#priestess
I dance out my anger in the name of the priestess,
draw in her power to extinguish my unrest.
I worship my body in a state of undress,
let my rage break free in radical protest.
I surrender myself to this sacred process,
stomping my feet like an unbridled tempest.
Aug 26, 2022
Aug 26, 2022 at 3:34 AM UTC
They say it’s a curse, disguised as a gift.
An agreement She made with the Devil.
She danced with His darkness, and prayed for departure.
So feet, He had brought,
A treat, so She thought,
She was ready,
no surrender.
A gift’s what He gave Her,
A gift, not an offer.
For this gift bore
“conditions”.
She must suffer all thoughts,
His prisoner of dark,
Given words She must remember!
So He gave Her his pen.
Darkness, returned Her.
With a gift She could bleed,
no surrender.
Yet as He returned Her,
His ‘Secrets’, He gave Her.
The warmth of His breath
still lingers...
She summons His Darkness,
She plays with The Highest.
When Dark is too Dark
She surrenders.
For that’s how She became,
such beauty, yet ugly,
That’s how He bestowed Her-
“Royal Poetess”
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
If there ever was a golden age
The smile on the cherubim’s grill,
Wistfully look into her eyes,
Devoted to her algorithms---
Like Christine there are no eyes,
Desoto algorithms---if there
Ever was a golden age
She’s sleeping in,
Evolutionarily destroyed by fire---
Mysteriously her eyes go blank,
Blank for all eternity,
If there ever was an algorithm
For the golden age---she was one---
For a quarter of eternity or an hour
Show her the pile of stones
The men will use
Saints go under the bridge
While over the bridge go the lions---
Her bones thick and mammalian
If there ever was a golden age of stripping,
She was there, her ideas and sciences
dawning on troglodyte mankind---
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
In the ancient ages of our story,
Long lost on the storm-tossed sea of time,
Mystics, Shamen, Seers, Poets, and Prophets
Pointed to paths leading to survival,
Vital roads for our guides to find.
Lo, our progress came through
The purge of many perils.
In the grip of that troubled existence,
Our visionaries found the way forth
From a plague of deadly terrors.
Born out of the feverish tumult of the mystic Wild-man
Or the symbolic song of a Tribal Priestess,
Came words of hope and vision.
Their inner-light was a primordial premonition, stoking
The courage to make our daunting decisions.
Their mind’s eye pierced the veil, striking
Lightning catalysts into a forest of fascination,
To ignite the strength we must bring to fruition!
We clung to their words as we clung to each other,
And heard their call to mission.
We allowed the signs of their ecstasy to gestate
Within our souls; words woven into myths
To bear the fruit of immortal imagination!
Out of this flame came the hard-won wisdom of our people,
Our embryonic culture, and the seeds of our salvation.
We traveled on in the grip of a darkened world and
Survived together, confirmed by a shared oath.
The tree of humanity’s fragile hope must take root,
To fulfill its future growth.
We are an Ark-people, a covenant people,
A people of deep foundations.
We take that light, that fire, and
That power into our destiny,
Striking wild and true within!
May the ineffable Creator bless our steps,
Secure our path, inspire our faith,
And anoint our hearts for the road ahead,
Beyond…
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 11:53 AM UTC
I am two:thirty heat lightning.
Inconquerable flashes of my elemental fury
leap from grumbling cloud to dewy earth,
dancing naked under a smoky moon. I am a burning
offering to the sodium lamp sentinels looming golden
over black tar; there is tobacco sown
into my every pore. I am the underestimated
weight of fog rolling off the meadow's swollen calf
river, the heavy lowing of labor pains, the thick
croak of the year's last bullfrog. I am the first
crunch of dying light, the gray tinge of wood smoke
on chlorophyll burned red. The sting of my icy breath
creeps into sleeping eyelids, through every crack
in waterlogged armor. My frosty four o'clock
is no place for strangers. The frozen silence
does not know my strength. I will bend the world
with feet of glass. In time, the weight will break
my own limbs, expose their green, soft meat.
I am the green shoots of daffodils sharp,
triumphantly cleaving the rested dirt. There is yellow
warpaint across my forehead, a crown of blistering elegance
glazed by wings of stubborn three:thirty ice. I am resilient
and eternal—perennial—blooming to a cold, white moon.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC