"momentously" poems
*Venturing out
Into the woods.
Everything behind her
Is in Black and white -
Grey, but with a hope-filled
Blue sky.
Her red butterfly
Carries her transformed ideals
Within - it's always hovering close-by.
With every forward step,
Away from this manipulated
painful reality,
The scenery is painted,
Bringing it all to life -
A rainforest green;
Her sacred canopy.
Vivid,
Ever so bright,
Be it, by day,
Or, be it, by night.
Black and white do not exist
On this side of her world -
There's no grey!
Here, even shadows embrace
The blessed, illuminated,
Brilliant, pure light.
Doom,
Gloom,
And dullness,
Instantaneously banished!
Momentously replaced by
An addictive, elated state of vitality -
A miraculous invisible substance;
She embraces her newfound sanity!
Insanity just vanished!
Her aura
Paints her surroundings,
They are so alive -
In high definition, in full colour.
There are no toxins here,
No sorrow,
Nothing is needed,
Time stands still -
No need to borrow.
All of the brokenness
Is left behind,
She wanders off! -
Her soul
Free to unwind.
Here, she has no fear of heights -
There is a sacred comfort
In all that is phenomenally high,
And so,
In all that grows,
From deep down
Below.
She inhales purity
Into her lungs,
She exhales
All of her noxious emotions,
She sighs with relief,
As she lets them all go.
Sinking her feet
Into the rich ground,
Each footstep brings her closer
To the edge of her world;
This is where she is often found.
Here, she is free...
She asks herself "To stay, or to go?"
The answer, she already knows,
The soft breeze carries
This wanderlust decision away,
As the free-spirited wind
Gently blows.
By Lady R.F ©2016*
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
If, as they say, the cells
of the body are replaced every seven
years, then I'm a new being
since my sons were newborn.
I have died and been reborn
neither better nor worse yet remembering
feeding them while dancing to Moment's
Notice, as they attended with new minds.
Having died, as such, I find I do not mind
quiet living with the purpose of a cell
unbound by minutes or moments
as men know them. There are seven
deadly sins, seven ways of remembering,
seven stages in which to have been or continue being.
None of them recur after one's reborn
and none are known to us from before we're born.
Of the two young people to whom I was born,
one has lately died. I do not so much mind.
Although I do not, he believed he'd be reborn
and who can say what happened to his soul or cells?
Perhaps in Christ we continue being,
or with some other deity, as the churches claim monotonously,
momentously,
demonically and deviously. It seems about as relevant that
seven
rhymes with heaven and rhyming's a mnemonic device (for
remembering).
But remembering
what? To go to the daily discipline to which you were born?
I fought seven forest fires, took seven
lovers, my sons are seven, and my mind
is the sole owner and subsidiary of these memories and
moments.
Unless I am to be reborn
they disappear with me. Masefield's poem continues to be
the most honest and chilling assessment of our souls' and cells'
disbursement. I can imagine stem cell
research may lead to a cure for dementia, loss of memory
about who you are and where you've been.
If one's not been born
this doesn't matter. But if you're being reborn,
in the sense of "he not busy being born is busy being reborn"
(Dylan),
then it is best and most correct to consider your last moment
of a continuum with moments endless and entirely in your
mind.
The mind is made of cells and moments, seven billion of them.
Remember to be born and reborn, early and often.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
momentary tangibility, momentously touchable.
voluptuous experience, an explosion of love
or *****
no rhyme nor reason.
stuck behind glass doors,eternally hoping for
more more more.
locked in and passed around.
visible from hot air balloons, indecipherable under microscopes.
morse code, even to myself.
im on this red painted shelf.
of course, red, but still unread.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
Upon a sweet zephyr
whirled a scent,
something so familiar
midst that breeze,
'twas like warm apple pie
sitting amid a windowsill
wafting delectable
reminiscence of long ago,
children's laughter
full of caramel & pepper,
petunias, summer rain
and hot cayenne spice
all delightfully blissed
in a blast of fragrant air's
momentously fresh nostalgia
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
The fire sparkled a watery light
As the moon soothed time into oblivion
And a faint recollection of yesterday lay dizzy at their feet
Her afterthought was inconclusive
As to whether the cup in her hand
Had elicited an exuberance
Sufficiently encouraging to make her face the dawn
On their playground of broken bottles and burned out branches
The chords of melancholia clung heavy to the night
The sweet sounds of memories they had relived
And strung together into an utterly unruly melody,
Seemed to push the sunrise back
Under the horizon lying looming out of reach
Smoke rising up from the last of their dampened pine branches
Laid a murky gloom over the glaring view of an inescapable morn
The clouds rolling in ****** them back into darkness
Hiding an unwanted future from sight
Allowing an indulging as sweet as the drink
That still lingered on the lips that spoke of never wanting to go back
The rain-burst covered their world with a wafer-thin film of glistening protection
Every thunder bolt momentously holding off dawn
But the fire that had fuelled their careless lazy limbo
Hissed under the abundantly extinguishing streams coming down
The spark that had lasted them all through the night
Melted into a shocking sense of reality
Quenching her parched desire
To dance in the rain
And run towards the sunrise with arms wide open
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
Prelude:
From Fullness swathing, wake left
in wake of...truly, there is no passing
but an Emptying of Fullness.
...Needless to say, ecstatically
vibrating...you have all the blessings
silence can muster.
Could, I would...imbed this sky
in memory, self-proclaim its radiant
blankness upon it.
That I may be what I see, already
in memory of me, though I've come
to know and love...that any personal
touch, is yet an impersonal one.
Bless that which was drawn in, and
drawn out...lay the heart entire upon it.
We are the Knowers of things that stand,
and tilt by degree momently...we are
the Knowers of the last leg, lest it
overstep that which it's overstepped by.
Fit for us, as every other--momentously,
equally fit...the call to life is what silence
took as her deepest secret.
Nothing could wrest this burden from
her hands, for she loves it as her self...
therefore restores what she holds forever.
~Om Namah Shivaya~
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Building steadily momentously Epic
Lighting my stem electric transmission
Mind
Body
Spirit
atoned
Vibrating to a distant realm
My eyes like fire as sensation rises
I am that I am
A soul freed from night
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
A gossamer pyramid of dark tainted leaves
suspended into boiling baptismal water,
releases in a cathartic outburst-
golden whirls of deep, resonant colour;
Transformation begins from within.
Water chooses stubbornly to adhere to its form,
but the vigorous leaves retaliate and
gloriously rise upwards in merrymaking,
chorusing in unity as they are
momentously
drowned out with a splash of cold milk. In the
heated silence of a compacted moment,
a cup of tea is pushed forward into her cold palms.
she sips-
pursed honey stung lips
part with a curious subtlety as
Robust reverberations:
notes of strong black tea, tickle
dormant spheres of her tongue, waking them up
to celebrate the song of new life.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
My exhaustion is picky;
It says, "No, I don't want to do this anymore".
Neither there are reasons nor none why it causes me to be sad momentously, it doesn't even matter.
Just as long as it is buried down my chest until I feel a pang of ache,
I'm sure, tears will be the backwash behind all of these.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC