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a goblet of salt water
for eyes bereft of tears
a mosaic from the ruins
hangs on the wings of tomorrow

Tommy Randell Feb 21
But serious and still
In an upstairs curtained room
I balance two slender shafts of Light
One in each upturned palm

Kites resemble Poets                   Poets resemble Kites
Because they fly                                            Enthralled
Only to be held                                By upturned Faces
By outreaching Hands

It could have been the other way round.
But, as a matter of Fact
Flying this Kite today
Seems to be a matter of touch
And hardly a dangerous thing to do

Is touching Knowing finally do you think?

I close my eyes against the light
And steer the Sun
By heat alone

Seeking the purity of something

About to take place
A wonderful moment of meditative connection
H E L E N A Feb 18
It's strange.
Progressively faint,
Denouncing a saint.

It's strained.
Every smile forced;
A pain to paint!

It's a disdain.
To detach it from my veins,
Watching my affections wane.

It's a change!
Perverse propulsion, *******
Into a new unwilling, unsuspecting
Star, sun, sky.
From the hollows of her heart.
A mystery gripped me unawares,
One without form, shape or color
All I could make out is this dear:
Weaved  out of million fine strands
Its essence is all; all of it a mystery.
No distinguishing mark, you’ll find
Its warm grip transcends limits
In such a state I was left, for which
A name none  has ever invented
Even that’s not a need, of course
Being the one of it’s kind, a name
For the singular mystery won’t suit
It’s beyond the realm  of identities
The mystery is just that,get it right.
Arianna Jan 7
"He who knows him who has no beginning and no end, in the midst of chaos, creating all things, having many forms, alone enveloping everything, is freed from all fetters."

                        ⸺ from The Upanishads: Shvetashvatara
                                 Upanishad, ChapterVI, no. 13

Aye, so it is, and what if
My spirit comes unbound,
Abandoning the senses
Of the body?

Hunger grows faint, and thirst;
I feel not the jaws of the cold
Locking into my flesh,
Nor the scorches of heat in my veins.

I answer to this name
Which nevertheless, I cannot trace
Back to myself,
And night after sleepless night,

It remains unclear
Whether I am dying,
Or rising into life,

A little bit of wine, and thoughts on a recent, and very persistent state of mind. Just finished a book about ascetic practices in the Middle Ages, and the ideas and theology regarding the body's sensory capacities as conduit/vehicle for spiritual experience and communion resonated profoundly with thoughts that have gone through my mind before, as well as with some more recent internal experiences. Had a copy of "The Upanishads" for a WHILE now, but have yet to read it; however, I was inspired to open it after reading briefly about the life of humanitarian-gone-mystic Simone Weil. I decided to flip to a random page and see what appeared, and the very first thing I read was the line quoted at the beginning of this poem. Fitting...

Sometimes, beauty just moves you. Sometimes, it drives you to tears (the racking, depths-of-the-soul sort of weeping):

Also, Jordi Savall & Montserrat Figueras - "Sibilla Catalane (Seu D'Urgele, XVth Century)"
Kat Dec 2018
Each rose I met promised to explain me
the wonder, the joy
of transformation.
The perennial grief,
at the sight of the world becoming,
is the grief of wanting to understand but not being able to.
How much greed there was,
in my longing for a garden.
Arianna Nov 2018
"Who is the fairest in all the land?"
          They inquire.

"Not I, not I!"
          Though many aspire.

Shall we?
Shall she?
Away to the woods?

Ah, to the woods!
To the woods we'll away,
To the woods, she...

          Like the moon that resided at her birth,
          Dappled between black hair and eyes;
          Small coral lips the sole color
          That dares blush upon her face.

"Who is the fairest in all the land?"
They inquire,
But this time:

          No answer.

Though many still aspire.

Sneakers changed for boots,
Nice skirts for petticoats patched and worn.

Now, to the woods!
To the woods...

And away!

We shall,
She shall...

          Backpack slung 'cross 'er shoulders,
          Pipe puffin',
          Knife gleamin' out 'er pocket,
          Trippin' over branches
          Through the wild
          Wild fern jungle
          Far west o' the kingdom
          By lightwaves in the looking glass ---

                       " HA! Well now, I'll pour ya a glass!"

To the woods!

To the west!

To the woods,

And away...

         Snow White
Her name, in those days,

Sullied now

With distilled disillusionment
And the warmth of foliage fair,
          The fairest
          In all the green land.

... Snow White?

More like "Off-White"!


White Snow?
White Wolf?
Snow White Wolf?

Or just a no-name,
Little No-Name-At-All?

No-Name, indeed,

                    Sharpshooter of prose,
                         Green as the trees
                    And red as the rose.

City girl gone vagabond,
A camp one day she stumbled on:
Seven bandits therein,
Drinking whiskey round the fire.

Seven bandits,
Brigands though they be,
Not devoid of courtesy,
And each in turn presents his name:


Seven bandits a-huntin'
Neither silver nor gold,
But greedy for days,
For the curious wealth of Time,
In its endless abundance
And simultaneous lack, seemingly endless.

One by one,
They pluck the days,
Bright and shining, golden
Out the velvet-lined pockets
Of the Abyss,

Stashing them away
Amongst the timelessness of the forest
And its foliage fair
          The fairest, fairest
          In all the green land.

Rich in hours
For thinking,
For supposing
Upon the Earth
In its way,
Prosperous in time to spare
For living
Stripped bare,
          (Survival minimum)

Thus the days passed mortal kingdoms by,
While for these merry eight,
The sun and moon merely switch places
In the sky,
Against the rhythm of the "hours".

And so they lived
In an ever-after
The borders of "forever-after",
Free from the times' a-changin'.

But along there came
At some last,
While the seven bandits were gone away,
A peddler woman,

          Strange and bent
          Beneath a distant burden of ages
          And dead weight
          Of days lost

And on 'er arm there swung
A wicker basket
Flowing over with pomegranates.

"You there, No-Name!"
She calls out to the girl,
An' our gypsy lass strides o'er.

"Look here, lass, at me basket:
The fruit I bring is ripe and red
As youth and summer,
Fresh as the pangs of first love.
I'll sell it ye fer but a pence,
If you would like to try a bite.
How d' ye answer, me hearty?"

No-Name hesitates,
But the ancient mortal
Places the fruit
In our rosy maid's hands.

With reluctance,
With foreboding,
At this stranger-of-the-world,
The raggle-taggle Sans Nom peels back
The crimson flesh,


But one


Seed and,

Holding it a moment between her fingers...

Swallows it...


                    To the earth.

Aye, down she goes, fair Anonymous:

Bitter nectar
Drips from her lips,
Stains her rosy fingertips
          Dark as blood.

There she lays,
Our vanquished heroine,
Upon the forest's ageless floor:

                         Sharpshooter of prose,
                                   Green as the forest,
                                   And red as the rose"

She was,
Once upon a time,

She was...

From realities of decay and paper preoccupations,
In pure being of the world

In the world

Of itself,

By probing antennae

                    ... Conscious and corrupt...
At once poisoned
And liberated
By strange ivies
Of realization,


          Some tainted
          With presumptions of enlightenment,
                    Others with false perceptions
                    Of possibilities for perfection, and
                              Still others, by fear alone.

Thus, with one bite
It bites,
The bleeding rot
Of ineluctable years
In a luscious guise
Of bittersweet temptation.

Now, though, the question
In the body of our heroine:

          "Does it bestow
           A monstrous kiss of death,
           In moving blood to flow,

Sun and moon circle round,
And around;
Under darkness
The bandits return
To find...


                         You know.

And for all the days in their possession,
They could not count
The moments in eternity
Of which their nameless friend
Could never now partake:

          Only one interminable
          Swinging back-and-forth
          Of the cosmic pendulum
          Between light and dark,
          Dark and light.

Loneliness and loss evade increments of quantification,
And for every answer, the questions resound infinitely.

No-Name, No-Name,
Sprawled upon the forest floor:


                                                      ­         White.

          Seven bandits travel
          To the south.

                                                To the south!

                                                To the south!

                                          Through the woods...

                                                   And away!

          And Time moves with them.

Still, there she lies,
Slowly melting,

          Beneath the snow
          Once her name,

Becoming one with the black earth
Now cold
Guarding the warmth
Of dormant life.

Under the caress of snow,
And between the shades,
A metamorphosis:
Her form has changed,
As all must.

          The snowflakes upon her skin
          Turn to a silky pelt of white,
          The shadows to dark spots,
          Her hands and feet to silent paws,
          The coral of their soles
          Now the only color to bloom upon her.
          Antlers now adorn her skull
          And a feathery tail sweeps out behind her body,
          Long, silver, leopard-speckled,
          With the blurry kisses of a thousand mortalities .

The eyes alone remain unchanged.

          Leaf brown, flecked with amber green,
          Earth in Autumn,
          Ringed with grey skies
          And the ghost of violets.

Changed thus:
And thus:

          Soul realized.

How this came to pass,
No one can know.

The shock of life
Into dead connection
                         ⸺ A necessary interjection! ⸺
Catalyzing the detection
Of a heartbeat yet attuned
To potentialities for affection,
For good, in-a-world
Existing minute by the minute.
Inspired by the fairytale (albeit loosely), sleep deprivation, a bottle of wine, personal experience to some extent, and two random country songs. My mind ran away with this one, hence the length... D: Ah well. And yes, she transforms into a reindeer-antlered snow leopard at the end.

"In Time" by Mark Collie:

Also, "Straw In The Wind" by The Steel Woods.
Isabel Aghahowa Nov 2018
when my brain stops beating
and it stops festering in its perplexing notions
and stop-motion contraptions
it's veins and nerves
will turn into strings and wires
for bold machines and troubled moulds to gather
as it floats above the murky water
eating the life it rests amongst

tampering with the wildlife
it so valued, in its shelter
that now lives in ash  
as it melts into the soil and becomes a stone of reclusion  
that looks upon the stars by the coast
and meditates along the margin of its past life
Knit Personality Oct 2018
(to Dr. Robert, with Love)

Vitamins A through K are vital:
   They help to keep you well.
But only persons suicidal
   Refuse Vitamin L.

Vitamin L's a must for living:
   Without it you merely exist.
Vitamin L is living-giving:
   I can't and won't resist.

Vitamin L is Life and Love:
   It turns you on full-blast.
Turn on, tune in.  The rainbow dove
   Bears gifts that ever last.

Forever present in the Now
   Lives Vitamin L; and you
Can live with L and take a bow
   Forever in Now too.

For extra health of extra length
   A dose I recommend
Heroic, huge, and extra strength.
   Family, be well.  Ascend.     .  

Jonathan Oct 2018
I can break the laws of the universe

It's true
Everybody can
Everybody has

Even you!

It happens in a special place that exists in the peripherals of your mind
When you look for it it hides
When you think about it it ceases to exist
And you can never find it
But you visit it almost every night

This space is the brink of your subconscious!
The space between worlds and realities!
A singularity, where physical law is a mirage!

On the nights we sleep but don't dream, we visit this place
It's between the day's last conscious thought and the following's first
In this space hours past in faster than an instant
There is no body, soul or mind
There is no void
There is no colour
There is no concept of empty

Pure, absolute nothing!

In this space, the entire universe ceases to exist

We wake the next morning with no recollection.
We know objectively that time has passed,
And eventually the feeling of our temporary transcendence fades
And we carry on without asking

This happens to all of us,
On nights you sleep, but don't dream
And in that space

You can break the laws of the universe
This was an attempt to illustrate the concept of Solipsism, which puts forward that the universe exists only because we consciously perceive it.

Quite mind-blowing.
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