"changelings" poems
My sisters and I jest
That men never get over us.
We have been named
Muses, angels, succubi, leanan sidhe
But we are les belles dames avec merci
And that is their undoing.
Our breath has left them gasping
With unfilled lungs
We never meant to be their oxygen
But they drink us in like drowning men.
We didn’t ask for this,
But disarming, we are soft enough
For them to float in
Belly up, eyes to distant stars
Singing the sirens song that stirs in our veins.
Behind our teeth rests the love
The world has failed to give them till now
There are holds in the knowledge
that our fingertips find the hollowed spaces,
mother wounds, clefts where trust was carved out,
And they clutch our palms to staunch the bleeding.
We never asked for this,
They cherish the brittle changelings of us
until they are crushed in the coals of our eyes
Eggshell ideals, fragile as egos.
Blown by the sea wind in the strands of our hair
they are scattered, undone.
The distance drifts between, inevitable
And full they turn away to starve
We cut the mooring line
After one too many storms,
And search
For safer
Harbor.
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 9:54 AM UTC
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Four Irises tall & gallant, looking though
slighted worn out, a tad bedraggled
they are springtime survivor stragglers
of the Great Spring Weather Battle.
living in an open trench, battle conditions,
wind-whipped by constant strong breezes,
raked by intermittent machine gun rain,
familiar weapons of the “handover” season
loyal guardians of their pinpoint position,
remaining on duty, standing at attention,
dignified amidst the serene, nearly summer, now,
accepting quietude & gratitude of surround soundings
arrow-straight, in dress uniforms of royally purple,
four lead a cohort of unbloomed green fellows,
protecting their charge, an ancient marker of time,
rusted-green bronze sundial, symbol of continuity
these four, boon companions to human and animal,
shall persist long after I cease to dabble in this art,
they greet their admirers in full regalia, every year,
long, long may they live, die and be yet reborn!
here, in place, when we arrived four decades ago, a tiny forever,
changelings heading a processional of the summer season,
greeting all with a simple story of constance of change, of beauty,
leading our Summertime Commencement Exercises
May 26 ~ 27, 2023
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 4:55 PM UTC
*As the surface clouds cleared
and the sovereign sun arose
My perspective was no longer fixed
on what lay below
Yet on what awaits before me…..the unknown.
I fly, with the rocky shoreline behind me.*
Maria
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the emperor of the solar system
demands obeisance
but for half of our life
ceding us to the
super moon's sequestration,
a velvet coated, cosseted,
the other-half-of-a-lifetime
remainder reminder
of the divide no poet
can supersede
yet, even these planet pulling,
tide churning bodies
are eclipsed,
their torrented powers
have human
shortcomings
orbits prescribed, predictable,
they too can only look down
upon us and wonder
what if and what lays beyond
their lawful curves
but I can look up to you
watch you, human,
so powerful are you!
you, you, you
can reset your course,
irrespective of tides, gravity
I can watch you
rephrase your life,
knowing that my eyes
cherish what ere,
before in time,
what will be your
course selection
as I write,
I wonder if
my thoughts sufficiently
clarified,
do they require editing?
no matter,
the way they fall is
how they'll be served
I live with the same orbs,
and the winds that lifted your wings,
changelings of perspective,
now but the breeze that coats me,
were the hot air currents that lifted you,
now here, days later,
my genlest cloak,
as I inscribe to you
and the waters that I see,
not lapping today,
but modestly erupting,
the same Atlantic green
you have seen days pre-me,
but my shoreline sandy,
rocks removed,
for your comfort,
awaiting your arrival
the woman sends the seagull,
French Toast is ready,
(one piece, that talkative white bird's commission)
coffee hot n' salted
all ready, prepped to your taste
and for some reason random,
clueless why on, in my Long island offshoot sheltered isle
tears wave over my cheeks,
which I must erase/disguise,
before the repast begins
Surprise!
How came thee to be at our table?
How good the meal will taste,
now that you chosen to fly/stop by!
and this gibberish nonsensical
cup of words
is your welcoming present,
for here,
humans are the sovereigns,
and the celesetes bow to our wishes,
we select our own direction,
regardless of how the orbs try our souls,
we are most powerful human,
sovereigns of our selves
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Faces, limbs,
Glitter, sweat
Concealment
Debris
Gutter-trapped
Occasional treasures
Shining brightly, briefly
Glimpses of original packaging
places untouched by the dulling bleach of light and time
Fresh-looking facades that harbor disease-
the soft, dank giving way of decay
Slight moments of concord,
communion,
connection.
Debris that longs to be fairy-taled,
that believes in the magic of changelings
One clean, pure shoe
on the steps of this stage.
Tomorrow –Cinderella.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 2:26 PM UTC
The door was cracked..
And in a dark shower,
I was visited upon by horrendous visions,
demons of changelings, melting and reforming.
My Door opened and I released until,
coming into focus,
I saw the core of me:
an imperfectly smooth shorestone,
not yet made experienced by the shorebreak.
I released again in the darkness,
and was regarded, and nearly greeted
by a young deer.
She was still,
but perhaps not peaceful.
I faced myself and released,
and saw feathers.
I felt them follow my shape.
I felt growth.
With another release I saw an alligator,
which I tried to distance.
Until I saw it's eyes.
The two animals were not friends,
were not enemies.
I breathed,
and lingered in the darkness.
I thanked God,
and stopped the water.
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 1:06 AM UTC
At seasons change.
Be their gardens sparkled with snowdrops, bowing their peeping heads.
Diminutive in a flood of alabaster, blasted with vibrant ****** leaves.
Colours laid upon the grass.
Moving months the changelings evoked.
My space pray be sprinkled with realms of scented flowers.
Soft scent in springtime.
The flowers die and dry.
While I mature to perfection.
And so the sun blazes hard and strong.
Summer beckons the coming of hay.
With the hay the harvester calls.
Their leaves tumble.
Christmas is coming,
The pines are whispering in the breeze.
Longing for their freedom.
To put on their best clothes.
'Tis warm in the living room.
Avoidance of the winter snows.
(C) LIVVI
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
Moving On from Moving On
June 11, 2014 at 11:36pm
Musings by Vivvy Walker
When I got divorced people were helpful and understood
I was moving on.
They knew it was a BIGGIE
A big, huge, ginormous time in my life
I was moving on.
They helped me. I helped me.
Everyone was familiar with the process.
The pitfalls. The backtracks.
The wins. The successes.
I was moving on.
And now I am firmly entrenched in vague territory.
I have moved on.
And I need to move on. From moving on.
I moved. I packed. And unpacked.
All the baggage. Physical and emotional.
I am post-moving on
I am done.
I no longer need to work ridiculous hours.
Or raise my girls alone.
Or be alone.
I always thought it would be easy when I was done
Moving on.
But it is hard
To reprioritize yet again.
To reorganize my life & thoughts (yet again)
To adjust
To be laid-back. And free. And funny.
I have to constantly remind myself
I'm no longer moving on
That chapter has closed.
It is time for my voice
To be heard.
For my dreams.
To be realized.
For me
I think of the men and women who- like me
Have moved on
And I raise a glass
Coffee, wine, beer, *****
Drink with the little umbrella
I toast you
The changelings, the chameleons
The doers, the movers
And shakers
Those crazy laughing' probies'
Of life post divorce
I toast you
The tortoises
The 'long run' winners
Those plodding wonderful people
Of life post-divorce
I toast you
My fellow butterflies
My new wing-having friends
All those who cried
And then didn't anymore
Post-divorce
I toast you
For bravery
And audacity
And showing me how to move on
From moving on
Post-divorce
~Vivvy Walker 6/12/14
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Mens mors
Judgment and death
Like ruckus and changelings
I know thy the best
Like chess and change
Please leave the rest
nauta vidi
Life in a message
Amo
And peace
I find in the least
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
The bird’s the Finder,
Beak knocks, bamboo cleaves --
Cain and Abel: there, hide
two changelings: Jekyll and Hyde.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
The sky is hanging black as coal.
As ebony descends it's startling rain.
The wind that started as a minor breeze.
Let all remaining leaves fly free.
What leaves are left be chameleons.
Changelings in the heavy light,
Between the light as darkness falls.
In the city the wind dared bite back.
Screaming banshee like.
Short in sweater freezing back.
Marching on the autobus.
A store full of students are fussing and cussing.
Moaning and groaning as they hang in the queue.
Upon the bus the minions storm.
Saturday shopping.
Weekend norm.
(c)LIVVI
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
We are the changelings,
carriers of hopes lost
carriers of hopes born,
casting asside our anchors,
setting sail for destinations unknown,
the calmness of tempestious seas,
horrizons of distant lands,
each journey neither begins,
nor does it ever end,
we are the darkest of skies,
the keepers of secrets,
sifters of the sands of time,
so do your bidding,
drift on a sea of souls.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
*I am red clay suffering the boots of men
Aged Pine in fear of the saw
The plight of Whitetails in the Winter hunt
September Dove escaping the shotgun
Deforested back country robbed of fertile layer
The cold domestic animal showing unconditional -
love before their slayer
A tear for the meek
A blanket for the weak
We are every person sleeping in a car
The stars blocked by city lights
The diesel engine roar
Technologies ******
We are the riddle , the animal superior , changelings in denial
The True Killers* ...
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
My father never knew a father's love
and was crippled for ever.
I do not remember a hug
I do not remember a nighttime story
where the good guys promised peace till morning
Perhaps he did and was so diffident
that changelings were born
and so different that false memories were created
and no love ever lived
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC
Formations of angels with trumpets,
Horses for courses,
Children with buckets and water made spades.
Faces and features,
Castles and clowns,
Ribbons and roses,
Interfering noses,
The man in the moon with lines o'er his face,
Tricks of the light,
Pure wizardry,
Old hags on besoms,
Magic perception,
Appearance,
****
They're gone,
Changelings in the firmament,
Bright white,
Grey as tears that look towards creeping,
Before they,
All fall down.
(C) LIVVI
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
lovely questions, lovely quiet
them words, soap bubble-burst, in my mind’s eyes,
but no finger pointing, this the way to go, no,
*here lies the poem, you need be writing,
here, buy the poem, release belief, be the relief*
thinking past loving, glory, pain, depths plumbing,
farewells, opening gambits, unplanned strategy,
first move, drugged highs grand expectations
chase, hunt, capture, surrender, regroup, defeat
skip to only endings directly, where’s the fun in that,
no, lovely must be earned, only years later cannot
recall, name, why we separated, but each, her face,
cut, grooved, in the cells, how I stroked her skin, thrillingly
finger’s cells keep memories in cold storage, summoning
with great and minimal difficulty, reversal atmospheres,
breathing the air we shared, oh god, oh god, how,
could I have let the times escape, each lover lost, unforgiven
lovely interrogatories, each, a cup, half full of changelings,
the passions expended, losses unintended, greater fool,
the chameleon fooled only himself, each memory a blessing,
a curse, and when sleep darkens the eyelids, the tears pool
no peace I find, the wetness caresses both the closure,
and the retelling, drowns me in measuring cups of
who I was, who I am, and demands do better, do it all
over again, only with lovely quiet, with tenderest kindness
and guilt clings, hope lingers but sleep arrives as I count
my sheep, repeating whispering of “do better, be better,
do better, do better, be better and better, and better still
5:08am
1/14/2020
Jan 25, 2020
Jan 25, 2020 at 3:13 PM UTC
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eh1m3vCCGdA
Black Princess of the night chin strapped to her violin
she plays the notes from her memorable heart of blue
while the moon in her sorrow spills light upon the Quin,
she plays on, a Stradivarius interlude of thin soulful Adieu;
Arrivederci (goodbye)
Donna (woman)
Ingannato (deceived)
even the stars weep under her spell as her raven changelings
scatter like black ashes to the wind
Five seasons of partings five degrees of loss, still no light
bursts forth from a soot sky of ebon black
lamentations and moans
heaven groans
from the weight of her sorrow comes the eye of the storm
as she plays her last note of deep unrest .
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 7:46 PM UTC
War is Obsolete
by Michael R. Burch
War is obsolete;
even the strange machinery of dread
weeps for the child in the street
who cannot lift her head
to reprimand the Man
who failed to countermand
her soft defeat.
But war is obsolete;
even the cold robotic drone
that flies far overhead
has sense enough to moan
and shudder at her plight
(only men bereft of light
with hearts indurate stone
embrace war's arctic night).
For war is obsolete;
man's tribal gods, long dead,
have fled his awakening sight
while the true Sun, overhead,
has pity on her plight.
O sweet, precipitate Light! —
embrace her, reject the night
that leaves gentle changelings dead.
For each brute ancestor lies
with his totems and his "gods"
in the slavehold of premature night
that awaited him in his tomb;
while Love, the ancestral womb,
still longs to give birth to the Light.
Which child shall we ****** tonight,
or which Ares condemn to the gloom?
Keywords/Tags: war, children, violence, guns, war and peace, destiny, god, gods, brute, brutality, ******
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 1:38 AM UTC
We are waiting for Godot.
I am Godot, there is no Godot,
We are all Godot, Godot is each of the players,
Godot is the box of the stage,
Is the audience, the usher, the curtain.
Does Godot have a white beard?
Does Godot own sheep and goats, have a hayloft?
What are you going to ask Godot?
Oh, if the boys are his sons or changelings?
We are waiting for Godot.
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 3:48 PM UTC
Beauty creeps up and in through the window
everyday she comes to visit
myriad changelings, this time of year
and a stillness after a storm
all a oneness come rain or shine
she taps lightly on the senses
I am here, I am here
she whispers me to sleep.
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC