller-screened mobile device.



+/-
Danielle May 2018
That spark of Inertia forced the cry from my throat
And slipped anguish into your tea.
Drowning the embers that burned there.
While you set my sin into the gears of a time-worn watch,
You sipped the licking flames,
And brought out your creation, with ticking twitching hands,
Into the day to burn.
Tiana Marie May 2018
You are the single spark
that lights my fire
and sends it into an
endless blaze.
PoetryHeals Apr 2018
The way her wavey locks flow like there's no matter in the world.
The color of her nails that are darker than the depths of the Abyss.
The memories we share, ones that will always make me smile wider than the Persian Gulf.
Her morals and ways could inspire Satan himself to be better.
You see, finding a pretty face is easy.
But finding an impeccable soul as such is where the hard part lays. A soul, by no means, perfect but yet flawless in a world filled with hatred and demise. In it's own struggle finding ways to not only survive, but thrive. Blossom in ways unknown to man thus far.
... I know what you're thinking:
"How can such a person exist?"
I would tell you: "she doesn't"...
No one is as perfect as a poem.
Two words: Dark Side.
Now is the part where I lose your attention because she is no longer THAT. What you haven't yet thought of is the way she handles and drives that darkness... inside there lays a scintilla of madness and humor you are yet to discover; but oh when you do...
It's a whole new world.
phoebe fructuoso Apr 2018
/ spark, soul and a connection to make me feel whole /
November 2016
ashley lingy Apr 2018
Frigid boy.
She sees him, hiding behind sarcasm and wit.
He is flint.
She is warmer than sun in late July.
She is a spark.
They meet and ignite.
Vivid technicolor feelings dance in between.

He is entranced by her charm, her saccharine grace.
Warm honey.
Still uneasy, unsure, with few facts and little certainty.
This is not normal operations.
But he is bewitched.
And this girl, she is not to be tamed.
Baffling beauty.

Her instability makes him nervous, he likes control.
He’s frightened.
But she is persistent.
She has the remedy to his wounds.
She is the catalyst.
With that in mind, he reaches out.
He holds her hand.
neth jones Apr 2018
...and 'oh my God' did I cry
I sparked like I was made of knives
and it carried me
I was adopted
It took me and I gave up me
easily
This had become dimensional
Life seamed
I was played
I was playing
I was addressing reasoning
and burying it fiercely and fare
Pounding clay over it
and enhancing my surroundings
content and without trust
Restart
Welled and sad
Sick excited
A primal plug
Connected
Theses words seem borrowed, adolescent and unpracticed
But they are a correct description of the manner in which I cried for the first time as an adult
Sometime between the age of 24 and 28
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