"divinity" poems
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and
choose the sign of your day
The day’s divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach
in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again
Choose now, they croon,
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake
Enter again the sweet forest
Enter the hot dream
Come with us
Everything is broken up and dances.
86k
~for those who will read this and weep~
*the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience
localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!*
*the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life ***** advertisement
I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs*
*summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created
so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)*
*but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early*
got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind
these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and
choose the sign of your day
The day’s divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach
in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again
Choose now, they croon,
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake
Enter again the sweet forest
Enter the hot dream
Come with us
Everything is broken up and dances.
24.4k
**Festivals of my
land are**
Filled with
The brilliance of colors..
The elegance of attire..
The resonance of lights..
The flamboyance of richness..
Of
The essence of laughter..
The sense of happiness..
The fragrance of love ..
The immence feeling of Joy..
The exuberance of festivities..
The relevance of celebration..
The Perseverance of culture..
Its all about
My Motherland....
My India..
Yes !! Its that time of the year
When 1/7 th population of the world
celebrates
The Festival of Lights..
On the dark night of No Moon ..
The whole country is filled
with lights..
From earthen lamps and LEDs
To
Celebrate the win of
Good over evil..
To celebrate
The homecoming -
after the win..
The brightness of lights..
The purity of air..
The brimming faces..
The laughter echoes..
Elders, kids, adults
all come together,
To fill the land with
Sparkles and Divinity....
Diwali it is !!
Diwali it will be !!
The festival of love..
The festival of respect..
The festival of sharing..
The festival of caring..
The festival of loving..
The festival of giving ..
!!!
**
Sharing,
Caring,
Loving,
Giving....
The young kids rhyme..
We teach them by action,
That we want them
to remember...!!
Happy Diwali..
The festival of lights..!!
**
Sparkle In Wisdom
Nov 2018
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
a thousand brilliant lies
(Hafiz, Iran 1320-1389); (L.F.P., USA 20~21st century)
- Hafez - - Left Foot Poet-
“I have a if only, in my meager possess,
thousand brilliant lies, but one lie when easy asked
For the question: the simplest damning of,
How are you? are you generally happy?
I have a what is god you ask,
thousand brilliant lies. no lies required,
For the question: many answers upon my face visible,
What is God? unsure if any worthy of believing
If you think that the 8 centuries separate us, yet
Truth can be known, you lie; we poets - you, I, all believe
From words in the divinity of words
If you think that the a thousand brilliant sparkles
Sun and the Ocean, when Sun loves the Ocean,
Can pass through that each one a poem passing,
tiny opening Called my mouth, my wide eyes,
the mouth, uttering a Cohen's hallelujah
O someone should So we gleam, mirthing in glorious
start laughing! and gleeful delight at ourselves
Someone should start for your brilliant happy lies easily
wildly Laughing Now!"
unravel into a thousand laughs
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
If you are uncomfortable when you look in the mirror,
keep in mind:
We spent thousands of years
trying to convince the earth
she was flat.
We wrote her maps as evidence of the things we saw;
and she believed them.
She cried tsunamis, and had earthquake breakdowns.
Keep in mind: the Sun never gave up hope.
The earth will keep spinning and breathing
the star-dusty space void of encouragement.
Next time you look in the mirror
and second-guess your potential divinity,
remember you will keep shining and living.
Because the Sun is out there
believing in you,
compensating for lack of the human capacity
to treat each other empathically.
You don’t need proof or approval
to be exactly what you are;
