"grimoires" poems
Lightly airbrushed girls, they tie ribbons in
their hair. Speak of innocence as they kneel
to their own affairs and softly say their
prayers. Skeletons and piano keys,
porcelain, extraordinarily white
and wary to be played, so unlike your
auricular thoughts. Grimoires and cairn like
symphonies, we’re wanting to be repaired.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 2:13 PM UTC
I've passed the space of mortals;
Within the abyss, a hidden path
Entries into sacred dimensions
Summoning,
Channeling my vessel
I've stood between these portals;
Constantly entwined,
Fused with the stars
Figuring out the past/ the spirits
Entering, mentoring my purpose
Haunted by extinct forces ~
Modulating sequences of
energy, forming around me
The key to finding power;
Lost within this hostile fabric
Grasp the relic, seize it's secrets
How did the light commence? Tell me!
Grasp the relic, that which you seek will guide you
Cursed craft,
Conjures horror through
prophecy
Ripped from texts of grimoires
Haunts the mind;
Insight from the lost
I can see
Storm clouds emanating
Rays
Illuminate
My foundation
Break confines,
My birthright iminent
Manifest:
Channel through higher levels
Space and time
Warped by my intention
Transcend death
Awaken the ascension
As was foretold,
Enter the shadow
Dimensions -
Clashing at my will
Star clusters,
Cascading toward new realms
Orisons -
Structuring the suns
Galaxies,
Altering from my plight
Lure ~
Harvest spirits
From realms beyond
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
If I was a witch
I’d make
lavender soup,
with milky eyes,
basil leaves,
wide pink rose petals,
crystal shards,
and a touch of lapis lazuli.
Forget toad warts
or salamander tails,
burned sage,
obsidian talismans,
stolen hairs,
rusted earth
or the eyes of newts
and tongues of dogs.
If I was a witch
I’d make
love potions,
luck potions,
and everything in between.
Take fools gold
and make it gleam
brighter than a diamond.
Forget curses.
If I was a witch
I’d take the blackened grimoires,
drown them in their
bloodied words
and keep the poor
old frogs
as friends.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
Un aveugle au coin d'une borne,
Hagard comme au jour un hibou,
Sur son flageolet, d'un air morne,
Tâtonne en se trompant de trou,
Et joue un ancien vaudeville
Qu'il fausse imperturbablement ;
Son chien le conduit par la ville,
Spectre diurne à l'oeil dormant.
Les jours sur lui passent sans luire ;
Sombre, il entend le monde obscur,
Et la vie invisible bruire
Comme un torrent derrière un mur !
Dieu sait quelles chimères noires
Hantent cet opaque cerveau !
Et quels illisibles grimoires
L'idée écrit en ce caveau !
Ainsi dans les puits de Venise,
Un prisonnier à demi fou,
Pendant sa nuit qui s'éternise,
Grave des mots avec un clou.
Mais peut-être aux heures funèbres,
Quand la mort souffle le flambeau,
L'âme habituée aux ténèbres
Y verra clair dans le tombeau !
467