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light veils of mist hung
o'er the river's snaking course
on day break dawning
CarolineSD Dec 2019
Fields of fire rage behind the veil,
A love so wild
It breaks across the rocks
Like water and falls
Away from my hands.

Always seeking that other rough land,
So beautiful
The skies glint like the edges of knives
And cut through my ribs like music,
Like chords that come alive
And bleed

Every time I breathe
Drawing in the crisp air by the gurgling creek,
Footsteps rhythmic on the snow-laden leaves,
Not quite cold enough to freeze.

It is such torture to feel

It is such torture to feel

It is such torture to feel

To always feel,

Everything.

There is beauty here but it is like a mirrored image encased in dust.

There is a kingdom of love in your eyes,
Inside the voice of
The river wild
And when the sunrise alights
The bodies of the pines against the sky,
And when your fingertips trace the contours of my spine,

I am sinking
Down in fields of fire;
And I would gladly drown in the incandescence,
Ripped apart by the knife edges
Of such a beautiful truth.

Something rages beyond the veil,
Like fire inside the mountain;

There is something holy here,
If only I knew how to find it,

Or is it
In death
That we do?
"Now I see fire, inside the mountain
I see fire, burning the trees
And I see fire, hollowing souls
And I see fire, blood in the breeze
And I hope that you'll remember me"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBQqPW7lTJ4
neth jones Oct 2019
[We are rendered vulnerable
Gender-less and pleasure-ful
Honest
Giddy children of the prance
Tuned to the occasion
of seasonal rearrange  
and jealous of nothing]
Druga is illusion
A symbol or a membrane
A discus to be thrown
To observe the arc in sunshine.

She is not the ball
To be shotput through
She is not the goal
But a passage by the soul.

Sit, spread
Your arms wide as rainbow.
Wife, you have forgotten
The son is not your daughter.
What do thou focus on?

See also https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3353827/devi-2019/
neth jones Oct 2019
It's not yet the hour
that already flew past
The thin air runs smoothly
The hard thought
pulses fast
Beat-heart beats
All sound
as creature
retreats
Coming are the Winter ways
But tonite
we stand witness
to Tempus feint-play

Aside the River
Abreast the Well
Beneath the Earth
Cupping the Swell
With a Breath
Into the Breeze
We ignite new fire
And
‘Twixt these Veils
We effect our Tease
A Winter Pair
Outside
Samhain
Inspired by a Druid text
it is always nights like this, where everything is so quiet you can hear beneath the absolute threshold, when i begin to wonder if i am going mad. technically, if one were truly losing their mind, they wouldn’t take much notice to the clarification that their reality is nothing but intricate lies spun by their brain.

pushing onwards within the dark, i can feel it. a whisper of a dance in memory slices gracefully across my cheek. the hungry caress of a lost lover. it is a random number between three and four, counting the days of sleepless solitude; as my lover is playing tricks on me.

it is just before dawn. the house breathes and groans like a wretched soul trapped in a bottomless pit long before midnight. in the gray morning light, delicate wrists stained with ink serve as maps through a desolate labyrinth. “lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.”

from the corner of my eye i see shadows of uncharted men that feed upon the protective covering, encasing us; separating our world from theirs. the barrier is a shield at best, yet doorway at worst.

try to detach your eyes from their persistent, wandering gaze; and you might just catch a glimpse of a shadow gliding out of sight.

don’t second guess yourself sweetheart, you know exactly what you saw.

shadowy figures slightly out of reach, but still quite visible – gliding silently amidst, whispering quietly to those surrounding. looking directly at the figures, a gauzy lace veil delicately masks and covers each shadow.

unseen claws shred the thin barrier before it is tattered and torn. one by one, little by little, each figure sharpens into perfect visual acuity, wholly in sigh(t). as you slowly inch back, eyes unblinking with disbelief, their voices are no longer whispers.

the gaping pits of opened mouths drown you in hollow prattles, screeching rasps; the cruel high pitched icy sneers of laughter.

petrified with terror and shock at the shadow’s newfound ability to speak, you acutely notice that the house is creaking and wheezing. you can hear footsteps on the opposite side of the house, and with your eyes averted, they are gone.

with this, you must take into consideration that i have spent far too long with eyes wide shut, drowning in utter fear fueled by morbid curiosity for this world: things seen and heard. each is a cancerous tumor mutilating my mind beyond repair.

to me, the shadow figures’ tattered veil appears to be a doorway, a portal to another universe. this sheer possibility spawns the magnitude of infinite and parallel universes.
much like the shifting hallways concealed in an e(in)ternal labyrinth.

amidst this never ending maze, man is forced to wander blindly from birth to death; where he then circles back around to his exact place of previous conception, only to be born anew. condemned to blindly roam and repeat his unbroken cycle for all eternity.

in this labyrinth we are all gods, we are all monsters. each creation story is universal, yet individual to each new life.

the sinner and the saint are both born into divinity.
November 26th, 2010.

on the fringes of desolation and delusion.

this is myself at my most naked. my most vulnerable. this is the raw, berating honesty.

I remember this event in its entirety.
this was the peak of my downfall, the ****** of my psychosis.

this piece was scribbled frantically during the fact, in a tiny red journal, as I watched this abhorrent atrocity unfold in the darkness that surrounded me.

this is not fiction. yet I cannot tell you with utmost certainty that this wasn't real.
eleanor prince Sep 2017
do you think
cloaks of normalcy

societal smiles
wash away reality -

that screens pulled close
pious veils drawn

means all is well -

that children next door
from 'respectable' homes

aren't used like so much spoil
displayed with polish

to the highest bidder -

what tales do you keep
to sleep at night

in perfumed air -

'it's far away
some hapless child

not where I drive
with tinted glass

they're lower class
don't know the Lord

mere runts down town
where father drinks

can't pay their rent
make decent wage

so sell the kid
for sordid nights -

- n - o -
it happens

to tender buds
in wealthy
suites

and poorer shacks
in any
place

and every age
from dot to
grown

they stay unseen
stare at their
sums

are ***** this night
sob off to
sleep

as mother too
walks right on
by

deaf to the screams
he wants his
due

so he will take
her brother
too

'now be a man'
says worm to
prince

he lies to all
most to his
face

and no one sees
and no one
hears

the silent screams
with veil drawn
close

they look askance
and walk on
by
I welcome responses to this poem which is aimed at revealing the culture of silence in 'polite society' - this outpouring of outrage at abuse has been boiling for some time but this poem was sparked off in response to PaganPaul's important and raw poems on this topic  
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1923972/the-judderwitch/
Stanley Wilkin Aug 2017
To prevent men’s gaze, confirming her religious
Conviction, she wore a veil-black as ink, dark as coal-
No man could henceforth lust after her
Driven wild by the sight of her skin. Jump her.
Strip her. **** her! She drifted forever like
A ghost, an object, a hollow shell.

Only her husband saw her beauty.
And after him, another.
The institution of marriage demanded
Cloaks of invisibility, walls of ubiquity, anonymous
Submersion into gender.
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