And winds they wither and they accentuate cosmic dithers
Ducks become swans and butterflies fly in the air of rivers
We should soon begin to question who we are on this plan-et
A bucket or cube, a form of strings finding tune
They said there’d be purveyors and pilgrims
These sages would then show the way in a web of disarray
So the picture plays and their gleam is seen
Incarnating from distant streams
’yes they call them starseeds

They have been helping societies feel secure, giving answers
Contributing to the developments thereto
Some called them heroes, psychics or star-soldiers
It was forgotten that they were merely messengers, creating vortexes so the many
Would get to the essence or heart of Creation and Divinity
The problems began with the worship of the commissars of Divinity
And the gods their parents, being merged into a monotheistic god
For artificial synchronization of stealing light and doctoring it into dark light
To subdue the power of Darkness
So with more people being manipulated and hooked by crystals
And chips, scrapping their memory of their once absolute multi-dimensional divinity
They began to forget and this energy was channeled to the heads of darkness and their fortresses
And as such humanity grew weak and the solutions were left to be found by the so called heroes

With the growing human-farming, as the hybrids being created then were used as mere sheep or even cattle  
With the decaying or ceasing dignity of the human conscience, they were made to be intermediary-conscious
And so the lives of the Messengers and their affiliates became the epitome of living for the many
Absurd as it is, the human races with its varying colours and fragrances, each soul being unique in its right
And now with this bombardment of doctrine that set a standard of being
These laws not culminating the commonwealth of many
Not governing humanity in its best interests, so the heroes began to be sacrificed
Their lives weren’t pure, they were planned before they were even born
Corrupting the consciousness of individuality and essential or sincere being

And they came in Kings/Priest Kings or Sorcerer Kings
And who would blame them, it is their Parents who set out or designed these paradigms
And so these corrupt thought forms of half truths and duality and dark light became hereditary
The times changed and these heroes took on the impressions of Presidents, Wealthy business men or Emperors of Commerce
Finding themselves in the modern Capitalistic World,  a world which was manufactured prior to their reign
The grave concern is the death of Identity and the Integrity of the Soul
And the lives of Pastors/Chanellers/Pilgrims/Shamans  or what have you became the mirror of Divinity
As opposed to Divinity mirroring in the clear view of people having identity and a sincere embrace of the heart’s mysterious logic
So it is safe to say that this would create a world robotic

This wouldn’t last forever though for some Parents are responsible and they care
So the Earth then would be visited by the Golden ones once more
Apparent with the recent UFO Sightings, crashed UFOs and the bodies of Extraterrestrials
Alien Abduction confessions, cavern findings
With this people would begin to remember and would not load their worries or problems on the shoulders
Of a few individuals as they would learn how big the world is
As Humanity would identify, if for the first time, who or what God is
Furthermore Who or WHAT THE Source is
And once the lives of heroes would cease to be manipulated, so too would the lives of the many
We would learn that there needn’t be “special” people for we will have found the Divine elements in each of us
And that the sooner we can enhance Intelligent Life working together without the need for hierarchies we can soon develop a
High Level of Spirituality and be an Independent Race
Heroes are beings too who have lives and ambitions, have flaws and afflictions, have faced convictions and submissions
The gods are beings with their mistakes as well, some who have lied and have not revealed the whole truth to
Protect their children for it could have been noted that they were too “young”
But humans will grow and God they will know, the Source furthermore, and there will be a shift in thinking and thus in being and Living
It has begun, Finding the answers following the Dignity of the Conscience,
Cosmic blueprint, a song sung for parents absent
A play of star glow, uplifting the wayward ways of the big show
Living in the Integrity of the Soul, following the Dignity of the Conscience.

am I awake dreaming that I am asleep
or perhaps asleep dreaming that I am awake
yet I do dream. I dream of Brazil
where antique rages like great storms
announce themselves with a small breeze
that stands against rust in mighty waves
and stares at the bleak mid winter
eyes of oppression and by
crimson haste, dithers in despair
and watches the pages
that unleash such rages
become the cobalt colour of tombstones
who ***** themselves behind the eyes
in dramatic stages
yet is the announcement of all these
historic rages
that are outrageous
placed upon blank pages
that butchers compassion
which is almost infinitesimally brief
yet so poignant and dislocating
has a momentarily almost faint identity
that singles indefinable loss
that is expressed in all known language
and splinters the mind into dark deep waters
that the only thing that can be
trusted is this moment, this moment
is the realisation, so powerful
that one cannot do otherwise
but confront it and in so doing
feel the immense vibration of change

Countless strangers sit or stand in wonder
at tall statues and head-height tombs
of solid, austere men who cannot utter
a word to explain the cathedral’s gloom.
The ostentatious architecture’s croon
from a tattered breeze
dithers through deathless abbeys
where memorialized men lay strewn.

The vacillation of their hearts
remains hidden like it did in life,
their public presence disallowed it then
as carved marble and stone now imparts.
That common unresting inner strife;
what was and what could have been.

I know it well (as well as I can),
that unfinished man Frederic Leighton’s tomb,
his beautifully ebullient Flaming June
brought to mind as I gaze on the grave
breathlessly overwhelmed, trying to understand
how anyone can frown on how artists behave.

That thought-drowned sculptor Henry S. Moore
is situated among the others, beguiled
without grave, a resting statue, “Mother & Child”:
in the smoothed out bends of arching stone,
from troughs between figures down to the floor
I read his face, all it held and could hold alone.

Down the crypt on straight-cut-steps I descend,
pressing on further through candle-lit corridors,
commemorations surround in half-light that offends
receding memories on sandless shores.
Horatio Nelson, John Donne, Sir Flemming, Chris Wren,
each pass till I find a man I’d adore:
Philip Sidney, that grounded man, that defender of art,
consumed in the ensuing century’s heart.

Consumed likewise I stand
gasping, beached upon a strand
of a non-physical contagion;
we’ll suffer it all again.


Three minutes more or less I gaped
until my feet forced my face away
and weaved my soul among the wooden pews.
This hallowed place where the past is draped
is an icicle looped through the fray
of my ambition’s thinning view.

Another adoration there!
That visionary mythology sewer
William Blake, whose piteous glower
for mankind begot his lasting dream.
On his placard chiseled rhyming pairs
beg: take things, not as they seem.

My fingers run the lines of text
slowly, strongly, as if forced by the air.
I fall down a thousand winding stairs
taller than St. Paul’s in my heart.
I compose all my strength to regain context
of cathedral, pull away from Blake, part.

Up the stairs I climb
back to the street.
The rustling, busy fleet
of tourists entwines
about me in my haste
to get outside the tomb,
that time-reversed womb,
of men who didn’t waste
time, place, talent, skill,
but impressed their lives on eternity.
The clock is still,
I’m out in the street –
cathedral shadows
twirling high, then low,
over my body and feet.

What is there, inside that place, is intangible and petrified by reality;
it is trailing smoke from the pipes of sages who spoke,
in broken thoughts, sworn things that cannot be repealed.
It is time unwoven and crocheted again into patchworks of undefinable color.
I must have died a hundred times unaware of it all – out of nothing it called.
It was felt and known, ended and rebuilt accidentally out of the contagion of guilt.
It was a small drag off of nothing.

The dark clouds linger in the sky.
The rain is about to cry.
The fate has been written.
The worst is yet to be smitten.
The sun has set in the west.
Darkness has worn its dress.
So here am I standing alone in the dark
Waiting for the destiny to bark.
I wait.
I shiver.
My mind quivers.
My soul dithers.
I sit alone and hold.
Smiling, I retire back.
Because I’ve realised
Darkness is my destiny.
Darkness is my life.
I belong here.
-Khushi :)

I cannot hear.
Sound has lost its crispness.
Articulated consonants
have merged into blurred murmurings.

The loss was not sudden.
No cataclysmic happening
but rather a gentle deterioration
of a faculty, once taken for granted.

Normal conversation, once a joy,
has become a struggle.
Repartee, chit chat, a little banter
is no more.

The quality of sound
once reverberated and filled spaces;
now I have no spaces – just tinnitus,
constantly grinding away.

To be sightless is to be aware,
with other senses sharpened;
but deafness leads to
introspection, loneliness and deep despair.

The half blind wear their glasses
and look so very wise.
The deaf man, with his hearing aid,
dithers.
                                          

I should know.


                    ~

Gumbo the sprat reminds  you he has
no place to go,
away from the night shoals
swimming mid stream,
he dithers if the pier should burn down,
could he bear if the anglers drowned?
yet he's not too axiomatic
knowing right from wrong.
but again theres no pretense
only a presence
swallowing this illusion of depth.

I have hidden incognito a decade in this desert,  
enscounced in the Bad Lands of a wasted life,  
evading both politics and the Bureau of Statistics,  
immersed in maths for senseless games of chance.

I forget promises and birthdays with equal disregard,  
attempt mental reconstructions of past events,  
seeking the forgiveness I have no power to grant,  
all my atoms expanding heirlooms of critical mass.

The gravitational attraction of lifelong friendships,  
dithers perception at the horizon of a span of years,  
warping the wormhole space between our arms, our minds.  
I need only for you to ask that I should stay.

Which way do you fold me?
Sometimes, the love is strong,
and it holds me up,
and gets me in and gets me out.
Sometimes, the love is present,
it runs through the room,
it flows through the days.
Sometimes, the love is gone,
it leaves empty rooms
it comes in unfinished sentences.
Why does it have to be like that?
Why can't things be normal?
Not pretending, not faking.
But maybe some changing,
it would be good.
This cursive is writing on the wall,
This fluent is in languages I can't understand.
Sometimes it seems
you need a walk in closet.
To hang your skeletons in.
But once you hang them,
Leave them. Leave them for me,
Leave them for you,
I dont care how you do it,
Just leave the closet closed forever.
Baby Once in a Blue,
You make me sad.
Yet that sad sometimes spells,
Sad is a long word,
And it means things, some of us
Don't know how to explain.
So, lets try one more time,
Another round, for the couple of the year.
Dithers, and high high Hithers,
they may come and go,
For all I know, I'll be where you are.

when the quiet is the whisper
gingerly wring the neck of ravens, to sleep deeper.

split the infinity.

give heartache a farthing of your coin, realm-less

spinning in the dithers of your lingering agenda

helpless.

loom oodles of shear joy, dis-attached from farms of promise

a reckless keening in the dreary gloom

of a perfect day.


and caramel apple car-bombs for Halloween.

She lay still
Yielding, yearning
Her soft skin
Like spring
It glows
It calls
It pleads
In a lonely mime

Ivory sheets
Once white
Demanding warmth
Deep longing
Serenading
Like a dry land
Waiting

I watch
I feel
I crave
Savage desire
Pulsating like anger
Like a storm
Like destruction
Insanity

I watch
I listen
Her heart commanding
With heat
With passion
Unpararelled
Obsession

She undresses
Reveals
Her soul
I bare
Uncover
Unclothed
Soul
To soul

I touch
I roam
Like a traveler
Amazed
Uncovering
Nurturing
I worship

She welcomes
Permitting
She succumbs
Her becoming
She savors
Rippling
Skin
To Skin

I reach
Intruding
Wanting
More
Like hunger
Like pain
Suffocating

She gives
She offers
She opens
Like a slave
To her Queen
Like a Queen
To her Goddess
Heaven

I receive
Tolerating
I devour
Consuming
Mouth
To her being
Maddening

She dithers
She quivers
Like a serpent
She slithers
She takes
Moaning
Damp
Begging

I feast
I swallow
I ******
I follow
I lick
I ****
I flick
I ****

We bare
We share
Skin
To skin
Soul
To soul
Body entwined
Like Honeysuckle
Divine



© 2012 Maryanne M

I

if I yelled into a walkie talkie,
would you melt, or burn,
blaring noise
glaring sun,
glaze the windows, someone!

                 II

fade away and radiate,
move the people dis-populate,
we may all glow,
there are leaks, they know,
but that is not all
they are going to build
an icy wall to STOP thoseleaksnow,
some one strong willed
                                      is taking charge of those positive and negatives
                                                       ­                        keep an i on atom, physically speaking.

         III


shake, shake
roll the water
shake shake
roll the dice
shake shake
what happens
in the kitchen
where it is hot
and you bang
plates together
the do break, explosively
this time, no
tsunami, so sue me
but it was a six point one
when we get a nine what then?


           IV
they have politics,
they have unrest,
they have strife,
put the ad in
the paper, some
one misunderstood, vehement
denials, sabres rattling cementing
bad relations blame the propagandist
bad formula blame the chemist
bad politics cost elections
bad people take lives
that are not theirs to erase, displace
or otherwise disgrace, I know we will
never know what has gone on,
but it really comes down to ONE,
all it takes is one to die,
and it - whatever the point is
is wrong,
all it takes is a million refugees,
not one in power will listen if we
say   STOP                    please,
think of the creative talent who have died,
think of the number of times you have lied,
think of the geniuses unable to breath through their face,
oh wait, if you did think, in the first place,

you still would have done it anyway,
because that is who you are, makin' people wear sarin, eau de ... deathly
                                                silence is a grave filled with the cries
                                                of the innocents
                                                chaos is a grave filled with violent
                                                death with intent
                                                lashing out first and with such force
                                                is a grave filled with numbers of
                                                the lost, who now are no more
                                                the cost is too dear to bear
                                                except with sadness, and mourning
                                                but there is no time there is danger
                                                          ­                              and warring
                                                         ­                                                   while the world dithers uncertain,
close the blinds
draw the curtain,
cover your ears,
we are doing something
here, umm, there.

That grandiose colossus who
Stood astride
The envious assaults of sea
(Essaying, wave by wave,
Tide by tide,
To undo him, perpetually),
Has nothing on you,
O my love

O my great idiot, who
With one foot
Caught (as it were) in the muck-trap
Of skin and bone,
Dithers with the other way out
In preposterous provinces of the madcap
Cloud-cuckoo,
Agawp at the impeccable moon.

sudden dawn treader sweet supreme
blond absent sugar brain dithers
on tantalizing cool green reds
traipse proficient dark/light music
into resilient hued rainbows
i challenge any daughters sun
to worship more acutely the pulsing
beat of
           you
                 endless
                             never

had to catch my breath

  amid dithers of stillness,

to comprehend little flashes

of brilliance midst madness,

nearly inaudible, but

  the premise was genuine

willing to take the leap

where stars collide &

    poetry is extraordinary

a place beyond perception

    of sun & lunar moonbows,

I'll meet you halfway

    'tween faith and conception

whence compassion never hesitates

  and reality is a meditation

          of rendered tranquility

SMOTHER YOURSELF WITH PEANUT BUTTER


You may like chicken and your mate might like it, too
One of you might like peanut butter as cookies but the
Other as a sandwich but that is truly no excuse to often be
Snickering and flickering when you could be getting along
And even dickering or having fun and cooking together ‘like
Two or more birds of a feather’ even if you don’t wear leather
And your name’s not Heather- you don’t have to be in tethers
   and dithers.

  Toss out the old useless medication and all of that stalling alcohol
Switch to an alternative that needs no perspiration or prescription
 Or drutioins- ‘if there be no purpose it’s not needed so toss it all out
And make the switch before you lose your ability to do so otherwise
You are throwing your life away without sway instead of striving

  Resist not offered help no matter who or what offer it whether it be friends or   God- it really makes no difference because God is our Divine Father so whoever and whatever the offer comes from it’s from God- fret not over how  People communicate nor how advice is given for it has to be given when it’s  given- you who are in need of it must really listen, so listen up then smother  yourself with peanut butter

It was a damp kiss
of an image.
Dispassionately you drop
an old coin into my hands.

Faithless in your poem.
I adored the Venus in twilight.
Carnation. A rose pink color,
appears in your eyes.

Rising from the marshy
slush, greater flamingos
keep watch underneath, at the
army of urns.

The sameness now dithers.
You want to weave the moon
in your breast, unpreparing
to open the heart.

I am moving as a spirit.  I am rippling through the rye
I am hunting in the corn with malice in my eye
I run through the fields beneath a misty moon
And cavort in the corn amid the scent of elderbloom
I am stalking in the wind, I am weaving through the hedge
I come and go between the worlds and trot along the edge
I prowl through the darkness until the night withers
Now through the dappling leaves the first daylight dithers
The soft summer breeze ruffles through the thorns
And Venus sparkles brightly in the bezel of the dawn
I run beneath the chorus, the fluting whistle-trill
Of the long billed curlews as they wheel above the hills
A covey of grey partridge is stirring in the spurrey
They see the ripple in the corn and set up wings a-whirring
I skirt around the homesteads with their whimpering curs
And run under the lapwings circling over moors
I come again to cornfields sparkling with dew
The cornflowers opening to reveal their vibrant blue
The first blush of poppies is just starting to bleed
A wavering tide of scarlet along the edge of fields
The days they are longer and so the nights are short
While the moors are being gilded with bristling golden gorse
At the silent casting off of the deep blue night
The lapwings dart over me flashing black and white
And far above the brambles and the dog-rose bloom
The owls doze and dream and wait the day out for the moon
The brown soft-hued ducks and the bright gaudy drakes
Startle and take flight across the sedge-rimmed lake
They are not prey, I leap away over whispering rush-lined rills
That wriggle through the meadows and down the low-backed hills
Faintly growling, I am prowling, I am a mist of grace
Who has swirled for centuries and stalked about this place
Padding through both peace and war, rippling through both sun and storm
Hackling at those I see, yet few have seen my silver form
I run under the thorn trees that spring decked in white
My howl shivers the barley beneath the shortening nights
I run through the hedges that will yield the blue-black sloes
I leap with ease between the worlds.  At will I come and go
I hunt my prey through night and day, through the dusk and dawn
I am the ripple in the rye, the demon wolf of corn
The rattle of the lilac blooms rusting on the trees
Carries on the waves of the summer-scented breeze
I smell the bruised stalks of the purple creeping thyme
The undertones of yarrow and corn chamomile
As a fitful breeze veers towards me cool and fresh
I catch the unmistakable smell of human flesh
They go about their mortal world without a sense of fear
For ignorance is bliss - they do not know that I am here
Modern man has forgotten that I even exist
Only my victims see me form as silver mist
I do not need to eat - I am a spirit of the corn
But do not take me lightly, indeed, be warned
I can manifest at will and the breeze is my breath
And should I so desire my fangs will rend your flesh
In the barley and the wheat and the rye I am at home
Be mindful should you ever walk these fields alone
Ask yourself, if you ever catch my glinting eye
If it's really just a breeze that ripples through the rye.

there's a feeling which flows ascendant in me
something like rapture or love
at the movement in your chest, and when i
recall your heartbeat by my head
your song whirls and dithers around me
like a mourning dove or a
euphonious revenant, composer of all my
lyrics unsaid
something stirs like a spectral presence
when all of your music counts me condemned

Words throw us
apart in the desert of
eyes, where no rains
come now.

Misty lips don't
leave the imprints on
the frozen face.

It was very cruel
of times. We watch together
but don't speak
from wound to wound.

When you don't own me,
will not call the hangman.
Ropes were very weak.

Come November,
I will ask the sun to cool.
Moonlight was becoming hot.

A snake dithers,
before it puts its fangs
in the chest of sleeping moon.

Everyone spins,
you spin too.

Everyone sits and stands and frets.

Everyone sees and listens
to the cooing of morning doves.

Everyone is so God ****** beautiful,
and life dithers between
reality and imagination.