Fresh Poetry ~ “The Maidenhead Syndrome”

Jennifer HudsonSeven fires lit cheer
departure by the
for unsuspecting souls; prayers sung to the
stolen sister
for shame of common
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
for Mother Water;
no gratitude for the bounty of the mountain’s
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
Her water makes this vassel buoyant;
makes the journey possible.
She will bring song to
new lands though method remains
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
of her looting & piracy are
vault after vault—the Vision simplifies into
each sphere; unheard whispers
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
for self-sacrifice; secrets
to immortality aroused, then

as above, so
below; nets are cast to determine
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
catalogue of layered
voice; watery netherworlds
through which the
most passionate emotions
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
she comes as hallucination, her dark side
lies & deceives,
auto-tuned to hell.
Listen: Women clothed with the blackest
parts of a sun
shadows past fussy
gatekeepers—for those who
steal from
sacred fountains, future catacombs become
to navigate
without a guide.

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

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

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

{Image by Madalina Lardache Bukov levay}

Fresh Poetry ~ “The Third Truth”


In the flood of all
numbers engineer what is magic
by swift
From such dross,
defined & distinct, dazed bees
from darkening hives; the first piece
of disinformation
will exhaust & deplete
your being.

Even now the last word
be given for
efforts to defeat the conspiracy
of shock words
twist strong forces of
will to serve
the hate.

Imagine a panacea—what else
is forbidden?
Dark hives make rancid
honey—this era of paradox
twists labels & trends knot
lifelong obedience to elastic
minds—we follow but

My crackpot theory goes
like this:
A thing is truthful insofar
as it’s sold.
Sink your point;
end the discussion; pump the flavour
of buttery truth provided
by a PR firm
outlining counter-reformation
by means of
scientific abracadabra.
There it is again: an alchemy
of opposites
minus media to sicken the mind &
our nerves.

Salvation is
Psycho-social agitation,
loose-jointed loops
of circular logic,
avenues we depend upon
for wisdom—the composed final
product melting in the
mouth, making us greedy for
fake peace & thoughtful
propaganda—all manner
of phobias
the third truth—we await final

{Photograph by Arthur Fellig}


Mother Orchard’s Playlist love of fresh air
frames this effort.)

a hundred miles below
at tasks of watching
into foxglove bells,
half-filled with dew—on a good
there is


lightly settled in

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

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

{Image from}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Angels Representing Seven Rays” 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

Suspended above conjuring fingertips,
a cloud dances through
seven shades
of Maya—only the hum; only
this mass. It whirls upon
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
receiving what it

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
to spin, to weave threads.
Light cascades, suspends—traces
of life
perfected to pass onward from
the old gods—on earth,
as in heaven.



Fresh Poetry ~ “Triple Goddess”

Lulafay1) The Sewing Thread

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

2) A Royal Warrant

This part relates to
the moon: After
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

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
of conduct into
In this karma, the spider’s
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
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
birthright through history,
dragons speak—happy-clappy,
123, paint-by-numbers
motivated by waves
of a secret universal

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

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

In hermetic specialization,
the powers & principalities
which govern
formerly your eternal, precious
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

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,
truth—the sweet
fragrance of sacred life.

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

{Image by Arthur Rackham}


Fresh Poetry ~ “Refutations of the Fleur d’Amour”

Leona Carrington - RefutationsMemory strikes like a train;
the shock of an empty glass
rewinds naturally.
That strange summer began
to prohibit desire; sexual perimeters
so the rules deepen which govern
secular behaviour.
The plot here is simple & fun
to write—initiate devout participation;
penetrate the Zen of seduction
onto a familiar horizon
of ambition incapable of retaining any language
but the sensual.


Anxiety-model women express
in worried eyes.
They whisper when others leave the room;
false evidence, appearing real
led by hormones to drown demons in a flood
of pretend emotion—that was what mother
taught her.
As women of that temperament understand,
drama is bad for complexion so
the ego surrenders feudal aspects
of loyalty & faith.

Track the roller coaster: At fourteen it was
a whisper;
screens kept dividing so she punished them
by taking away the light.
When they didn’t care, she organized
a deeper fury.
Toxic in shame; she falls in love
with disapproval.

Is it a fear of failure which renders
so brilliant?

Start of the next chapter: What is to be
her secret name? The spirit name?
Just before the last snowberry falls
into the nectar of dawn,
with the sun of life she rises
to meditate.
Raise the spell of the Fleur d’Amour:
In the passages of memory
she twists like a fading star;
thoughts like fish float through
as the dreamscape of an
emerging soul.

An ironic coda: Power up her sleeves;
from those deep pockets—she reasons
like a junkie,
fast & self-serving,
with all incumbent strange codes & restrictions.
A film of lurid association
covers her when she returns from
the experiments;
a Dorothy already tired of Oz,
more tricks in her than a pair
of foxes.
So complicated she should come
with instructions.
Back when she was living the life, she sang every
song on the radio.
For emotional relief,
she bullies the stereo all night,
a mind blown to pieces.
Wants people to know the darker side
of ambition,
how everyone gets more & more
decadent & before you know it,
they are crazy
for drugs.

This is only half of the tale—her side
of the story.

{Painting by Leonora Carrington}

“What She Deserves” ~ Ursula’s Sad Day Playlist


Salva Lopez

By the water of tears layered
in musical subtext,
like a helmet
this sequence of songs protects.
Songs to grab the heart of a listener;
songs enchanting,
shifting in their manner,
offering a doorway
to understanding.

Music like a helmet;
to have such lovely,
shiny fragments swirl into some
shimmering whirlpool let loose
to heal.

She lifts a hand
to shield the glare & covers
the whole Universe

{Photograph by Salva Lopez}