Eventually everyone will see
your infinite beauty.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
*Jis Ki Janib Woh Nazar Apni Uttha Lete Hain
Uss Ki Soyee Hui Taqdeer Jaga Dete Hain*
**Towards whom they raise their glance
His resting destiny they awaken in a trance**
*Teri Duzdeeda Nigahon Ko Dua Dete Hain
Jitne Chubte Hain Yeh Teer Utna Maza Dete Hain*
**For your peeking gazes, I pray
The more these arrows wound, the more delighted I lay**
*Jab Se Dekha Hai Unhein Apna Mujhe Hosh Nahin
Jane Kya Cheez Woh Nazroon Se Pila Dete Hain*
**Ever since them I saw, senseless I have become
What they pour from their glances, a mystery it has become**
*Takht Kya Cheez Hai Aur Laal-o-Jawahir Kya Hai
Ishq Wale To Khudai Bhi Loota Dete Hain*
**What is a throne and what are lustrous jewels?
Lovers surrender divinity against the rules**
*Aik Din Aisa Bhi Ata Hai Mohabbat Mein Zaroor
Khud Ko Ghabra Ke Naqab Apna Uttah Lete Hain*
**There is one such moment in love, indeed!
With nervousness, they raise their veil**
*Apni Barbadi Pe Khush Hoon Yeh Suna Hai Jabse
Woh Jisse Apna Samajhte Hain Mitta Dete Hain*
**Happy with my own ruin I am, ever since I have learned
Who they consider their own, obliterated have turned**
*Apne Daman Ko Zara Aap Bacha Kar Rakhna
Sakhat Aahon Se Bhi Hum Aag Laga Dete Hain*
**Your own hem a little, you save and claim
With deep sighs, we set the fire aflame**
*Jis Ki Janib Woh Nazar Apni Uttha Lete Hain
Uss Ki Soyee Hui Taqdeer Jaga Dete Hain*
**Towards whom they raise their glance
His resting destiny they awaken in a trance**
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
I. Neptune’s Theater
A rock spins through the universal tumbler
and its warm blue pools calcify
as turquoise Neptune in his cloudy blue bath bath
builds a lace castle with his fingertips
Sculpts a submerged eden of crimson and emerald
where painted parrots chat up cardinals
butterfly and angel fry sway with wave pulse
and foliated coral fingers beckon from arched windows.
Neptune’s children are flat and bright, spined and notched
free yet entangled in lace mesh ecosystem
beneath an array of bioluminescent stars
as a gangly pretender watches and blows bubbles.
II. Sapien Siege
The hot acidic hand of death grasps
the mesh rends and tangles
the ecosystem shattered
reef’s loosed children scream beneath planet’s stars.
Butterflies impaled
cyanide-swooning damsels
mesh-tangled angels hauled heavenward
coral to potash, corpses to coal.
The pretender to the throne blinks
rubs blurry lenses,
kicks plastic fins
and moves on to the next show
Unseeing and unaware
of the luminous filament in his wake.
Self-appointed divinity,
deus ex machina.
*******************************************************************************************
Ann says: All of the animal and human characters in this poem (except Neptune and The Pretender) are named after coral reef fish. Coral reefs, one of the most diverse ecosystems, are expected to be largely extinct within one human generation. Deus ex machina is Latin for “God from the machine.”
Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
And when I met that girl in San Francisco
Off a dusty little pier
with rotting wood
and squawking seals
And screaming bayside wind
She caught me off-tropics
and danced with the grace
of a palm tree
lines between the quaked
concrete
off telegraph avenue
On an obscuring Sunday morning
and no
she didn't go
to church or any silly thing
like a temple or synagogue
She said those were no places
for god
God was the trees
We smoked cigarettes and got off to each other's
carcinogenic practices
oxidizing a little faster in conjunction with hopeful
Formaldehyde
Deriding the formalities
of small talk and trivialities
She liked her guitars with nickel-wound strings
I with nylon
But I couldn't play songs
that sounded any good with them
while she could
and did.
and girl did it ever sound good
She'd laugh at the contests on the radio
while we drove on a half-moon
to half-moon
full and whole of ourselves
We'd stopped in the lobby of a cheap motel
And waltzed to background
muzak
wacked out of our minds
Sniffing in deep huffs of subliminal
divinity
Understanding
loving
that mind-numbing
monotony
muzak...
ppsh.
Who ever really listened to that?
And then she left
at the end of one fine winter day
in a cloudless sky I waved
watched her plane
skip off
towards the edge of a pale blue horizon
back south
to warmer climes
to wherever she truly stayed
The tugging on my heartstrings
chimed grotesque in
precise
D minor.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
Nothing can influence
A Man
Stronger
Than a Woman
It's a difference
Through yin
That causes
Yang to become
Whole
It's like the beast
Crawling towards
The beauty
She need not
Use force
Or violence
To get the animal
To draw closer
Her prescence -
A flower
So sweet
Anything with a nose
Wants to inhale
The influence of
A woman
Is a journey inward
Where the flow
Comes in
I could show you where
You begin
Where it begins -
In the formation
Of a wave curling
To form
An infuriating
Break
Soaring through
the wind
She gets him
Contemplative
Her words
Sound like Sanskrit
She knows what he needs
Beyond what his ego
Believes
And maybe gentle
Or crying
Should not be forbidden
The influence of women
A females touch delicious
A Man's counterpart
And producer of souls
The answer to family
The true love gaze
An access to divinity
The missing ingredient
Of the recipe
A Woman's influence
On a man
Is the way the world
Transitions
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
You've got a white scarf, but it's unreliably so
I could count on it to be white for many years
Until last year, when it didn't quite resemble snow
It changed colors, and brought up many fears
Like will you make it til tomorrow?
and will you still be here?
You used to wear it like it embodied majesty
Like you were a lion and it was your mane
Curling around your neck and screaming of divinity
I know that mane better than I know your name
(buddy)
The leaves will change and your scarf will too
Your head will bump mine, and I'll bump yours too
I'm running from my thoughts and the truth
This might be all for naught and tomorrow you
Will be here still, and I won't have to say goodbye
To your scarf, your mane, our collective life
Maybe your heart will still be kept in mine,
Released only when our heads collide
Your personality is truth
Your personality is you
I try to ask others to be like you but they can't
That plight is wrong and an ineffective chant
Your heart, your personality, your truth
Will be held in my heart regardless
of whether or not tomorrow I see you
And I do see you.
For a while there, you were hiding behind your disease
But now you're able to come out of your shell with ease
And now I can have another collection of moments with you
Your personality
Your truth
And you are truth.
For a year I thought you were gone and that the next
Moment I saw you, you'd be descending into a grave
You would be gone and only accessible through memories
Your truth
Your personality
And you are personality.
It pained me every time I saw you, thinking I wouldn't see
It and how you walked and how you cried for water when
You needed it. I'd trip over you, and trample you, but you
You are truth
You are personality
You're here today, eternally in my heart
You're here tomorrow, and when we are apart
A year down the road, and a plethora more
You'll be in my heart forevermore
The part of me that you bring out will never exist again on this earth
And your white scarf will never be seen by my brown eyes
But I can hold you here
Right here in my heart
And you can pur
And I can contemplate when you'll bump my head again
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
You are indescribably beautiful.
More than your breathtaking smile.
Or the way you look at me with those gorgeous brown eyes.
You are beautiful in this supernatural way that makes me yearn for an explanation.
It is such a beauty that makes me feel complete.
A tremendous burst of euphoria and bliss just by the thought of you.
Your bewitching emanation that makes my soul electrify.
As if we were split in a ****** world to search for one another.
Your immense beauty that is far beyond the physical.
It makes me suffer in the most amazing way.
Forces me to watch every careful step,
To not shatter the perfection of a thousand lifetimes.
A beauty that makes the world seem brand new and brilliant.
You make the flowers bloom fuller,
The grass greener,
And the birds sing finer.
You are the deity my heart has struggled to search for,
The divinity my soul has craved,
And the magnificence I have only dreamt of.
Your presence makes this life hold a more significant meaning.
You are the loveliest being,
I have ever had the pleasure of sharing an existence with.
You cause this intoxication in my very soul,
And make my heart skip every beat in the most tremendous way.
You have brought new meaning to my life.
Things that were once a blur now makes sense.
You have given love "at first sight" a true meaning.
~S.C. Kelley
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC
perfect simplicity
so seldom does visit me
that when it’s in the vicinity
I bask in divinity
I live for a line
the curve of her spine
her curves are divine
with a bottle of wine
the touch of her lips
the swing of her hips
savor the sips
of a total eclipse
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 6:48 AM UTC
444
It feels a shame to be Alive—
When Men so brave—are dead—
One envies the Distinguished Dust—
Permitted—such a Head—
The Stone—that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we—possessed
In Pawn for Liberty—
The price is great—Sublimely paid—
Do we deserve—a Thing—
That lives—like Dollars—must be piled
Before we may obtain?
Are we that wait—sufficient worth—
That such Enormous Pearl
As life—dissolved be—for Us—
In Battle’s—horrid Bowl?
It may be—a Renown to live—
I think the Man who die—
Those unsustained—Saviors—
Present Divinity—
6.9k
good morning, my angel
my living lullaby
i glide across the fairest skin, you are the fairest one
of all. Good morning, my mother
my broken candle
you gave me the wax that has melted on many tablecloths
i feel I have lost you now, as I had lost you then.
Good morning, my first love
my little bridge
your mittens were warm when I needed heat
when I was so cold the tears froze onto my cheeks.
you ran me a bath a being
of divinity
we held each other in your father’s tub and laughed
at the bubbling abundance, burgeoning in overflow.
I wake to the puddle of your memory
That has grown since we last met, since I have wept
For the love I have not kept in place. Good
morning hindered lover, who worships me in forbidden light
a thousand songs have yet transpired born
from a single thought of you.
Inhibited inspiration,
camouflage constellation, I kiss you now
though I will always be
Years away from where you lie.
Good morning dear father, a forester
Braver than the lone wolf and his
solitary howl. The lesson of the arthritic toe shows you
True appreciation for the pain of existence.
You are the most loyal flame, my gratitude is overwhelming
Each time I embrace the past and the mistakes, unconscious
From the broken record
And its echo off the wall.
Good mourning to the loss of a lover, an ephemeral flame.
Good mourning to the death of a friendship, to the longing for a ****
Good mourning to the future in its casket,
That awaits a new life for me
In song.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering --
As if you never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis
your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a ****** dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.
Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the silts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting at my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father -- your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.
6.6k
I entered a church
Or perhaps it was a cathedral?
But it does not really matter,
Because its all the same to me.
I am not particularly religious,
But I believe in a God, and a Devil,
And Souls.
I like the stories,
And the smell of church candles and incense and hope and guilt mixed together
With the tantalising intoxicating feeling
Of having all your sins spilling out of your throat and every
Single part of you.
All is seen.
So looking at saints and windows and benches
And the colours that filter through and leap and dance
I sobbed.
Because I am scared
And because I have sinned
And because every moment I am thinking
Do I want what I have been given
Or am I ready to leave everything behind
In the search for divinity.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
*running by your side
divinity colliding
sparks my soul anew
©2016janetaylor
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
Unity:
A goal for a Soul
torn from it's source
by grace of the divinity of Birth.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
*I'm too fixated in each moment -
Each moment feels so intense,
I'm lost
On the dark side of the moon,
And nothing here has any warmth,
Worth or substance ~
Nothing here makes any sense.
Even my own shadow has left me.
The Monsters, still lurking
In the darkness,
Have stolen all of my hopes
And dreams away,
I can hear the wolves,
They are hauntingly howling -
There's nowhere safe that I can run to,
On this, here, dark, dreary day.
There will be no stars
To light up the pitch-black night-skies,
They have already fallen,
Just like the Angels
That I once loved and knew,
Everything that I once held onto
As sacred, has been molested -
I've been abandoned, once again;
Hell, again, I am being forced
To walk through.
Alone, I was born and raised,
Only my pain has been consistent-
It has held my hand
Throughout my entire life.
At some point, somehow,
I stupidly gave birth
To expectations,
Luckily, I woke up
And divorced reality,
Hence becoming solitude's
Dedicated and loving wife.
On the dark side of the moon
Compassion, loyalty and trust
Are nonexistent.
Evil dwells in almost every man
And woman,
Each with his or her own agenda,
Each with his or her own selfish plan.
Saviors do not exist,
Superheroes all wear masks,
Unconditional love is but an illusion,
Here, I revert to relying solely
On the harshness of reality,
For, the truth, it always exposes
And unmasks.
The dark side of the moon
Is a very lonely, isolating place,
In which to dwell,
There is no sunshine,
No stars or Angels -
The only light visible
Comes from the flames
Of the evildoers'
Raging fiery hell!
Placed here against my will,
No lush green valley in sight,
Taken away
From the divinity of nature,
I was cruelly robbed
Of my radiant life-giving daylight.
Doomed for being too real,
Too open and too honest,
Doomed for loving too much.
Doomed for believing in superheroes,
Doomed for allowing a human
To become my crutch.
Doomed for being too empathetic,
Doomed for being too sincere.
Doomed for being too kind
And too generous,
I'm doomed, abandoned here.
I blame only myself
For allowing my intuitive awareness
And intelligence to fade away
Like the stars that once adorned
Every exquisite night-sky,
I blame only myself
For not using the blessed insight
Of my third eye.
I'm too fixated in each moment,
Each moment feels so intense,
I'm too passionate about life
To give up and remain imprisoned
On the dark side of the moon...
But I'm too emotionally weak
And disappointed to jump the fence.
By Lady R.F. (C)2018*
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
I was awoken from a dreamless sleep
By a boy with short brown hair,
Who, with an urgent stare,
Told me to head to the showers!
As my eyes creaked open to recognize,
The orange glow of this unfamiliar room’s lighting,
In front of me, in handwritten writing,
A page on the wall showed three in the morning.
When I glanced around a room of shared bunks,
I saw all sorts of people and things,
Running around with things to bring
To these showers I had yet to see.
In a winding line down a high ceiling’d hall,
I stood with so many,
Who like me, hadn’t any
Idea what was going on.
With a whirlwind flurry of commotion
Steam crawled from the showers and water sprayed,
As we were told in a big disarray,
To wash off the place from whence we came.
In a neat little stack, I was handed my clothes
A tunic, with a sash
And a captivating mask
To “celebrate our exciting return home.”
Down dark rustic stairways, I watched like a child
The vibrant light and affinity,
Radiating with enchanting divinity,
From the otherworldly people and creatures below.
Through that noisy, jolly crowd,
We were led as a group
And the boy said with a whoop
That we were all to stand up and dance.
His eyes glinting with excitement,
The brown haired boy explained
That our spirits would be ordained
Through a celebration of our inner light.
Onto the stage I was led
As I stood with my class,
Nervous amongst the mass
Of silent, numerous spirits before us.
As the boy hit the music
I felt something from deep inside
Rush out like a tide
And through tears of joy, I danced.
It was at that gleeful moment
That my friends and I,
Realizing we'd died,
Knew we'd returned to the forest.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC