"primordial" poems
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness
and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything
we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
"The Druids taught their disciples many things about nature and the perfections of God, and that, there was only one God, the Creator of heaven and earth. One name, under which they worshiped him, was Esus or Hesus (“He," in Celtic meaning, "Lord," ) or Harits which is their name for Horus..."
~Julius Caesar from [Signs and Symbols of Primordial Man, by Albert Churchward circa 1912] [Page 186]
"He," -meaning, "Lord," and "Sus," being the most ancient Minoan form of, "Zeus," therefore, "Jesus," means in Celtic and Greek;
"Lord Zeus."
The word "Harits," being Sanskrit identical to, "Charits," and "Marits, Maruts," a mythical epithet for Aryas, or Aryans so the usage of it for his name means it represents him as being Aryan.
Jesus as an Aryan.
*If You can prove it, prove it wrong,
then do so here or do so in song.
If you can also, do it in verse,
then truly you'll deserve a purse.
I do not believe there will ever be,
on this point,
...a mortal man to challenge me!*
Good Luck
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
The moon laments in drones of silence
As tides raise-churning waves of violence
The mountains crest the surface of the sea
Now the earth is free to breathe
Can you see her now, oh Universe
Can you see your daughter giving birth
The formation of stars in her youthful eyes
She dreams of life that can never die
Primordial spirits, archaic stew
Volcanic rapture, lands of new
Frozen tundra of ancient ice
Her organic recipe sustains life
Eukaryotas thrive in a muck of wonder
Upon themselves they feed and plunder
Reptilian brain stems to limbic systems
Complex neocortex to indecision
Now she cries out to the universe
I am tired and now I am cursed
Still the moon tugs upon her tides
As we dance into eternal night...
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
Remember, that chaos first was a primordial deity,
Chaos; the nothingness from which all else sprang
headfirst and heartfelt,
half-naked and handsome,
hook, line and... halibut.
All of this,
every measurable moment,
every particle,
every object set forth in motion
sprang from a void so harmoniously
as if the absence of everything was kissed
sudden
by the presence of something.
Often depicted with wings, a bow, and a quiver of arrows,
Cupid, son of Venus - goddess of love,
son of Mercury - god of trade,
his story,
almost identical in Greek and in Roman
mythology,
his story, about a couple of gods
who seem so inherently human by nature,
jolted by jealousy,
dumbstruck by beauty,
hellbent on immortality,
his story has been hallmarked
as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine
and symmetrical hearts.
Wrapped in tin foil red ribbons
bitter-sweetly sugarcoated
dipped in thin layer of chocolate
taste-tested and lover approved.
Remember that scene in Hook
where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest,
well that's you and that's me--
touch me where my heart beats
because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy.
I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story
with morals
and purpose,
I wanna have meaning.
You might say that Cupid found himself.
You might say that Psyche found her soul.
You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it--
with the clapping.
Truth is, we can never know the whole story--
the complete truth.
Problem is, we think we can
and act like we do.
So the only time we mean what we say
is the first time we say it,
every utterance thereafter is just an attempt
at recreating a moment.
I love you
is a paraphrase
that deserves three separate ellipses
because there's a lot left unsaid.
I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with)
love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a
moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to)
you (and your tidal waves).
And that's where I fell
headfirst and handsome.
I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless
that it spiked my dopamine to a volume
that can only be described as) love
(in that every time my neurotransmitters feel) you
(they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science).
There was a moment in the absence of everything
when I was kissed silent by the presence of something.
Hold me to your breastplate.
I don't ever wanna go back to the void.
02/09/2010
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
I awoke into a morbid dream
A shadow realm of neither form nor scheme
A subdued mirage without shimmer or gleam
A foul abomination
In this nightmarish realm of dread
Weary souls are tapped and bled
Demons feed, Spoil and spread
Like dengue in the hearts of men
This was surely a prison for the mind
Perhaps even beyond even gods reach
A place where dark kings rule and black priests preach
And life itself has been impeached
I writhed and recoiled in primordial plasma
Managing a precise thought in my horror
“Is there not some chaperone
To guide me through this hell unknown
Some charitable entity
To which I could bond eternally”
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
The soliloquy of the night,
what we think as
falling stars and meteors,
make time and space immaterial
in the transmission of pain across light years.
Sitting here alone, a sentinel
to pain's interplanetary travel,
and witness of it transforming
in to other forms, eloquent,
I hear them when my eyes,
acquire a sense, primordial
receive the dark waves
of pain in my veins
a volcano palpitating to blow up
in to fireworks of emotions.
Everywhere eyes could travel, is filled
by night, thick, gooey, agglutinated;
then the meditative darkness,
dreams up a beam of gentle light,
out of its deep transcending yearning,
to speak to itself,to get an alchemy work on that pain
then, the pain itself becomes a haunting journey with words
this ,is how my love, my songs
in the midnight of my lonely soul, are born.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Folds of water
Layers of dirt
Bubbling foam
A vast body
wrapping itself around the Earth
Schools of life
Clumps of Color
This is where it thrives
The souls of creatures
A potpourri of lives
The might of the ocean
The strength of the Sea
No one can match
No one could hardly believe
its ability
to devour kingdoms
Engulf islands and make them its own
Drag them down
Yank them by their legs, shatter their bones
Drag them down
Til they ultimately can descend no more
I can almost hear the primordial sea deity bellow
With a voice so deep
It shocks, explores
and shakes your soul
An immense
Deep bass tone.
It strikes more than just a powerful chord
“Come back to me”
“Return to your mother’s womb, down here, down low”
“You belong to me, my right, my property!”
“Return to the world below.”
“Come back home.”
Under the Sea
What's deep beneath?
The iridescent water
The clouds of foam
Conquered by monsters?
Down there,
Do sirens roam?
We aren't aware
We do not know
Enigmatic waves
Rows of fossils
Caked in dirt
A haven for aquatic raves
A museum holding remnants
telling the story of the Mother Earth
This is the Sea
Take a swim sometime and feel its rhythm
Listen to its story
Flow with the sea’s entrancing beat
I have faith and I believe
That the sea is a world of its own
Accentuated sometimes by its powerful voice or melodious hum
No less mighty than the world above.
Let's keep this beautiful wet world untouched
to keep it as it is, the world we love
©SHREYA DRISTI
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
You are the book written by the mystic eternal,
in sub atomic particles of each and everything
after transcending the limits of time,
on the wings of the thought in the primordial core,
that witnessed the seeds being sowed in the beginning.
I am entrenched in the inner urge of the spread of everything,
the surge of cosmic mind, all the five elements
the Brahman, most sublime, omnipresent,
at once, inert and omnipotent, a feat one of a kind
the waves of music, the subtle "ÄUM" containing all,
even when the symphony begins, and climbs to the crescendo
when self and the Master, my cosmic significant other,
merge in YOGA, the ocean, the confluence of consciousness.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Post-azure, cloud splashed sky,
washes with the suns descent,
breaking into melodies of sunset.
Fracturing into a blush,
the richness of the spectrum
makes itself known.
On a tangent of change,
amorphous clouds bleed
amber glow
and bittersweet combinations
of reds and yellows.
Vermillion streaks through,
and a few cloud folk turn titian,
like sumptuous surreal apricots
rotting in the sky,
that seem to augur
encroaching darkness.
Billows on the horizon
leak crimson,
like spilled wine on table cloth,
and pucker out
like blooms of flaming roses.
Fire refracted
coloured cousins of the sun
are dancing all about.
Here is the anthem
of wild transformation.
Here is cause
for quiet celebration.
Here at this fluent juncture.
Here at the closing of day.
The whole of the ocean below,
is the skies tremendous mirror.
It's reflection is variegated,
into variations a thousandfold.
Multitudinous, and ever differentiated,
distortions of above
ride the crests of waves.
Each apex is a new story.
Each new story,
just as soon as it is told,
comes crashing into trough.
Each finale is the ****** of beginning.
The dynamic roar
of the oceans ever-changing topology
is rife with meaning.
Colossal symphonic wonders,
the primordial song,
releasing upon: the uni-
verse continual,
sending the manifest
to move, with the give and strain
of immaculate design.
Here ensconced
between the safety of light
and the mystery of night.
Here at the oceans edge.
Above, shades of catalina-blue, in conversation
with the outer most cosmic-black
dismiss earlier brighter hues.
Tinged by the infinite nature of space,
the jeweled dome darkens.
Overhead, the first stars appear,
sky transparent to beheld blackness.
Luxuriant, pulling horizon, attracts
violet into it's unfolding theatrics.
Bloodied clouds turn purplish, then black,
a darkening rawness allures,
decaying with vivid beauty,
tragedies of a rouged romance
drug down into shadows play,
searingly alive, extraordinarily actual.
And then, the hush of dusk.
Darkness is felled, like silence.
Scintillating stars
strengthen in the nights
surrounding abyss;
giving radiance definition.
Dynamic Beauty
Lives In Transition,
Oppositions
Compliment.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
Buildings for the most part are boxes square.
But Pentecost circles and spirals,
they turn and burn wild.
Of those who would tame
and make comprehensible any fire--
apt tongues have gone titch titch
and beautiful catch 'til words and music
and parlor diplomacies fortify
much which is untrue.
Fear has no finish, even in our dying.
The path is a cliff edge.
Let us turn, un-adult-like, and strip ourselves
of civilized persuasions. Usher
Earth's children into primordial worlds.
Water shall love and receive us, as it always has.
The naked ground will speak up,
into our touching feet.
Listen to the tongues of the wind.
Unhinge the body, which is you.
Let all creation fly.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
Some might say I'm too passionate and that I only speak the language of poetry.
There is a spirit animal who appears to me and the primordial instincts it values turns on inside of me.
They ask me why I close my eyes when the music begins to play but they don't understand how I completely dive myself into the music.
I fall in love with the simplicity life has to offer and with the complexities I can't explain.
Am I a victim ? because I want more than the normal or am I the one who is still waiting for those animalistic passions to pierce through to my soul.
- C.Ek
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
Raven crosses the threshold
Hawk, a protector and a visionary . . . stands watch
Together: a great change is gonna come
Raven sculpts the formless into shape, awakening
Hawk to an inspirational message
Together: a pathway to higher consciousness
Raven mines the darkness
For facets of light, where our true self is found
Eyes wide shut, eventually leads to our souls purpose
Hawk surfs the primordial forces of life and
Can't see so catches an updraft for improved perspective
Eyes wide shut, eventually leads to our souls purpose
Raven brings the ghost
Hawk brings the quill
Together: Turtle Island medicine
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
I'm just a pool table floating through the cosmos,
a snail racing in the indie 500.
I'm a mess, ******* on dirt, lying in a basement,
the Click! Now that I have mastered the click I can free my mind of all misconceptions.
I'm a grubby snail person.
Dos Bros Tacos,
served with a hard shell.
I'm a cigarette, trying to hold water in my mouth, and you're a jar, trying to make me spit it out.
I'm a vegan, with primordial urges,
a user, with blood rush surges.
I'm matter, quickly vibrating,
an organic compound, slowly decaying.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
Mangled skirmish, of bespeckled olive-green
serpents.
Their sinuous anarchy runs cold upon her
skull.
Caravaggio, you immortalized the *****
immured her, hermetically sealed her within
that shield.
Her reflection was at once the face she
never saw...stoned, she...then beheaded.
I notice you've even painted the shield the
color of her serpentine locks.
Serpents registering her ontological shock--
retentive, entwining, dangling in an odd
curl here and there.
Blood spurting from her almost indiscernible
neck, as if to draw a passable neck of blood,
almost like rays of blood, Christ's pierced side.
Her eyes seem so determined to chisel their
way out of stone, reconnect her head to her
body.
Her face is stunning, an excruciating ferocity
bulking stiff, slightly opened mouth about to...
explode out of her eyes.
Eyes hissing downward, sideways--there in the
pitch black glint of them...a primordial drama
to be continued.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
She swam all over me
and I was fishing in her dreams
and I was fishing in her jeans
for change and sunken treasures
with her pale skin and scales
she sang of the primordial sea
and swelled of the deep
deep inside the levis thin
this leviathan
groaned with pants and moans
and I was finishing in her dreams
and I was finishing in her jeans
So I swam away from her
into the belly of the beast
and she sank
beneath the waves
and left me
in my wake
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
On rising heat, killdeer flush
to decoy enemy--
threat to its young that roams too close
They rush to skim on hayish blur
wailing over wildflowers drying
Fretful twitter in perpetual flight
swifts-- twirl and hurl their bits of bodies--
debris
from a cumulonimbus of a late-day sky
toward a ridge of stag horn sumac
presuming horizon primordial
behind which time and city-- drift and wobble
on rising heat-- after rush hour
Rising Heat
Rising--
to meet my mind
on its way down
from my post behind
the laundromat
where I view it all--
rising--
where I usually go in search of quiet
to almost hear the ocean
two hundred miles away
to strain words from wind
in careless conversation
to wonder over
missed whispers....
But not today
In rising heat, I went down
in search of something better--
your eyes again
solvent for my presence of mind
dissolvers of hours and the order of things
But I need an excuse!
To turn, to trespass, to disturb the peace!
For your eyes again!
And still I need more-- being feverish, weak
Or?
Or... should I take the cure?
To deny ...To deny
To deny what?
Overtones from a sea of years?
I don't know! Whatever it was!
Nothing explain it...
I melt... I'm gone....
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
Oizys, son
From behind the leaves, I saw you, trembling
In your presence, your power strengthening
In the empty, midnight parking lot
While the street lights hummed
And moths danced around your illuminated frame
You turned slowly, onyx eyes of shame
And dirtied bare feet, male hair long and white
The street lights flickered when you blinked and cried bitterly
And I saw, for my first time, the eyes of Misery
Achyls, daughter
You were in an empty field
No premonitions did you wield
An ancient silo in the distance
Leaning over a chasm black lamb
Dark skinned, dressed in black robes
With tribal painted face
Digging earthen fingers into its black lace
When you looked up, I saw your cloudy eyes
Churning of a storm, cataract yet wise
Your lamb had absent vapored eyeballs
The Mist of Death made my skin crawl
Hypnos, son
Secluded in a cave by the sea
A silent, empty place to be
While gray waves crash into jetties
The clouds gather in the distance
Poppies at the mouth changing time in an instance
I go in your palace and rub my cold skin
For pulsing blue glows from deeper within
You, a lanky youth, with thick brown hair and heavy eyes
Sit there with a paper mask
Illuminated by the penetrating glow
In the center, surrounded by whale bones
Humming a song I remember fondly
You trapped me in your Dreams, singing lullabies softly
Eris, daughter
Violates a bedroom with utmost hate
There are paintings of kings and statues of satyrs
Pillows of silk and animals on the walls
Usurping the gold clawed palace
Silent but kicking and throwing with malice
With black skin covered in a chalky white substance
I peek through the crack in the mansion’s door
Lips formed in a silent shout, you notice my presence
Naked and bruised and plagued with no voice
Suddenly stops and lays against a ****** wall
Through your electric black hair
And fiery red stare
I witness a Child of Spite
Woman of Strife
Nyx, mother
I am a crawling shadow of trees
And wicked heart of night
I am the wax on the cold leaves
And the glow of the moon’s light
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
Oh cute little thing
I like your contour
you look pretty funny when you're cold
you get these lovely wrinkles
especially in the middle region
nearly dendritic
more like the cracks in the earth
and your satchel breathes on its own
like a brain if it had lungs for itself
but more like an amoebic celestial body squirming around in some primordial goop
I think that's pretty cool
you're a pink and brown mushroom emerging from a forest of black wiry moss
concentrated around you and
all growing in your direction
almost lifting you up and out
and then further away fading
the way the water gets clearer
above a sand bar
and then a great convergence
a crashing of two great waves
against each other
forming a wall of spindly tendrils
before the whirlpool
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
rolling in the rosy dish of my tongue
it returns in my mouth to
its most basic elements
a primordial alabaster foam
of corn syrup and gelatin
and unpronounceable would-rather-not-knows
i think: marshmallows
are the juxtaposition to my quaker pallet
microwave tap water&Fry;'s Cocoa
awash and dissolve
my saccharine oral fixation
in jealous slurps of heat
that radiate down
down down
heat, you see-
(as a sakura flush
blossoms 'cross the
pale of my throat)
-has always been the key
here's a secret:
in solitude i
i'm a homunculous girl
all lips and all hands
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
Our mother, Gaia, shall never die
Though for us I cannot speak
When Terra does turn her back to our kind
Our might shall seem so meek
Roaring flames do lick her skin
While Chaos’ storms do rage
But Mother Earth will retreat within
And turn to a blank new page.
Zeus will fall when the skies go black
His wife, Hera, to follow when families dissolve
Once the gods fall there’ll be no way back
And hubris will be our final resolve.
Chronus may falter when there’s nobody alive
To observe the passage of hours
When the clocks have all stopped,
Gears unturning under toppled clock towers
No grandfathers left to chime.
But Gaia will live on in sleep so bereft
Long after we’re lost to time.
With no men to wage wars, Ares will fade
Athena too as innovation runs dry
Aphrodite may weep when there’s no love to be made
Hermes, when there’s nowhere to fly
And though our sun will live past our end,
There’ll be no chariot of gold
No homes, no hearths for Hestia to tend
And no music for Apollo to behold
We have long lost one of the faces
Of Artemis, the huntress under moonlight’s reign
And civilization (so-called) now erases
Pan, the wild god, and his sacred domain
What next, I now ask, shall we bid our farewell?
What aspect of humanity lost?
As we stumble along nearer to Hell
Whom shall be the next forgot?
But fear thee not, for life’s most precious gift
is the transience, the temporal nature of Earth
All will change, all will shift
and perhaps a different Cosmos may birth.
Once the stardust settles, a new something to arrive
And we shall perhaps there meet once again
Tied by fresh cords of fate to share new lives.
And all the while, she’s waited for us
Watching and loving those souls immortal
Taking new forms now from different dust
She’ll rejoice and rebirth the primordial
They will rise and then fall and eventually make way
For the pantheon of a new universe to arise
Perhaps not all will look the same--
But close enough for essence to find.
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 3:54 PM UTC
When I first see you, with eyes half-closed
imagining how your thin lips licked the edges of the sea,
remembering the primordial ooze, I think
I have come here to love you.
When you spread your flesh across the table
open your legs, pull at the lips and
make sounds that only I can hear, I whisper
I have come to love you
When you out move everyone I have ever loved,
bring your mouth to mine and in delirium
wash my face with the warm cloth, I realize
how love is tinted with empathic sadism.
When you finally utter my name in the same sentence as yours
as if your ***** hold all the stuff poets wish for
and my fingers find the seaweed surrounding your pink flesh
I know I love you.
Sustenance from the watery underworld
Food
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC