#incantation
from the fern-ean era,
creeping on the terra,
of lives incinerated beneath,
its aging earthen sheath,
we would need a fourth,
of its black stone growth.
and the quarter for later,
shall be the flavus water,
from a flavus rhine,
if be grounded fine,
along with petre's salt,
can bring a mortal to halt.
and brew draken exhales,
encased in the brazen shells,
to feed a devil of snout adamant,
under summoner's word, dormant.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 7:05 PM UTC
talismen
align
'neath onyx skies
lift
crystal *****
filled with
visions
of
magic,
malevolence
musings
alchemy
creates
golden chalices
to hold
the wine
of illusion
sorcerers
casting
spells
pixies
sprinkling
dust
spiders spinning
orbs
whose gossamer
threads
capture tales
of
kings
castles
princesses ~
wizard wands
meander
across
the night sky's
wilderness
rearranging stars
into patterns
to be read
as words ~
cryptic languages
wishing
insight
into
mysteries
opaque
clouded
hidden
locked
within
soldiers
and samurai
seek the key
while dragons
breathe
flames
of passion
into
the cauldron
that lights
the banks
of a river
of dreams
cliffs rise
along the edge
casting shadows
that plunge deep
to nightmares
hearts climb
and fall again
caught by
the jagged edges
of love
and bitter
melancholy
climb and fall
again
bewitched,
beguiled
becharmed
by incantations
to
the moon
goddess
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 10:28 AM UTC
#
*Whence do ye derive from all destiny so great and gigantically,
Within thy Shakespeare’s eye - doest ye see all that love is intrinsically?
Like, “Pummeled inside so many a verse we ride along for better or worse.”
Only the faithful remember where from that line dost come.
And if thou art my good and faithful friend, pray tell me, what is this curse?
Oh I’ve scored your sonnets, I’ve played your plays passing so many a day
Emulating your way and yet all I’ve written is bound to decay.
But my good and immortal friend - is all that you possess at home with me?
Ever is destiny as blind as the righteous are ********
If the righteous met you on stage would they not see you like Yorick - beheaded?
But ‘tis only this stage which hosts your heart, to your enduring greatness.
And as your spirit comes to me in my pen, help me set it right again.
Here - I, the buskin of old that has not vanished, I push my pen
Toward thy inward powers and feel within my fingers - you move -
Doubtless swells of ink and chalice with words meant to soothe.
You trace my heart within your palette and as I watch - we appear -
One letter after the other in the affected black knowing nothing of fear.
But do I not have two hands Sir, William?
What say I scribble with the right whilst thou writest with my left?
And with the left hand I write...
At great length I consider Aristotle’s thoughts mighty -
When sewn onto a lamp shade - but he himself is not as easily seen.
Round him were seen a flock of birds screaming
Of my tragedy’s with the wailing of a dog’s bay marking my dramas
Around as by chance, by chance I stood giant over all my terrors.
My bow is extended, the lock bolt released, words affixed
On the string, steadily aimed at your heart.
And hast not the line, “Alas, poor Yorick” found its eerie way into
The lines of Hamlet – lines that I never wrote into that play?
For they only doest exist in the collective minds of the readers.
Oh, aye, I wished for my soul that I had written that line
But it is one that I cannot claim exists in my play.
Doest thou venture forth with a hardier action now?
Thus to descend to the departed souls found in the graves here.
‘Tis here I lie in broken words to ask the prophet of where
My soul relies – to see Tiberius I come – the old Grecian –
My nature to be amused but vainly so conveying up my drama.
Oh nature, my nature, hast not thy stage tread me ventured?
Aye, and naked besides so that each rib does count.
What? What truth of old is to be seen in truth set on this stage?
I come to fetch mankind out of his own doom for there is more
To this tragedy, it scarcely is over the horizon and once it begins
It will move countless souls to a harness clad misery.
‘Tis well this philosophy of doubtless sensations refined
From the humor of the blackest infections.
Aye yes, it beats in jest of stolid and barren sorrow until
It is sufficiently moist and exhibits a graceful dance.
There entwines a solemn step which a Demigod moves
Neither for naught as we love what is Christian and moral.
Here – in the nether world - popular is homely, domestic and plain.
There are no Caesars, no Achilles, no Aristotle which appear on the stage.
Neither is there any to be seen of executives or cynics of commerce.
Only secretaries, per chance and brick layers and lieutenants read the lines.
Then with my right hand I write...
“But my good and faithful friend, tell me, what can such people meet with
That which can be called great? – that is - what great can they do?”
And my left hand answers...
What greatness? You ask – Aye, they form the cabals, they pay the mortgage
They pocket their savings and fear not where the stocks be placed.
Whence they come they oft return and derive their form from destiny’s greatness.
Greatness which rises a man up on high even when it grinds him to an incarnate dust.
Everything else is mere nonsense and not worthy of any acquaintances also,
All of our sorrows and wants – they too are here.
Wherefore then fly to yourselves if ‘tis truly yourselves you seek.
And then on that stage you shall meet your own contemptible incarnation.
There the poet is the host, the fifth act rendering the reckoning
And when crime doth become sick, virtue sits down to the feast.*
#
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
Hear the heart cry
**** the lungs dry
I give you time
I give you sweat & blood
I give you devotion
I give you love
In offer
Bite the lip numb
Make me succumb
I give you time
I give you sweat & blood
I give you devotion
I give you love
In offer
Angels of envy
Give sacrifice
While I admire
The view from here
In quiet night
In shapeless shadow
I scry & chant
The view from here hurts.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 9:31 PM UTC
There is no limit to self
There is no limit to being
I am this lighter
This lighter is me
If I use the lighter
The lighter will be
Lighter once lit
Lighter indeed
The lighter the lighter the lighter I'll be.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
One plus One
Two times Twenty-Three
Forty-Six plus you and me
A mustache
A ******
A means
We must
Labor of love
Delivery from above
We meet
We seat
Together retreat.
A Jude
A jet
Never question the fret
we sing
We three
In perfect harmony.
~Rachael Hays 15S15
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
It is not this onion I wish to *****
But your heart and mind I wish to stick
You'll think of me night and day
Until with words you arrive and say
"I love you"
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC