Fresh Poetry ~ “The Maidenhead Syndrome”

Jennifer HudsonSeven fires lit cheer
departure by the
boat
for unsuspecting souls; prayers sung to the
stolen sister
for shame of common
surrender.
Sea-wind strings,
dissonant under strains of competing
harmony; winds gust
without navigator nor mercy.

Are fruits of the Divine
so small?

 

Leeched from this brackish air,
medieval guilds built a love
of brass & cubits, the wood stolen with no
praise
for Mother Water;
no gratitude for the bounty of the mountain’s
shadow.
Nailed upon the helm of this man’s ship
the siren shivers.
Toxic in paradox she suffers a fool’s
heroics—she is but vessel,
the centrifuge—daughter
of divine breath & great love extinguishes
all fear
of death.

With the sacrifice of saints
yearning to once again release hypnotic
chords, waves
of wisdom’s almighty power,
when water assumes a ravenous present,
brooding whirlpools of chaos;
softly the maidenhead
weeps.
Her water makes this vassel buoyant;
makes the journey possible.
She will bring song to
new lands though method remains
pregnant
with danger; calm thy waters
virgin of the sea.
It is the evil wind she fears—this
chaos to chase away paradox
of sorcery;
every fixed heart—she will sing to
purify their
dirty tides, the uncontrolling
river & bellows
of madness, crying up from a
rushing deep—collapse now into foam;
christened unit.

The sea is vast,
soaring to heights
of worship.

{Photograph by Jennifer Hudson}

Fresh Poetry ~ “A Siren’s Theft in the Aqueducts”

Madalina Lardache Bukov levay(I.) the air is full of souls—show the memory of a
ghost bride. hear moans of this
impatient child, a bearded fish
losing the power to beguile once
crimes
of her looting & piracy are
discovered;
vault after vault—the Vision simplifies into
each sphere; unheard whispers
descend
into plains
of illuminated aspect.

 

listen: her strange song builds adobe bricks in their
minds—a pueblo of shattered network;
of high jacked references which bespeak a
need
for self-sacrifice; secrets
to immortality aroused, then
blocked.

as above, so
below; nets are cast to determine
whether
there is worthy love.

(ii.) a battle in purgatory rages the shattering moment
she realizes the crimes of her voice; she amasses force
that is no
mere novelty; nets are dragged through
foul swamps.

spirits appear unseen to their hosts., wheeling & dealing under false promises
of devotion; slowed by demands of the cult, a battle of Ascension draws nigh.

the siren sings for constant access, to entrap & bewilder hearts of eager sailors who jump the waves,
their crafts set towards the sea’s swiftest parts.

enslavement to ancient song falters; sailors fill their ears
with wax; universal karma falls out
of service.

her therapist is distressed by frequent
references to bi-location. Flesh conquers spirit yet when there is no path back,
she lies.

in establishing new temple records, the siren’s previous
water crimes
favour a disadvantage. waiting
to be cleaned, souls swirl by the waterfall tiled
with ivory combs.

(iii.) An icy breeze surrounds crescent-shaped
objects; in sanctum
13 witches pray over fresh-borne music:
the Seed, an Egg & their belief
in a Renaissance to master
this
catalogue of layered
voice; watery netherworlds
through which the
most passionate emotions
escape.
Listen: Wands of the deacon cross
for protection;
a trio of liquid voices beset the mind with serpents
of anxiety.
Recognize the melody? Into this
world
she comes as hallucination, her dark side
lies & deceives,
auto-tuned to hell.
Listen: Women clothed with the blackest
parts of a sun
lower
shadows past fussy
gatekeepers—for those who
steal from
sacred fountains, future catacombs become
impossible
to navigate
without a guide.

(iv.) The final song begins with a charm to
stop
evil worlds; another network of invisible fluids
connect
to exchange dirty,
invisible water—recycled for salvation.

As below, so
above: that trip back to Taos where she met the
shaman,
a Hopi Indian who swears her in
through
sacred curing rituals, along with the memory
of the oldest rhythm.

In long forgotten aqueducts, the siren
still conspires over the next
symbol; enlightenment
explodes
under the occult influence
of sound.

{Image by Madalina Lardache Bukov levay}

Mother Orchard’s Playlist

www.chapterlilaria.com(A love of fresh air
frames this effort.)

a hundred miles below
at tasks of watching
blade-striped
bees
crawl
into foxglove bells,
half-filled with dew—on a good
day
there is
lavender.

 

lightly settled in

a new moon, washing the
winds while we work
enchanted
to good deeds & kind
words, pulling evergreen
thoughts
from
Mother Orchard’s
silent shadow.

witnessed here
by the waters
of life—we are
harvested
in gorgeous
sunlight.

{Image from www.chapterlilaria.com}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Angels Representing Seven Rays”

www.antigravitychamber.co.uk(Recorded in Akashic)

Immortal by nature,
this channel shall serve
as axis: In the
aether seven disks
circumvent a luminous chord; angels
yet hover on
a stairway between seven
worlds.

Suspended above conjuring fingertips,
a cloud dances through
seven shades
of Maya—only the hum; only
this mass. It whirls upon
breezes,
blows hurricanes
of light & heat, altering night
as day.

Fallen angels collect prayers from
the cathedral.
Seven-fold manifest
of the old rules; those who remember
the antidote to poisoned souls;
each soft wing
illuminated by sacred
fire; each heart in humanity’s
service
receiving what it
needs.

Crowned by seven dragons,
angels gather to repair.
United as the fingers
on one hand; each blessing
of light
restores an overcrowded throne;
this ecstasy embracing all
who breathe.

A shower of rush-lights
assemble,
to spin, to weave threads.
Light cascades, suspends—traces
of life
omnipotent,
perfected to pass onward from
the old gods—on earth,
as in heaven.

{Image: www.antigravitychamber.co.uk}

 

Fresh Poetry ~ “Triple Goddess”

Lulafay1) The Sewing Thread

This purgative connects
to a memory of
the Flood:
I see legendary wickedness; we are
safe
nowhere—cast salt
into the fire & transmogrify
strong passion
into
astral particles. After
years of fanatic stupor,
powers of good
surf
those most desperate & saturated;
a veil of allegory
shelters
staggered humanity, those of us
latched
to the gold-winged
cups.

2) A Royal Warrant

This part relates to
the moon: After
quickening
the birth of wisdom,
once the triad disintegrates,
the memory lives in a wash
of images
calling to shore
the waters of mind.

In such times
of disclosure,
we must hide fear
or lose
forever the sacred
seeds.

3) Message Control

Every time I pass
a television,
people are clapping or
waving their hands
& screaming fever.

What happened?

All across these screens
associative powers sell
protocols
of conduct into
manifestation.
In this karma, the spider’s
supply
of binding silk
is endless.

{Image by Lulafay}

Fresh Poetry ~ “The New Earth”

Creator by WeWork - The New Earth(As indicated
through mystical temperament.)

New life rushes on yonder
horizon: of azure blue,
a watchful eye
swings
from East to the west;
in resurrection’s boutique,
a dragon army rides bearing
distinctive badge.

How shall Osiris
rise again?
Bathe in our love
of sunlight,
any manner of joy.
Twenty fresh cities claim
a sign
of the sun deity;
shadows fall away from
their source
of light;
silence unifies
metaphysical minds.

After the apocalypse
in Eden,
fear thickens time to weave
a blanket covering
past impulse.
To hunt the creature
adorning the forbidden tree,
ritualistic angels weave lines
of light—seamless fibre that strands testament
to the depths of centuries.

Armed in belief
that heaven & earth
align
birthright through history,
concealed
dragons speak—happy-clappy,
inspirational
news-you-can-use,
together-we-can-do-it,
ABC,
123, paint-by-numbers
positivity
motivated by waves
of a secret universal
tongue.

Strange to behold, this world
of magnetism.

{Image created by WeWork}

Fresh Poetry ~ “In Volumes of Sacred Lore”

Kay Nielsen ~ Volumes of Sacred Lore

In remembered history
no memory avails:
from zenith to molten core,
altars of sacrifice;
altars of innocence
purify in perfumed
smoke.

Study ancient mysteries
by the soft purr
of Divine light:
Luna speaks: a sun shines
upon the language
of the Tree Alphabet.
Trace back
original connection, for clarity—where is the
source?

In hermetic specialization,
the powers & principalities
which govern
formerly your eternal, precious
soul,
lie upon delicate pages of
so-called Lost Books.
Inside this commonwealth
of the wise,
patterns are odd, hinting of
encrypted passages
into the cosmos promising access
to sacred
tricks.

Rites of Destitution clamour & crash;
mother-of-pearl saucers
co-join revelations
of spirit,
constructing a future basis
justified towards
dream, vision & ideal—agents for
all elixirs
of the mortal sphere.

Standing across the threshold
of immortality, milk separates
from water;
a circle enshrines profound,
rosy
truth—the sweet
fragrance of sacred life.

Close now in
peace:
By amen it shall
be so;
as it is & as it ought to be—continued
in seamless harmony.

{Image by Arthur Rackham}

 

Fresh Poetry ~ “In Sacred Groves”

www.ukcolumn.org

To perceive is to immobilize;
to freeze.
Stuck in this time warp of tradition,
a war dance sublime
can be heard through yonder
protected forest, with
solid roots in Gnosticism & the influences
of dynasty on leadership skills—how hard that whip
must crack for a team to stay
in line; the very human cost
of war.

It has been reported that
after violence, there is
affinity
between the parties involved, as prior
motives explode into a
shared jungle sensitivity,
which disregards all that is
common or generic.
Travel instead
into fanaticism mixed with blind devotion.
Everyone into the compound
for the practice
of pagan rites;
priests are instructed with specific penitentials,
for it is the glory of the vain
never
to yield to proof of divinity
without trickery.

Are tallest poppies
fertilized
in yonder fields alone?

Fire must burn hot
to illuminate the brighter minds.
Duties are directed; the brethren
assist
with concentrations compiled free
from interruption;
exercises specifically designed
to produce
a narcotizing effect.
Channelled through a rigorous
vetting process which permits males
to bond
behind
a leafy veil;
secretive lore is shared around
roaring campfires;
every nasty thing ever said
in the mountains of memory,
where the air is thin
& participants wait for Shiva
to dance a curative experience.

Repeat periods
of conflict & reconciliation,
when favourite disciples, the best practitioners
of their fields
receive
transference of power through a witch
dispensing eternal justice,
without compass or direction,
energy descends
down
through
the realms of mortal passions,
where oceans teem with life & the mysterious
concepts addressed—power behind
the power; rare pieces of that jigsaw connected;
top conductors of rituals
highlighting
sodomy & semenancy,
bathing in rivers of blood
while ranting, screaming maniacs
complete sycophantic transcendence & ascension
projects,
loaded with alchemical connotations
to establish power
of symbolic behaviour—what shade is evil,
creaking like a cicada
in the fallen palms?

{Photograph from www.ukcolumn.org}

 

 

Fresh Poetry ~ “Engineering Nephilim”

Hieronymus Bosch - Engineering NephalimLet us undertake a thought experiment
to stretch capacity
of imagination: Submerging past
guarded gates & baited whispers,
in this wake
shadows of Eternity appear.
Still in the research phase,
consecrated amongst Masons,
the U.S led coalition
who inhabit Canaan—those fallen angels
lacking precision & despite the mystery,
control is unravelling.

When you know your Bible properly
it is said Giants
from the deep, billowing upward
who
benefit from Universal understanding,
went to daughters of man
like phosphorous fires
of a match on first strike.
Unchartered these children
of the sun,
forsaking the Lords of Flame;
dark-born beings
from their minds masquerade as Star-born,
anticipating the folly
of Adam,
holding a tablet, stylus or scroll—how they are rendered
by this craft.

What people have ever recognized themselves
deceived by fable?

In the rush of piracy
traditional winds are rendered impotent.
After surviving the flood,
under justice broad & clumsy,
devoid of the swift accuracy
of Sequence,
clever minds operate a hypodermic injection
altering human DNA.
The indiscriminate substitution
of pure & applied science
captures public imagination—secrets
of exuberant skulls keep
for
unusually loud symbolism.

The synchronicity clause
indicates that mastery
of emotion
will place universal energy at
ready disposal;
peppered by a noisemakers’ enthusiasm,
resurrection unfolds—the book of Enoch
provides.
Some memories are spotty:
Evacuate the coastline
& blah, blah, blah: you get the picture—
it’s real.

{Artwork by Hieronymus Bosch}

Fresh Poetry ~ “The Neighbour’s Devil”

The Neighbour's Devil - Cecil Beaton

Who we are in public, in that light
of day; the veiled brides who make ice cream
in honey traps;
the hopeful who vow promises
to excellence; who never permit grey sin,
either holy or for penetrating evil—the side
you never see.

 

There is palpable tension
in the house. Concealed in darkness
a fear of Bogeymen,
region by region they roam, state by state
until
nations are unified in fresh courage
to face present & future
challenges.
Nothing is common outwardly—know their cool
by the fires they control.
Connect a few facts, stretch those into
some blanket theory—a lovely way to break
the ice at a party
where
Olympian Gods & Goddesses
argue anything condensed enough to be stuck
on the fridge.

Where else to put the fears
of a society?

Does it stimulate like a cup
of steaming coffee
or
soothe like the static
of a late night television screen?
An unscheduled home is more important than
the rigours of the marketplace;
family wins over commerce—love bombing they call it
but we still search because we do
not find
what we need in the civilisation
of form & matter,
enslaved with blind faith to bottomless delight,
of artful distraction &
careful cultivation—the Grail.

Are you a parroting conformist,
sworn-off the debate?
Put a steak on your eye; a casserole in
the oven, then pray for
everything—the supercharged & their
druthers,
this filthy rinsing by
a culture of winks,
subjects aggressively non-verbal,
side by side there on the sofas watching tragedies
loop
people into television.
Proud of the guarantees,
the creatures who give you everything you could
possibly want; the world assumed
through advertising—a chump’s paradise,
requiring active participation
analogous to the activities which
call to chaos the modern
gloss on special
progeny;
of the pure & righteous,
of those murky honey pots,
of the unmistakable crunch of fresh
ting-a-ling—the death of the sight gag
making it harder & harder to define anything
extraordinary
in a foreign, intoxicating
world.

What channel is that on?

{Photograph by Cecil Beaton}