My lips stroll along sultry soft skin
I close my eyes , and see your curves with my kisses,
fingers caressing your belly in infante swirls as if polishing the porcelain surface of a statue,
You lay entranced beneath my gentle stroking , your tummy stimulating the rest if your senses, ******* yearning for attention ,
Strings of a harp waiting to make music, my canvas , your desirable body,
****** finger painting
I meet your lips with mine , for your stamp of approval, my hands answer the call ,
My warm breath ,
Brushes your neck with the stroking of ****** feathers ,
Intensifying the raging desire within your ***** ,
Remnants saliva painted with my tongue evaporates into more of a magnetism, you open yourself to me,
The weight of my passion envelops you
Our tongues dance to the rhythm of our beating hearts
Blood flows through our veins at an increasing temperature
Ignited only by the meeting of our lips.
Intensified
My hands continue to brush your body ,
Answering all the yearning calls ,
I watch you lose yourself in the heat of the moment,
And I continue to stoke the fire
And with a burning wave of passion,
Enfolded bodies
I simply love you off to sleep .......

"
"nor is this a fact," nor is my syntax the 'true.'
i can't use quotations in the way i'd like to,
to allow the paradoxical to seep through
in the sly act of revising 'this' honestly--
merging truth with falsity, to silently see--
grammar become a means to shatter certitude

"i can't tell the 'truth' with these ["i can't tell the 'truth'
with these{...} very words"] very words"; i really can't...
it's somewhat unfair to communicants, this rant.
let me bolster your trust by not telling it slant:
in fact, it's not poetry, not from this angle.
maybe when you read, this 'this' will be poetic?
meh, i'm relying on telling, not showing. so...
quiet's often better than such entanglement

but this is not about value, it's about truth.
sincerely, i doubt i'll keep those two separate

perhaps... if you pretend i'm a prolix parrot,
who happened through some acosmic accident
to be the transmigrated daimon-soul of Sappho,
or Hypatia, Gertrude Stein or Plath even...
(yeah, i'm like a Cretan for going on): they weren't,
'your gobbledygoo,' or 'Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.'
stripped bare at the Caesareum, being murdered
for the crime of godlessness or female wisdom
spoken in the scapegoat-hungry rule of Rome...
this is not what they were, not the whole truth, at all
and though from winds of ****** she spoke in verse
that her vast poetic fame 'was no delusion:'
and that, 'dead, I won't be forgotten,' i fail,
painfully fail, to trace into a verbal womb
the seeds of those that transformed all, yet now entombed...
for to remember them in me is to revise,
reduce, sadly in that poetic untruth found...

"this" is a gestalt, i guess i'll have to say,
a "figure-ground," a floating 'shape' in some context,
one that you embody too, somehow, not in text;
even through a distant sharing, it's realized
(hold onto the random metaphors you find,
they're probably better than what's in my mind)
and to share this with you now, to hypocritize,
it's lunacy. i mean, the moon, the poetic moon
is not a meme, is not a custom, is not a poetic fact,
in fact, it's not in this poem, and if it were--
being televised with some authentic ontic pixel-space--
here between the lines augmented mOOn for you
it would prove how unpoetic the poem is, and how
very true the moon is, if it were here, right quoteunquote"here"
ineffably punctuated
            -- well, let me try
and fail again to make Erasmus proud:
the quotes would hang about romantic beams
parentheses to echo adjectival spectra streams,
an underscore horizonal and asterisks for stars.
but not these * asterisks,
or those_types of underscores--
better (parentheses) and far more "quothy" "quotes"--
the punctuation would literally ^punctuate^ the sky of my text.
time would stop.                                                            ­                   and that would be poetic.
you don't need to breathe, even; not this 'you,' in this moment
(the one i've failed to capture):
'i will put you on the moon' i say,
'and sit you buoyant by the buddha-astronaut, who,
in answer to the question sprinkles moondust in slow motion,
symbol-guiding realness, my "finger" for solution,
to present to you again, what is present to me now.
the Russian names, the rest of names, the 'face' some say cries, "sweetly,"
as if we could use the moon's sympathy,
or as if we should feel it for the white rock that elliptically defines us,
dances to our rhythm, (the tides, the ****** huntress)
the one that taught us to dance,
the one that taught us to yearn darkly in surreal eclipse
more hopefully for the chance of cataclysmic doom
some Greeks thought it was a disco ball, after enough *****, that Dionysian night,
some Greeks thought it was a disc,
like a coin that flipped just right
to match it's dance about our pearoid earth
in synchrony's anachronistic mirth.
i would lick each Bacchant clean to learn the mysteries of poem
i would lick each Bacchant clean. period. no music or noema known
this 'poem' is not a "poem"
in a very real sense
i did not make this,
nor did i compose or create it.
if you're not following it's ok, i'm barely there myself -- i'm trying to refer to...
the elliptical shape that certain publishers use
to refer to fundierung
the double-founding,
reversibility,
the flesh of passive
the flesh of active
enfleshed perceiving
the common meaning we contribute
but can't attribute to any source we express!
(however distorted) after the fact, yes! --
either all that, or the meaning you get from "this" act
doubly-enfolded, with two pairs of hands kneading the same dough,
two pairs of eyes weaving the same lOOm,
another Indra's net to sew,
in meaning you give now,
the techne of your reader's mind
and the meaning i'd wish to know,
if i were still writing what you are reading,
doing my best to ignore the title
and to write something worthwhile...

i do wish i could show it to you the way i love it in your own poetry,
but you would know that, already, without my love

without my unpoetic lack of facts, my rhymes.
free of poems, free to flout the literary sea.
free to be unwordly, and let the contradictions fly
"

enfolded in
your abundant legs
i find all the good
things etched
on the surface
of your
skin
like an egyptian
relief painting
you are worth
enough tears
to flood the nile
and re-write the
way the marsh unfolds
like the way i found you:
verdant discoveries
on sundays
and new ways
to say shadane
pragmatic star girl
i add your name
to my mental thesarus
like a new favorite
word
adoring and
absorbing your
lower-case
expressions
like second
nature

Only friendship.
You made yourself clear - clear as glass - that it could never be more.
But as I too am glass, a small shard of me broke off and shattered.
And why did it ignite my spirit to be in your presence, to be enfolded in your warmth
Why, why did it set my heart aflame, burn me with such flammable, incendiary envy
To see you lust after another, to want far beyond friendship with them
Why did that melt me
I was already committed to another, no matter if it was a dry, barren whisper of once-existing love or a forest of endless rain
It was commitment
Yet in spite of this, I continued to melt
Melting, right down to my core
Where I am just sand
Vulnerable, exposed, walked-on sand that could, at any second, be picked up by the wind and taken to another pit of uncertainty
But you
You dropped the empty attempts
And you began giving me your time
You showed me the naïveté that I am, and you took my hand and led me through a dark room
It was cold, and I was afraid
And you could not tell me that "everything would be okay"
Because this was real, unfiltered life you were motioning to before me
And though it was not a fully comfortable realisation,
The cold slowly thawed, from the outsides into my core, my sand
And as I thawed, as you too made yourself more vulnerable,
I at last began to take shape
Perhaps I have a calling
Beyond this fragile shell I consistently run back to for shelter, return to when it yearns back for my unearthed body to be protected again
But I knew better,
That when you molt from your armour,
Its purpose has been used up, and it is now just an empty shell, and it is time for that shell to be discarded.
And now, in my infantile flesh,
I trust that you can be my protector until my new shell can learn to harden
I am still unsure today if it has solidified,
Because I am focused elsewhere
Focused on you
My heart's every beat feels light at the remembrance of you
My mind's every thought a whirlwind
From the dissonance of reaching for you and being tempted to go back under the comfort of my old shell, from the knowledge that these two cannot coexist
But my soul, my soul is nearing soundness at last
Because with you here, I feel that my honest identity is at last coming to life
With you here,
Your breezes blow, but I do not fear that I will be carried away
Your shore arrives, but I do not fear that I am going to wash away
Though it was you who dared grind me down to my initial state of innocent sand,
You have sculpted me, even with the uselessness that I've felt I am
Shown me my potential
And made me a flourishing seashore.

I find comfort in the static of the record player humming,
the crackling of vinyl against its holding
your arms tucked tight around the curve of my spine
and waking up to the corners of your lips widening

this is a sunday morning
that I could relive
7 days a week

this is a feeling
I am near terrified of
but in a way that I need to be

see,
I have never been one for writing love poems
and when it comes to writing love
good endings aren't my specialty

I'm not one for spilling vulnerability
to then have to clean up the mess
after it goes without catching

I'm not the best at predicting future
and letting go
is an art form I am still mastering

I have never been one for writing love poems
especially not for those
who don't stick around
long enough to hear them
but for you
I am willing
to take the risk
to set aside hesitation
for the chance of lasting
to sacrifice my fear of heights
for the possibility of a smooth landing

I don't know you well
but I know you enough
to know you're exactly what I want

so I'll talk about your smile
how your dimples have quickly become
my favorite half moon to stare at
or the way you look at me
like a single star
in the middle of a busy Los Angeles sky

being enfolded in your grasp
feels like sun peeking through grey
how lightness makes itself known
even in the midst of rain

I want my skin
to find a home in your palms
and my laugh
an echo in the crook of your neck

for routine
to settle on the map of your body
from collarbone to knuckle to wrist
making a transparent dent in each earlobe
to be missed by my lips
to crave the caress of my hands
when they have other obligations

and I'll hope
that I can waste
as much time with you
as I intend to
although I'm sure
that any time we spent together
would be anything but wasted
I hope
that we can stretch these two nights into two hundred
weaving a weekend into something we can wrap ourselves in

this is me saying a prayer
the only way I know how to

I have never been one for writing love poems
but for you
it is all I want to do
to listen to the silence
and from it
form a symphony
to take this coincidence
and call it fate
to give out all of my honesty
and hope that you stay

From behind the bars of illusion, I saw a stretch of isle
Enfolded in airs so fresh, holding sun above horizon
Imaginations swelling with crossing of valleys
Thriving on smoldering of love so poisonous
From behind the bars of chimera, I saw a silhouetted soul
He walked besides me in a stretch of fantasies
His hand held mine through the summers of life
Bestowing showers of love every morning
Underneath the starry nights I dream of eternal togetherness
From behind the bars of illusion, I saw my being.

Your lips are like a southern lily red,
Wet with the soft rain-kisses of the night,
In which the brown bee buries deep its head,
When still the dawn's a silver sea of light.

Your lips betray the secret of your soul,
The dark delicious essence that is you,
A mystery of life, the flaming goal
I seek through mazy pathways strange and new.

Your lips are the red symbol of a dream,
What visions of warm lilies they impart,
That line the green bank of a fair blue stream,
With butterflies and bees close to each heart!

Brown bees that murmur sounds of music rare,
That softly fall upon the langourous breeze,
Wafting them gently on the quiet air
Among untended avenues of trees.

O were I hovering, a bee, to probe
Deep down within your scented heart, fair flower,
Enfolded by your soft vermilion robe,
Amorous of sweets, for but one perfect hour!

No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now;
Depart in peace, thy little life is safe,
For I have scanned thy form with curious eye,
Noted the silver line that streaks thy back,
The azure and the orange that divide
Thy velvet sides; thee, houseless wanderer,
My garment has enfolded, and my arm
Felt the light pressure of thy hairy feet;
Thou hast curled round my finger; from its tip,
Precipitous descent! with stretched out neck,
Bending thy head in airy vacancy,
This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemed
To ask protection; now, I cannot **** thee.
Yet I have sworn perdition to thy race,
And recent from the slaughter am I come
Of tribes and embryo nations: I have sought
With sharpened eye and persecuting zeal,
Where, folded in their silken webs they lay
Thriving and happy; swept them from the tree
And crushed whole families beneath my foot;
Or, sudden, poured on their devoted heads
The vials of destruction.--This I've done
Nor felt the touch of pity: but when thou,--
A single wretch, escaped the general doom,
Making me feel and clearly recognise
Thine individual existence, life,
And fellowship of sense with all that breathes,--
Present'st thyself before me, I relent,
And cannot hurt thy weakness.--So the storm
Of horrid war, o'erwhelming cities, fields,
And peaceful villages, rolls dreadful on:
The victor shouts triumphant; he enjoys
The roar of cannon and the clang of arms,
And urges, by no soft relentings stopped,
The work of death and carnage. Yet should one,
A single sufferer from the field escaped,
Panting and pale, and bleeding at his feet,
Lift his imploring eyes,-- the hero weeps;
He is grown human, and capricious Pity,
Which would not stir for thousands, melts for one
With sympathy spontaneous:-- 'Tis not Virtue,
Yet 'tis the weakness of a virtuous mind.

Along a winding meadow way
Circuitous and pebble strewn
Towards a brook and down a *****
As morning sun outshines the moon
An expectation clogs the air
And all about the flowers turn
To face a wave of tidal light
To catch ablaze but not to burn

A dusky fragrance lingers still
And gathers calm as mercury
In solemn spots beneath the boughs
It lies in perpetuity
The weaving breeze is powerless
And banished by the canopy
Abiding there a myriad
Of all of natures panoply

Drift along now deeper still
A clearing basks amid the shade
An isolated paradise
A lonely little woodland glade
Where early spring regains the lead
And ferns uncurl a welcome hand
The nettles bare their jagged teeth
And offer up a reprimand

A dragonfly takes up my path
And leads me into humid heat
She weaves amid the reaching grass
And safely guides my straying feet
Between the rocks and rabbit holes
That litter my vicinity
The creatures in my path retreat
All sensing my proximity

A fallen trunk now blocks my course
Like driftwood on the shoreline, beached
Its peeling bark is spiraling
And pale in the sunlight, bleached
Enfolded in its limbs I am
As if they shaped themselves to me
As though a plan of ages hatched
And formed a place for me to be

**

that He alone - held the lightning in
His hands - was the flash -
that lit up reality better than anything else.

Better than - the Sun -
can't run from - Crepuscular Rays
that brought forth irregular days
to which we - were blinded -
in a popular daze.

the conductor of this -
Splitting Storm - Blue streaks -
enfolded around us -
'til filled - with single-minded Zeal -
And - to seal the deal.
Gave us bolts of our own.

Those who showed resistance -
were shot down - and burned -
in a series of dazzling flashes -
now turned - to ashes

All that is left is a glimmer -
a glint of doubt -
that flickers - unsteady -
till it burns out -
beginning the blackout - that -

Part of an entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of
Darby at Harefield, by som Noble persons of her Family, who
appear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat
of State with this Song.

I. SONG.

Look Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What sudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence descry
Too divine to be mistook:
This this is she
To whom our vows and wishes bend,
Heer our solemn search hath end.

Fame that her high worth to raise,
Seem’d erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
Of detraction from her praise,
Less then half we find exprest,
Envy bid conceal the rest.

Mark what radiant state she spreds,
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting her beams like silver threds,
This this is she alone,
Sitting like a Goddes bright,
In the center of her light.
Might she the wise Latona be,
Or the towred Cybele,
Mother of a hunderd gods;
Juno dare’s not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity so unparalel’d?

As they com forward, the genius of the Wood appears, and
turning toward them, speaks.

GEN. Stay gentle Swains, for though in this disguise,
I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes,
Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung
Of that renowned flood, so often sung,
Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluse,
Stole under Seas to meet his Arethuse;
And ye the breathing Roses of the Wood,
Fair silver-buskind Nymphs as great and good,
I know this quest of yours, and free intent
Was all in honour and devotion ment
To the great Mistres of yon princely shrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful service will comply
To further this nights glad solemnity;
And lead ye where ye may more neer behold
What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold;
Which I full oft amidst these shades alone
Have sate to wonder at, and gaze upon:
For know by lot from Jove I am the powr
Of this fair wood, and live in Oak’n bowr,
To nurse the Saplings tall, and curl the grove
With Ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove.
And all my Plants I save from nightly ill,
Of noisom winds, and blasting vapours chill.
And from the Boughs brush off the evil dew,
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blew,
Or what the cross dire-looking Planet smites,
Or hurtfull Worm with canker’d venom bites.
When Eev’ning gray doth rise, I fetch my round
Over the mount, and all this hallow’d ground,
And early ere the odorous breath of morn
Awakes the slumbring leaves, or tasseld horn
Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about,
Number my ranks, and visit every sprout
With puissant words, and murmurs made to bless,
But els in deep of night when drowsines
Hath lockt up mortal sense, then listen I
To the celestial Sirens harmony,
That sit upon the nine enfolded Sphears,
And sing to those that hold the vital shears,
And turn the Adamantine spindle round,
On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
Such sweet compulsion doth in musick ly,
To lull the daughters of Necessity,
And keep unsteddy Nature to her law,
And the low world in measur’d motion draw
After the heavenly tune, which none can hear
Of human mould with grosse unpurged ear;
And yet such musick worthiest were to blaze
The peerles height of her immortal praise,
Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Inimitable sounds, yet as we go,
What ere the skill of lesser gods can show,
I will assay, her worth to celebrate,
And so attend ye toward her glittering state;
Where ye may all that are of noble stemm
Approach, and kiss her sacred vestures hemm.


2. SONG.

O’re the smooth enameld green
Where no print of step hath been,
Follow me as I sing,
And touch the warbled string.
Under the shady roof
Of branching Elm Star-proof,
Follow me,
I will bring you where she sits
Clad in splendor as befits
Her deity.
Such a rural Queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.


3. SONG.

Nymphs and Shepherds dance no more
By sandy Ladons Lillied banks.
On old Lycaeus or Cyllene ****,
Trip no more in twilight ranks,
Though Erynanth your loss deplore,
A better soyl shall give ye thanks.
From the stony Maenalus,
Bring your Flocks, and live with us,
Here ye shall have greater grace,
To serve the Lady of this place.
Though Syrinx your Pans Mistres were,
Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.
Such a rural Queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.

When Death resolutely comes
Abrupt with his deadly summons

Tarry not like a galley slave
But like a courteous warrior behave

Do not waver and do not droop
As if you are to be hung on a loop

Never dread lying under the dust
With the body in a narrow vault ******

Know, it is only when seeds rot
That fresh and florid lives sprout

So when it is time to go
Strut like an indomitable foe,

With swinging hands and head held high
To be welcomed by angels of the sky

With the music of clanging cymbals
And the rising rhythm of sounding bells

Into a kingdom, bright and cheerful
And a state far radiant and blissful

Where the sun shall never set
Where blessed souls will joyously meet

Where Truth and Beauty preside
Where peace and bliss abide

Ousted out of terrestrial space
You’re enfolded in God’s sweet embrace

A dream has enfolded me on this day.
It appeared like a hallucination,
Earlier when I heard her say,
"I'm going to stop drinking."

It enfolded and then I reminded myself
That hope need be maintained,
For she has in the past thought of herself.
I must prepare for her sinking.

I have the utmost hope,
Whether it be absurd or not,
That she will learn without it to cope.
But until it happens that is wishful thinking.

I will support my mother,
Believe in her always,
Though this waiting makes me smother.
Will she return to her drinking?

My mask of confidence will remain static,
Despite my soul's protesting of her claim.
My true thoughts slip when I'm in the attic,
Aloft and away from hearing ears.

I hope she will come through,
I hope that she is strong enough.
I hope she knows what to do,
Otherwise the night will be soaked in tears.

When I close my eyes.
Find you nearby.
It is just like the real world.
Chilly wind and too cold.
When I open my eyes.
With full of tears.
Coming out of the world.
Where you are special to have & to hold.
Out of my fantasy world.
I miss you and die.
To see you in my life.
I have to close my eyes.
None understand it and nobody cares.
Only listening our story and big cheers.
Just like music tune in their ears.
It is you only please
Understand my imaginary world.
Where you are enfolded with gold.
Where love couldn't be sold.
When I close my eyes
I feel,I am a king.
And you my Queen.
And you fairy with wings..
Holding my hand & flying so high.
One world to another world
No barriers no boundaries..
When I close my eyes.
Sun rays salute you.
Moon kisses you.
Morning wishes you.
Evening invites you.
And night waits you..
When I close my eyes.
For a short while.
To see your smile.
Your dashing style.
Your name in my hearts file.
When I close my eyes.
I lost in my world.
It is too radiant and shine.
Because here you are mine.

By shaffu..

By The Madman http://leb.net/gibran/works/madman/madman.html
In the silent hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whispers:

First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I must rebel.

Second Self: Yours is a better lot than mine, brother, for it is given me to be this madman's joyous self. I laugh his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with thrice winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I that would rebel against my weary existence.

Third Self: And what of me, the love-ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I the love-sick self who would rebel against this madman.

Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught was given me but the odious hatred and destructive loathing. It is I, the tempest-like self, the one born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest against serving this madman.

Fifth Self: Nay, it is I, the thinking self, the fanciful self, the self of hunger and thirst, the one doomed to wander without rest in search of unknown things and things not yet created; it is I, not you, who would rebel.

Sixth Self: And I, the working self, the pitiful labourer, who, with patient hands, and longing eyes, fashion the days into images and give the formless elements new and eternal forms--it is I, the solitary one, who would rebel against this restless madman.

Seventh Self: How strange that you all would rebel against this man, because each and every one of you has a preordained fate to fulfil. Ah! could I but be like one of you, a self with a determined lot! But I have none, I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the dumb, empty nowhere and nowhen, when you are busy re-creating life. Is it you or I, neighbours, who should rebel?

When the seventh self thus spake the other six selves looked with pity upon him but said nothing more; and as the night grew deeper one after the other went to sleep enfolded with a new and happy submission.

But the seventh self remained watching and gazing at nothingness, which is behind all things.

I cannot wait to fill containers with my thoughts and get them shipped away to distant places hidden behind me,
Replace them with a new receptacle whose organic sheen will be a beacon to me in this modern darkness
Where a metaphor can wander free on a range, and learn to be itself
Where new rangers will be hired to scour the tall grass, pull up by the throat any snakes parading as old artifacts
Where new worlds will be built, instead of these failed cities, where famine and mighty winds have kept us from our God-given destiny to conquer
Where the wrath of God will be our own once more, and all within will be pure and flawless, shining gold with the finest inks from all the land, stones of brotherhood and sisterhood stacked within
Where riches wide like Kublai Khan or Charles Foster Kane will stagnate in the basement, gathering more dust for everything we ever duel
All the mountains climbing over people when they reach into the sky and scrape the clouds for their sweet milk
All the deserts flooded in a moment of inattention
The white-hot valleys and dark black peaks enfolded on the canvases of foreign skies, easter-egg shell pieces falling from the stars
Skin of great hands clapping down upon the surface of the sea, stinging flesh and splashing sea serpents from the depths onto the shores of shining cities,
Where young children seek to fly away, and get lost at the precipice of
City life, the streets are shaken, but the people keep on moving, feet unsteady, stumbling along new winding paths leading under basements lain exposed in earthquakes
Underground laboratories sheltering themselves in desperation, they don't know when they'll resume their operation
Satanic possessions buried with the dead and scorched by signals from the clouds that send them sprawling out beyond the old horizon even further to the new one laying vertically against a field of unencumbered time detached from playing fields where rules define the lives of players and their women
Vandalized explosions spreading downward into catacombs where people living in obscurity can see they're just like me and let themselves be herded into tunnels where the darkness is preserved in a more desperate enclosure
Anything and everybody naught but deceiving
Getting to the lessons of our treacherous evening
Watching out for icicles that fall from the ceiling
Knowing that our skin will be removed when it starts peeling
Taking all the batteries so they can't not believe me
Floating all the money down on rafts the beasts are heaving
Quicker down the river while the back seat keeps on weaving
A believable excuse for the aforementioned deceiving
All within the new receptacle which waits for me at home
Believing and conceiving of destruction we pretend to know
When I reconstruct the audience they'll know and start applauding
Now I wile away the time kneading minds in preparation
For the grand beginning of my newest exposition
Where the many riches of disaster and of history
Will stand along with pieces of the funeral we celebrate
On every second Monday of the week of New Year's Eve
And new cases will be sent along with goodwill from hereafter
And together we will party and prevent the next disaster

These I Call

I reach, my feet toes digging into
the soft damp earth
this is the power of Body,
clay and sand and rock
this is the Grounding Point
This is the point of Calm of Rest
I Call North
I entreat the Earth
I acknowledge the Power of My Body
I throw my hands high reaching, yearning
the wind wends my skirt round my staff in Freedom
This is the point of Reason
This is Zephyr and Breeze and Gale
I call East
I entreat The Air
I acknowledge the Power of My Mind
Now I pull my Power
from deep in my core
call and play until it dances over my fingers
This is the point of healing Fire
This is the Power of My Actions
The crack of lightning and the snap of Fire
I call South
I Entreat Fire
I Acknowledge the Power of My Actions
Now I flow in not out
engulfed, enfolded warm and safe
as the day before breath
This is the point of Feeling of
comfort both given and received
I call West
I entreat Water
I Acknowledge the Power of My Feelings
Upward pulled with Luna Joined
With Sky and Moon I am rapt in a star filled bowl
This is the place of Consciousness
I Call a Sacred Place
This is Galaxy, Moon, and Stars
I call Up
I Entreat The Cosmos
I acknowledge The Power of my Consciousness
Through my mind and my core
Through that which makes me Witch
Through legs into Earth
Through crust and deeper yet
Slower it steadies and my heartbeat slows ,
and matches that which sustains us
I Call Down
I entreat The Core , This Sacred Place
I Acknowledge The Greater Life and Web of all Being
Mother Earth
From within now come Soul Spirit
Essence of Life
This is where My Lady waits
Goddess , Ancestors , Guides and Companions

I Call The Center
I Entreat The Spirit
I Acknowledge the inner ways and song and dance
Visions Quests and Dream Times
and Shadoewalkers

These I Entreat and Invite
These I Honor and would learn from
These are gifts to me
from My Sweet Lady
Among these I will wait
In this Sacred Place

Solita@2008

He opened his eyes in a night sky,
Waxed black and fed by dews darkness,
Ebon and incarnadine mists consumed the air,
One hundred ravens in coracinet played

Soft music gliding her pale feet,  
Quivering a flutter she swayed dreaming,
Before his black oak door,
Long his finger enchanted the path,

Fluttering onward in rapture,
The bell rings and rings,
Come dance, dance with thee,
Enchanted ye be

Her naked withering pallid body,  
Of silk and chiffon he enfolded,
Her lips tasting amber and figs ripening,
Coruscating maidens swirled an epitome of dance

Not until she was dark grown repentance,
Renouncing all others,
Only then he shall devour upon her,
A bargain be struck,

Swept away riven by her dreaming plea,
My lady crowned dance with thee,
Beholdeth spelled she be troth,
And the Raven King hungered upon her lips

Forever radiant enchanted black,

── Unto the dance of night, his eternally bound


© Arnay Rumens 2015

One small moment
can be so infinite,
in vibrations grand
as I watch the universe
                burst forth and expand
I sit upon the desert's ground
feeling the abundance
                     of Life, abound
How it envelopes me
          and takes me in
as I become one
with the cosmos,
           stars exploding within
It swallows me whole
into vastness so sacred
for we are all enfolded
across ancient
        frames of time
our condition vulnerable,  
                 souls naked
looking out into this
diamond-flecked magnitude
in crystalline,
                   sublime
For inside that far away,
milky density
of celestial spheres
we are part of the now
part of the here
        and, as the firmament      
continues to move
my starry-eyed soul
        begins to groove
******* state
from meteor's flash
tranjectory arcs
in a second's bright dash
A miracle of
cosmic magic unfolds
before our very eyes---
a gift to behold,
            a spiritual prize      
and as we hold our breath
from meteorite to star
I think about this
concept of far
ponder upon the waves of space
                                     and time:
an axis of fine-woven threads
                                that binds
and know that under
these spark-induced skies
our journeys fuse
             our hearts,
                   our eyes
Our spirits the
reflection of comets' haze
our dance of
shooting stars,
             ablaze

Up until
a few months ago,
when anxiety
had enfolded itself
around my brittle bones,
when the innumerable
butterflies in my ribcage
had begun
to breathe their last,
when my whole body
had been a gun;
the pen and paper
in my hands were
the only safety switch,
and the poetry I would write
had been my only salvation
from the melancholia
of existence.

Raise, for your experiences, a city.
Build a warehouse, down the block,
Where you’ll keep the cosmos.
Build a bookshelf, within a brownstone,
Where some other things can go.
Like the time you grasped a flower,
Felt beneath, felt the spines that
Pricked your skin,
Made you cry.
But that shelf will be revisited many times,
In this fragile, crumbling zip code,
Forsaking more majestic memory palaces,
Because the vision reached your soul,
Through pain,
Of all that beauty, soft, red, enfolded into itself,
On such a slender stem.

Enfolded by your love and care,
I can only sigh .
Oh, to express what my heart screams,
but my voice cannot utter.
Words are useless to declare the love
that your love unleashes within me.
With my life and breath
I care.
I can do no less.
I pray it is enough
to feebly, fumble with the words
and just adore you.

©2000 Michael S. Davis

Each of us has a dream when kisses turn into a vision
Wrapped in mystery and graceful gentleness
We sit until we see more to be certain
That which we see
Is blameless

We linger on until we can see those lips we kiss
No matter where the sun may rise
Knowing not what really exists
When we look into
Their eyes

Enfolded into forgotten joy we behold the realms
Of what could or should happen or may not
Allowing our burdens to overwhelm
And soon our dreams
We have forgot

Our hearts are tender and can be easily confused
Oft times they walk within a fairytale
Yet if one is always anticipating a hurting bruise
True love never has a chance
To prevail

I was driving down an old road this morning, one hand clenched to the handle of a porcelain coffee cup, one hand clenched to the wheel; digging my nails into the rubber. I've always hated driving, it was always a better place to be sitting in the passenger seat, your hand enfolded in mine. Im rolling through stop signs hoping maybe a car will hit their brakes a moment too late. Each road line painted a bright yellow, the kind that reminded me of a sun we used to watch rise off the balcony of our house. I didn't want to think about it too much, it would of brought me back to a better time and place than now but they always told me to keep my eyes on the road. It was easy to do until I passed by this field of yellow daisies, the kind that were printed on the spring sheets we'd wrap ourselves in on the mornings that rain kissed the roof. The kind that decorated the church on the day that I made a promise on forever. A forever that should of lasted longer than sickness can control.
The golden sun grazed it's rays over the old barn where we once sat in hay bails and counted constellations. The rays were blinding, but so was the memory that lit up with them. The yellow dress your mother wore on the day we lay you down 6 feet too deep. The day a rock became your welcome mat. The day I couldn't find the right way to say goodbye.
I was driving this morning. I'm laying in a hospital bed now. I'm sorry that the yellow lights of that truck drew me in. Somehow I saw you smiling at me through them. As I lay on the pavement in pools of red, the yellow lines of the road by my side, heartbeat coming down till all I can hear is the softness of your voice; I finally felt like maybe this is the only way home.

A blank white space of time,
where your words rebound
from the walls of my skull,
bullets in the midst of a
ricochet.

Who am I to give you what you so badly desire?
You, whose eyes are full but dim,
whose laugh is loud and empty.
You come to me with this longing,
this supposed need,
and request from me to drive away
these demons from your
tin can of a soul.

How can a phrase so simple be so difficult to understand?

If I give you from myself,
it will be from the best parts,
and those alone.
The language of my soul
will be yours to decipher.

Can you hear me
from across this drunken spinning darkened room,
or are the flashing lights
affecting your hearing?
My eyes are screaming ****** screams,
the green melds and mixes
and turns to brown,
you say how strange,
your eyes were green an hour ago,
as you sip your beer frothing onto the table.

Do you feel my heart pounding,
my sweat glands opening
in my neck and down my back?
No I'm not used to this,
my body is mine,
always has been,
and who are you,
so special that I should give you a share
forever in me?

Legs open, flowers unfurl,
what's that, you're a florist, you say?
How intriguing.
Hands shaking, eyes closed,
senses on full alert,
and who are you to do this to me,
with me,
this vicious crime against my soul?
Hand upon hand, lips upon skin like velvet,
forehead to forehead and heart rates decrease.
Your eyes are shining poison
and mine confusion.
It's a process to process, I say, and you nod,
and I'm surprised to note that you're still here,
I'm still here,
cars are still honking and the world continues to spin on its axis.

My heart retreats from my throat to my chest,
and then surprisingly,
it stops before hitting my stomach
and falling splat on the floor altogether,
****** and veiny and tired of beating.
No, it stays securely in place,
and as I digest this information again
I notice that you have not gone.

You watch my struggle
and your eyes are so sad,
so full of regret that I forget myself,
my heart,
my stomach,
my fear.
I want to cut out the feeling parts of myself
so that I can say goodbye
to this part of myself calmly and with poise,
leave it to dry up in the desert sun
on a sidewalk next to the dog ****
I almost stepped in earlier today.

You collect myself,
I collect yourself,
what is love without pain,
hello without goodbye?
Fear is a game.

Stand up straight,
tighten your belt,
focus your mind till it's a
sharpened pencil.
Rule yourself and in the process
allow yourself to be ruled.
Feel the warmth
hidden in the frigid air
like a child who plays an
endless game of hide and seek.

Embrace yourself,
allow yourself to be enfolded
into the soul of another.
This is a test of your faith in humanity.
We are good,
you and I.
We are honest, warm,
we are miracles and wonders
walking a planet filled with emerald greens
and far away horizons,
glittery night skies and reflective snowy days.
My soul is aglow,
and yours is as well,
and maybe together we can provide enough electricity
to light a home, a skyscraper,
the whole city of Manhattan.
We owe it to ourselves to try.

So goodbye, fear.

I leave you with a kiss and a sad smile.
You look so lonely there,
naked in the windy night.
I'm sorry I had to strip you down, fear,
and I thank you for what you've provided
until this moment,
but I must leave you now.
I don't want to hurt you but I'm glad
you cannot follow me to the places I'm going.
My soul is home to other beings now,
and I simply do not have a guest bed
for you to lay claim to.
Goodbye, my once upon a time.
My love is now directed elsewhere.

Won't you tell me more
Of  your endless flaunt
With your wings in the gale,
Trapped  in love maze

Won't you tell me next,
Of warmth of your nest
And the shelter you made,
In days when it rained

Did not ye believe then heaven was,
Not in skies but in nest of straws
Did not ye dance in dignity,
To the sound of bitter sweet symphony

And how in your grace you fluttered,
Up to the peaks where winds muttered;
"Seen not such beauty in heaven nor earth
What gave his wings such graceful birth"

In all its pride his wings uttered
Love gave us birth so we could flutter,
Through the days,  storms and gloomy nights
Conquering the unconquerable heights

Tell me now, what befell your wings that grew
And the gentle breath that blew,
Carried ye high, floating in silver skies
Made believe, ye rejoiced a million lives

But a billion lives ye bear
Seconds stretched as light years
Enfolded, grieving, drowning in golden memories
So pretend not deaf to my utterances

Your hand on my cheek
And my cheek rests against the warmness
The blood pressure rises through my veins
Up to my face that slightly floods into redness
Its not shyness just relief
That this fragile body of which you broke the chains
Had been disarmed of belief
And my wandering spirit
That your touch saved with grace
Made my heart beat for it knows
That my soul just enfolded in yours