"avalon" poems
Imagine my disappointment when,
on discovering a tiny door
in a hollow tree,
locating its miniature key
beneath a buttercup,
unlocking and opening it
I found not a world of tiny folk
not Tir-nan-Og nor Avalon,
but a spectacled man in a white labcoat
holding a clipboard
and making notes on my reaction.
"Initial shock", he jotted,
"followed by anger and suspicion.
"Likely to require counselling
"within a year."
I closed the door as politely as I could
and went back to my books.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 7:01 AM UTC
Tibetan Brimstone butterflies wave wings madly at their paradise valley
In the beginning, before the beginning, and in the beginning
Their shaken snow globe makes them flutter in wild exuberance
As they reveal a mountain, then no mountain, then Kunlun again
Peace, followed by chaos, and then by peace
Mother Luna's kaleidoscope of enlightenment
Protected by the hooded one
Holds all worlds and shakes the four seasons
Nothingness, creation, abiding, destruction
The wheel of time
Moves the wind as it’s blown by vast circles of water
Aqua marine is washed again by golden earth
And in the center, the great opal mountain song of La
Nature's peace
Beyond white leopard snows, icy winds, and empty husks of death
Butterflies are born again
Shambhala’s mindful beat opens passage for light through darkness
Poets squint and ride on wings toward the hidden sunset kingdom
Watching another world's Avalon alive beneath a blue moon
Insulated chrysalis of love for all seasons
A fisherman, a carpenter, a shepherd, a merchant, a caterpillar
Discover a lush, isolated, peach grove
Nosing thickly scented nectar and purple primrose honey
In the jade valley of the kings, queens, and beggars
They meditate under the Bodhi Tree
Deep brown ****** lines are carved into their soft olive skin
Smooth hands are made rough, and then smooth again
Young, then old, and then young once more
Wisdom setting beside Queen Spirit Mother of the West
Sharing a bowl of her rice milk in harmony
Being in the realm between man and nature as Kalachakra turns
For six years the caterpillar eats of fig
And then the wheel breaks for flight one last time
Radiating light as she sheds her glorious wings
Here, the snow globe explodes flying petals of wild exuberance
Revealing a mountain, then no mountain, then Kunlun again
Transcending all, turning tears into the suns joyful rays
As they rise, then set, and then rise again
Nirvana
Beyond our Lost Horizon
© 2019 MJL
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 10:01 AM UTC
Budging the sluggard ripples of the Somme,
A barge round old Cérisy slowly slewed.
Softly her engines down the current *******
And chuckled softly with contented hum,
Till fairy tinklings struck their croonings dumb.
The waters rumpling at the stern subdued;
The lock-gate took her bulging amplitude;
Gently from out the gurgling lock she swum.
One reading by that calm bank shaded eyes
To watch her lessening westward quietly.
Then, as she neared the bend, her funnel screamed.
And that long lamentation made him wise
How unto Avalon, in agony,
Kings passed in the dark barge, which Merlin dreamed.
4.3k
_las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta_
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
relating to or denoting an imagined place
or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
_"the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"_
noun: dystopian; plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, _cacotopia, kakotopia_],
or simply anti-utopia; a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening; It is translated
as "not-good place" & is an antonym of utopia,
a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise; plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
"the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
"a tropical paradise"
bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
_a ********** who seeks customers on the street_
"this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English: from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’ from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
_Superficies terræ puella_
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
In a building not concrete of origin
Near a forest we used to forage in
In the village we muck and wander
Towards the river over yonder
On the isle of sacred Avalon
There was new ground to tread upon
Amidst the brier, bog and heath
Among the thistle, needles and oak leaf
Round the timber fire we sang
Of lady luck’s mercy and lady love’s pain
We drank a drink of potent potables
Phrases spoken few of which notable
From the lambs leg we feasted
While the mystic death we cheated
Nights never ending and those yet experienced
We roam them on and on, ever-delirious
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
balking, then walking into the suburban night,
I have escaped the TV, the PC, the clutter of memories
and the last two hanging, breasty incandescent bulbs in the galaxy,
soon to have their filaments burn out amid the indifference
of florescent pigtails and their infinite, incessant hum
I have escaped into this night
marching on, marching on
the sullied, sacred sidewalk squares
past the dentist’s house, past the woman whose husband was murdered
by his best friend over a case of beer, and had her eternal fifteen minutes on Dr. Phil
past the retired educator, past the woman who…hell I don’t know what she does--she drives a gold Avalon
and never retrieves her Sunday paper before noon
marching on, marching on
I count cadence, move as if I am headed
to another battle, and I am, but I won’t see my enemy tonight
he is yet on the black horizon, waiting for me, and you
marching on
when I pass the widow’s house a second time, a third (?) time
I smell her cigarettes and see the orange glow in her garage, like
a lonely firefly moving to and fro, in the universe she creates for it
before flicking it to her oil stained concrete graveyard, stomping it out
never to let it fly again, though by my next circle she will have birthed a new one
and given it a foul fickle journey of its own
marching on
a truck passes me on my final lap
its fumes mixing with the cool moonlight
I hold my breath, wanting neither lunar light
nor carbon monoxide for my evening repast
when I breathe again,
the scent of tacos soothes my olfactory,
I do not know its greasy origin in this dark place
nor do I care, but I inhale again more deeply
daring the odor to tease me again
and help me forget what
I escaped to find
marching on
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
back on the railroad
caught between the current
and the cold
how is it ol' Cassady died?
they say he rode the tracks
all the way to Avalon
say it was exposure
that got him in the end
secobarbital and second hand smoke
waiting on a wet sunrise
that never came
counting railroad ties
half way to infinity
hell of a way to go
the hero of two generations
hell of a way to go
not with a bang
--as they say--
no one there to hear the whimper
4am ticket to shambhala
Hank gave up the grief
weeks before he died
crippled and old
poor *******
Bukowski could
hardly walk
down those hallways
to hell
maybe Hem did it best
Ti Jean died from that almighty
weight on his shoulders
unhappy with a dead liver
and a dead spirit. yes,
Hem did it best it seems
him and Hunter
--football season is over--
felt the world
slipping out
quick as it came
so they both put a
quick one to the brain
all of my old friends
are dead now
one way tickets to Shangri-La
I see them
they all walk the tracks
but they don't wait up
they don't wait up
light one for me
Hank
I'll be there soon enough
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
a commune back home not hippie
buy 300, no 500 acres great land
in Codroy or misty high hilled Avalon
built great big house wraparound porch
beset by rocking chair by the sea yet
in the woods at end of road all brown dirt
growing gardens, herb and vegetable
pulling weeds but keeping good green ****
brewing beer by own hand
group work but not always group think
friends lovers writers growers givers
all come to stay
making great pots of stew and strange brews
awakening brought far from Peruvian Torch homeland
telling stories all somehow great fables and anecdotes for life and living and love and everything that's good in the long run
at night over bottles on beaches by fires
we worry these are funeral pyres
for our great little social experiment
fear of leaving loving womb
of isolated salt fish by sea commune
real world so crass&brash; an unctuous affair
where here instead guitars, ukes
silly screaming little buddhas recite poems
by gleaming eye fireside
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
Holy yards of hallowed houses of prayer
rise in sublime chants and hymns
at this hour of the blessed dawn
when auspicious shades of light
grace the scabbards of swords
long sheathed and covered in shadows
of figures on the stained glasses
A divided land of long used to darkness
engulfing, rejoices: a saviour rises,
a hero who can unite and heal:
purple robe and the rag, Roman
and Celt: the long suffering realm
finds solace at last in order and justice;
A quest brews, of sacred chalices
In the noble hearts of faithful knights:
Alas, a tragedy in the shadows,
whither, famed Artorius, wise?
Hades schemes to ****** away
your Persephone to Annfwyn afar:
No mortal wounds could fell you alive,
But this, you carry on to Avalon.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
I lived among great houses,
Riches drove out rank,
Base drove out the better blood,
And mind and body shrank.
No Oscar ruled the table,
But I'd a troop of friends
That knowing better talk had gone
Talked of odds and ends.
Some knew what ailed the world
But never said a thing,
So I have picked a better trade
And night and morning sing:
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
Am I a great Lord Chancellor
That slept upon the Sack?
Commanding officer that tore
The khaki from his back?
Or am I de Valera,
Or the King of Greece,
Or the man that made the motors?
Ach, call me what you please!
Here's a Montenegrin lute,
And its old sole string
Makes me sweet music
And I delight to sing:
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
With boys and girls about him.
With any sort of clothes,
With a hat out of fashion,
With Old patched shoes,
With a ragged bandit cloak,
With an eye like a hawk,
With a stiff straight back,
With a strutting turkey walk.
With a bag full of pennies,
With a monkey on a chain,
With a great cock's feather,
With an old foul tune.
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
2k
I HAVE no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde,
Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle,
Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while;
Nor Uladh, when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind;
Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart:
Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon's light and the sun's
Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones,
Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart,
And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn,
To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier.
Therein are many queens like Branwen and Guinevere;
And Niamh and Laban and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn,
And the wood-woman, whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk;
And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore,
Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar,
I hear the harp-string praise them, or hear their mournful talk.
Because of something told under the famished horn
Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day,
To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dis may,
Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.
2k
*Ragged cliffs loom o'er the shore-
as waves punish the rocks below -
"Deafening",
is their roar*..........
*A fleece, a blanket, of mist...and fog,
muffles the 'pleas'
From the 'sailing ships'.....
moored in the salty seas*
*Out from the mist...
alone.........she comes-
"A battle waits.... to be won"
says this maiden.....from Avalon*
*With arms outspread--
and opened palms.......
She 'chants'...for the sea to lie "still.... and calm"...
says the maiden.......from Avalon*
"*Oh God of Nature....of all men -
I beseech thee..........
To shield these men of gallantry".....
'Chants'...the maiden from Avalon*
*As she speaks.....
the waves subside.....silent, is their roar
The solar orb....no longer hides....
As the brave doth come ashore*.
*Is it magic, myth, or simply......lore?
perhaps, a tale not told before-
But....... when all was said, and done......
"Blessed be the maiden"*.....
"From Avalon"
r.riddle- 10-29-2016
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
My father was born in an outport community of 2000
On the Avalon peninsula of Newfoundland
Around 1950, to a school headmaster and a homemaker
Attended Memorial University of Newfoundland (as did I)
Studied English, and eventually Education
He was a brilliant man, often quiet for long periods of time,
Then viscerally eloquent like Occam's Razor when he spoke
Remember him telling me how "taking their maidenheads"
From Romeo and Juliet act one, was about taking virginity
Always had an answer for my million questions
Rarely lost his temper
Taught me to accept others as they were, and to resist the temptation
To judge
A spiritual man, not religious, always taking care to differentiate the two
Without him I would never have access
To the home library in our den, my muse
Or all the gruesome movies he shouldn't have let me watch
Without my father I wouldn't know that
I like Jack Daniel's on the rocks with afternoon paper or
A Farewell to Arms with Spanish Rioja from earthenware cups,
Like Hemingway drank during the Spanish Civil War
I would not have wallowed with the downtrodden and the vilified
I would not have seen the base human weakness
The fundamental vulnerability that dwells within all of us
Had I not seen it in him first
Some four years ago, my father experienced weakness on one side
While on vacation in Europe
Flew back to Canada, diagnosed quickly with brain cancer
By the time I spoke to him, his mind was already rapidly fading
The spark of brilliance snuffed out like so much wick and wax
Died 6 months later in his sleep
We spread his ashes on his father's grave
And in the Bay St. George
Taught me what and how to believe,
Who to be
For better or for worse
Taught me how to ask the right questions
Showed me the books to read
Let me know it was OK
To be me
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
I LIVED among great houses,
Riches drove out rank,
Base drove out the better blood,
And mind and body shrank.
No Oscar ruled the table,
But I'd a troop of friends
That knowing better talk had gone
Talked of odds and ends.
Some knew what ailed the world
But never said a thing,
So I have picked a better trade
And night and morning sing:
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
Am I a great Lord Chancellor
That slept upon the Sack?
Commanding officer that tore
The khaki from his back?
Or am I de Valera,
Or the King of Greece,
Or the man that made the motors?
Ach, call me what you please!
Here's a Montenegrin lute,
And its old sole string
Makes me sweet music
And I delight to sing:
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
With boys and girls about him.
With any sort of clothes,
With a hat out of fashion,
With Old patched shoes,
With a ragged bandit cloak,
With an eye like a hawk,
With a stiff straight back,
With a strutting turkey walk.
With a bag full of pennies,
With a monkey on a chain,
With a great cock's feather,
With an old foul tune.
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
1.8k
All those little trinkets,
bracelets, rings and even a boombox,
that he had others bring to me,
They were all stolen goods that vexed people would come and claim back time after time.
I never had the heart to tell him to stop.
He reminded me too much of a stray cat who’d finally found a temporary home,
where he would bring tributes to
his mistress feet.
When I asked him what he was doing sleeping outside
my front door.
He blushed and mumbled,
that he would protect me from bad guys who could break in
and steal me away.
How crazy and scary of a notion was that?
And yet....
He made me think of a dancing bear who finally could scent freedom without chains.
The day
when they came to take him away.
...
I tried to tell them that he would never hurt me.
That he merely collected broken shards of scattered treasures
that deep inside him spoke about who he really was,
before the drugs castrated his future self.
Later...
When going through the rubble he left behind,
I found the glimmer of a hauberk
forged for an Avalonian knight.
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 10:56 AM UTC
Take your ships and your sailors,
to that island of the sky,
take them all to Avalon,
where the dreamers fly.
The gentle winds breeze,
the voice of a longing lover,
the want of a passing mother.
Take them all to Avalon.
The soul knows not hunger
when stopped in Avalon.
All the treats of the finer,
are common in Avalon.
When others see only sadness,
do not fall for their madness.
The light pours through the trees,
and the people know only glee.
A pristine paradise,
so tranquil and free of vice,
a home for heart and humor.
Bring all your friends to Avalon.
The grass grows glossy green,
the sky shines a cerulean sheen,
the stars sparkle in bright delight,
Avalon welcomes you tonight.
Our appeal is more than real,
so think well in passing for
when you come to Avalon,
you'll never care to leave.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
"where the air was never extreme, which for rain had a little silver dew, which of itself and without labour, bore all pleasant fruits"
After a weary journey
Our faith revealed
The Shining Isle
Where the wounded king was healed
Land of the undying
Their ancient glittering eyes all seeing
All foes long gone
Fear and worry undone
Graceful,quiet, deep browed
Long fingered hands
Stars and jewels chiming in silvered hair
As they walk those quiet paths
Over the water suddenly calm
We saw that glow
A light shining from the highest tower
The bells tolling from far away
Then with regret
Which made our throats clench with swallowed tears
We turned our hulls away
Back to the shadowed mortal land
Where the armies of the night
Struggle in unending battle
Broken plains strewn with bodies
Where the grey faceless men hold weapons
Dark with power
We always knew
Deep Down
This is the place
Where we belong
Where we belong
Avalon
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
I deal in Ultimatums
I am the Scorcher of the Sky
By any other name God
My Dreams sway the movement of the People
Crowned Eternal for all to See
In My right hand , the World
My left, Reality
I conquered the saviors of the People
I've fed on the Blood of Sin's Virginity
I gave them fire and Greed
then showed them how to deconstruct the Seas
these Sacrificial heads roll just for me
I am the Sultan of the Sand
from me Spawned the most decadent brand
bombs and ticks, clocks and rickets
are merely the Product of my Seed
I made the Sun weep blood
I made the Stars shine in ecstasy
I built upon Avalon
I broke the Roman Siege
no Empire on this Earth will stand against me
creation and destruction is my creed
I Am Ego
Bow Before Me
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 8:26 PM UTC
As the waves fall on stony shore
the sword just sits there,
blunting in the washing sea-foam.
England’s winds carry the sand
from England’s rock to the grazes
on our ankles, our feet and hands.
They from the toes of Cornwall to
rocky Dunnet head
will our courage forward
through the first crawl on cam-corder,
to the last drop to earth.
‘We all began at the seaside’
Though days are gone, we linger
snaking through London with those southern scrubbers,
those diamond white men,
the Caribbean accents, the Guajarati, the Jews -
‘A Coke is a Coke and no amount of money can get you a better one’
- we all patter round Oxford Circus and
climb aboard the number 9 bus.
‘Who so pulleth out this sword is trueborn King of all Britain’
And we watch the waves fall.
‘Hold very tight’
It’s there behind our ray-ban’s, our fake ray-ban’s,
their halcyon glint.
It’s the same secret, not one of us can keep -
*Under the setting sun between
England's canals and sheep
the living live, cry and sleep.*
-
It was London and my mother that
raised the muscles in my thighs to look firmly planted
and my face to look resolute when turned to the sun.
It was my mother and London.
They grew me up to look like I could pull out
Excaliber.
‘Lay me down trepanner man, but take the stories with you, if you can’.
So I, always King Arthur,
not a yank, not from Roehampton’s towers,
or Peckham. Not Tintagel, or Camelot,
escaped on an eddie to Manchester,
to bury stories with distance
and stare at cobwebs after rain.
'I’ll hear easy music, find out it’s easy, man.'
But in Manchester’s plastic, in Manchester’s rain
It ran all the same.
Of a blunting blade, I dreamt,
until the Phrenologist came
and I asked him if I was torn up by London grit,
London loves and London’s spit.
But he said no,
no matter where you go
there’s just one secret that you’ll never keep
*Under the setting sun between
England's canals and sheep
the living live, cry and sleep.*
-
The sword just sits there,
honest as a dog.
And the sun has more secrets than any man on earth.
my shadow scuttles through the suburbs,
the seaside, the city, sideways like a crab.
The sandy cuts on my toes, ankles and knees
are bleakly investigated by a fly.
Has anyone sat at the round table?
It’s out of reach of my skinny wrists.
*Lash me to a pole and wait for the Avalon tide
to slowly roll my English soul.*
I better keep on living.
All stories, tears and sleep.
We are all just the living secret,
that not one of us can keep.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
My heart in form of a dimminished sword all rusted throu and pitted with age, found entrenched within an anvil upon a stone.
Lonely eons pass me by, awaiting for fair damsels touch from far away fay Avalon.
I sense a presence both near and far, it sets my iron core pulsing deep and strong, to feel life stiring within me once more.
Her touch is all it takes to awaken fully the restored magic and more, to set my heart a gleamming to see me free to be held close.
We quest togeather to slay foul beasts, and right great wrongs of injustice done across the land. To make togeather an epic poem that sings true for generations to come.
The stuff that legends become.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC
ginko soft they pile, strewn on cobble
memories themselves concretely devised
cloister inward, revise, revise, revise:
debauched meanderings fully marble
escapes to curl the lip, adorable
here and there, whether smile sneer incise
linguistic pirouettes or paler lies
congest that wisdom indefinable --
the moment past moves on to feigning truth
with pretty rhyme, for ornamenting time
with myths to filter in an Avalon,
juggle perspectival paradoxic ruth
with fine meter fine, vernacular chimes,
and resolve the conflict like a dawn
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
from October, 2016
Ragged cliffs loom o'er the shore-
as waves punish the rocks below -
"Deafening",
is their roar..........
A fleece, a blanket, of mist...and fog,
muffles the 'pleas'
From the 'sailing ships'.....
moored in the salty seas
*Out from the mist...
alone.........she comes-
"A battle waits.... to be won"
says this maiden.....from Avalon*
With arms outspread--
and opened palms.......
She 'chants'...for the sea to lie "still.... and calm"...
says the maiden.......from Avalon
*"Oh God of Nature....of all men -
I beseech thee..........
To shield these men of gallantry".....
'Chants'...the maiden from Avalon*
As she speaks.....
the waves subside.....silent, is their roar
The solar orb....no longer hides....
As the brave doth come ashore.
Is it magic, myth, or simply......lore?
perhaps, a tale not told before-
But....... when all was said, and done......
"Blessed be the maiden".....
"From Avalon"
r.riddle- 10-29-2016
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 4:08 AM UTC
I saw a bunch of poets
on a line
at the Avalon
in San Francisco
They looked so tired
So, I approached them
then stated
"you guys look beat"
but, at a closer glance
they were just ******
Allen was there
with Corso and Ferlinghetti
Bukowski was around the corner
trading his wife for cigarettes
again
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC
The Holy Grail, the Chalice of Our Lord
Borne to Glastonbury, the Isle of Avalon
By the holy man of Arimathea
Then lost, and quested for by noble knights
The Holy Grail is present still, each day
In vessels blessed for sharing Eucharist
Whose Elevation in the Upper Room
Was then, is now, and forever will be
In setting fit, in prayerful accord:
The Holy Grail, the Chalice of Our Lord
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC