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}

“Zen By Default” ~ An Outtake

ASMR- Fear of Darkness ScriptWhen night falls, the face of a darkened breeze changes expression. To my concern, once everyone is finally asleep, I still feel uncomfortable. Sitting in the safety of the front porch, I fidget & listen. Sound is more distinct in darkness & as the eyes try to focus on something concrete, the ears fill with the movement of night. In this buzzing world, nothing is permitted to surprise. Poised for some unknown danger, I catalogue each sound, scan each shadow gauging any potential for genuine threat, ready to react. No noise is insignificant & from within this anxiety, I fantasize about defence.

Even during daylight hours, behind a performance of sassy confidence, I look over my shoulder when no one else is around. It didn’t at first but this place scares me now & I don’t want anyone to know this.  Donna & Stephen sense my edginess but dismiss it to intense enthusiasm brought on by watching too many movies. I amuse myself by imagining their reactions were they to comprehend the magnitude of this apprehension. If they suspected how I clung to their presence, losing myself in wave after wave of contact, conjured for self-preservation & validation, they would turn away. We have boundaries, unspoken yet strongly positioned & if detected, these needs of mine would shatter a silent accord.

Sometimes I watch from an unseen place, trying to detect the same fear in one of them, hoping that any similarity might offer the opportunity to reveal my true nature. I watch but recognize no signs. I re-join the group, my talkative blithering enough to deflect the desperate truth.

This darkness finds me locked in entanglements which prevent any return to a world of light & order. When the captain of the ship is lost & not even the winds of chance will stir—this is what chaos feels like. Fears too great to ignore & imagination is unkind in the face of all this empty space.

What do I do now that I’m too frightened to reach the place where darkness is dispelled?

& & &

This part is from the past: I still have courage to take the Stephenson’s dogs for long walks. It has become our custom, this daily hike & they wait patiently until I’m ready. Each morning, after finishing a mug of tea & the first cigarette, I rally Toby & Sally from their posts. Operating from the comforts of ritual, formation is the same—the friendly cockapoo is scout, racing ahead but never out of earshot & the purebred Sheltie stays back with me, barking & circling her great excitement.

We linger at the spot on the lane-way which serves as crossroads—to the left is a beaten path which leads up to old growth forest; straight down the road continues to a neighbour, then eventually the highway. At my indication, we veer towards the trees & excitement breaks them both to race ahead. We have embarked.

The first leg is through the waterway. At this time of year, the area is dry & there is no trace of a creek I’m told bubbles beneath the thick canopy of green leaves in springtime. When snow at higher elevations melts, a picturesque stream forms to meander down the hillside but all I see now is a dry bed.

The dogs dash ahead, noses to the ground, absorbed with investigating the comings & goings invisible to a human eye. Occasionally, they break-off from the path, following a scent too powerful to ignore. A gentle call brings them back & our pace quickens. We are eager to reach the opening ahead.

Past the safety of the waterway, we move into the field jokingly referred to as the “U.F.O Landing Spot.” It’s an area which was cleared decades ago, by a former owner & is distinct because of it’s absence of trees. Apparently, Stephen went through a phase where he was convinced such an occurrence might be likely & this open area was the perfect spot. I believe none of this but the name sticks.

7-themes.comThe first stop is at a patch of wild daisies mysteriously always in bloom. I stop to gather a small bouquet, the dogs circle round & around with intensity they never reveal back in the compound. Their impatience is clear so I hurry. Once flowers are gathered, we continue across the open field, moving around clusters of re-growing trees & stepping over rocks which have tumbled down the nearby mountainside.

We move fast, our pace encouraged by fresh air & morning sunshine. Crossing on a diagonal, we reach the spot where we must climb the steeper part of a mountain. By now the dogs, who had memorized this route & could lead unaided, allow me to loose myself in streams of spontaneous thought, maintaining only a faint awareness of where we are heading.

Movement is fuel for fantasy. In this freedom, the mind forgets limit. I organize indulgences & weigh the merits of former interest. In fantasy my character grows strong. I understand complex situations with an ease absent in the regular world. Inside the privacy of a mind scarred by loneliness & loss, there is nothing I can’t assimilate. These projections take on an intensity that shadows reality & my will is loosened as the grip on immediate reality relaxes. Like waves in an ocean, I splash through levels of awareness in the comfort water provides.

We reach a small meadow at the top of a steep incline. This is one of my favourite spots on the property. I’ve been told by Natasha that during the winter months, a large herd of elk gather on this part of land & this flatter area is a sleeping place. Framed by the edges of old growth forest, the openness allows for visibility of predators & the natural grasses provide a comfort no other area offers. I breathe & space fills with a peace that is savoured like prayer.

We cross this sanctuary & ravens arrive to investigate. High above, black birds, large birds hover slow circles. I call a greeting in a weak attempt at speaking their mysterious language. We are part of the tribe, I assure them through my strange croaking. Sometimes they answer back & these exchanges feel friendly. The ravens are the barometers of the land. It’s possible to tell when something has been killed in the vicinity, for the raven tribe, some forty in total will gather above the kill-place to celebrate. Their swooping grace is offset by shrieking calls; they are the eyes from above & I am comforted by this vigilance.

We reach the end of the field. This is where the mullein grow—tall, slender, odd-looking plants that rise up to flower nearly seven feet, as though training the eye to look up into the towering heights that mark the beginning of the old growth forest. Stepping inside this closer world is crossing a threshold into another atmosphere. There is quiet tension in the air which is unique to this part of the walk, as though the trees can sense our presence.

endangeredecosystems.orgFollowing a path beaten by visiting elk, far below the top branches that block direct sunlight, around thick-barked trunks of looming pines, we slow the pace. The dogs dash less, their investigating more purposeful. In filtered sunshine, I feel a lightness of spirit; I feel protected.

We reach the halfway point. It is customary to stop, the dogs taking a short rest while I busy myself with the continuation of a project started not long after arriving here. A tree which had fallen over, causing the roots to rip up through the earth, had one day frozen me. From a short distance away, it was the head of a dragon, breaking through the soil of the forest.

Natasha’s words came to inspire: This is the elemental dragon—my attempt at an intersection with an invisible world of wonders. This is an opportunity to blend sensibilities, to visualize the invisible beast I fear will stalk my life forever. I want to make it solid, I need to understand what it expects of me.

The dogs pant their exertion as I arrange nearby rocks, collected to indicate the dragon’s teeth & scales. This springs the illusion to life. Over the weeks, it has grown to an imposing figure, standing as sentinel—a menacing gargoyle designed to survey the natural order. This is a creature brought to life from my own mythology, one who will guide to new perspectives in an invisible world of natural order.

kristenplescow.tumblr.com

I work carefully though it is never long before my canine companions become impatient. Satisfied with whatever additions have been made, after placing an offering of the bouquet of daisies at the base of the sculpture & a quick prayer to seal the experience, we head back.

Continuing down a slope that extends through the columns of towering trees, sunlight is layered in fragments through overhead branches & moisture that clings to the moss sparkles against our movement. The path back is always random but a general direction clears as slowly we move towards what is for now, home. The dogs are slower on the return, often lingering behind, wanting to stretch the time away from guarding duties as long as possible. At my urging, they come forward but their pattern of delay is to repeat itself until we are in sight of the compound.

I feel a sense of resignation as we climb the final hill that brings us to the edges of the Stephenson yard. While the dogs race ahead to check on anything they might have missed in our absence, I pause to savour final moments of contentment. There is a sense of calm which accompanies these walks. I feel perfect, Everything is just as it should be in the world.

Then it changes. Within minutes of re-connecting with this environment, the magic is out of reach. Where does this shift come from? How can it stay perfect like this forever?

{Images by: ASMR – Fear of Darkness Script@youtube.com & 7-themes.com & endangered ecosystems.org & kristenplescow.tumblr.com}

 

Fresh Poetry ~ “Moriah Conquering Wind”

www.photoshopcreative.co.ukIn the beginning:
What is eternal
is incapable of commencing.

The clearest segue into a ghostly, hypersensitive
world
follows Ariadne’s thread stretching
without knot or slack
into
the astral representation—it flies with such force!
Strong desires charge powerful emotion
wayward & needful;
fetish is lost in a labyrinth of natural ecstasy.
In such raptures lie the secret
to Moriah’s holy instance but in the spirit
of clean magic,
old & new,
she will need a deeper scheme.

Asking to transcend immutable laws
of nature?
Carried by astral winds across a flooded world,
at the swiftest banks of the riverbed,
a whirlwind lands.
Contemplate the dream: a brief coded exchange
into mystical double vision for
she will
believe it’s next lesson—the same for years
of mystery.
Spoiled in faith & determination
of others,
Moriah settles for participant, swirling to blend
under the wisdom of hidden centuries
a product of furious blood;
the enchanter’s lament:
Time be the matrix where
liquid,
fluid sex becomes a doorway to
sublime versatility for
Moriah possesses this courage not to
extinguish burning desire,
instead resting in all that is corporeal; satisfied
in flesh.
Once spirit is paralyzed & all
power arrives through the lust
of ego, in fevered loins,
she finds higher mystical notes.
To thrust downward,
penetration
must include swift, rotating glides—marvel how pain,
the mother of mercy & knowledge
vibrates.
This is magic as power, used
to encompass the mixture
of dissimilar things,
of a fuller spectrum,
spiced with astral sex & tantric projections which
render her suggestible
to silly superstitions & great virtuosity
in sudden transitions of mood—the price of anchoring oneself
to the flux.

With nets of steel,
Moriah came of age
ascending through all she ever loved,
inside an oasis
of compliance glorious & celestial.
She still hears whispers of souls who
brave
to make right chaos in this land.
To assist in focus, she pulls
backward,
piece by piece to shoot
forward—in retributive form she is
Mount Moriah,
the will of Eternal Nature
whispered by a cooperative commonwealth,
shaping as she has been so
profoundly,
exquisitely
moulded herself.

Snow fairies fly
for the season,
darkness will end
as shadows of starlight at dawn;
that soft light which
comforts in the early hours,
like a dream insisting on reality.
It will take time for the true nature
of Moriah’s crusade
to surface,
for the mystical fan dance
of promise & threat,
an exploration of humanity, making
peace with the over-soul,
social sciences inlaying a magic
of continuity & repair—still.
It is the fashion
of the day to be
distracted.

 

{Artwork from www.photoshopcreative.co.uk}

Maggie

Russell Lee(Maggie enters the playing area slowly — someone peacefully yet intensely lost in thought. In her hand, she carries two dog leads. She reaches the centre of the stage, where almost as an afterthought, she remembers and searches off into the horizon. Maggie whistles expertly, and a moment of anxiety arises, which she suppresses immediately. It is now she notices the audience and smiles a shy look before speaking directly to them.)

Maggie: Mother once said that wonder should be like Christmas decorations or playing cards — it should come out only at appropriate times. In spite of this sentiment, which I never fully accepted, I have been wondering lately about humankind. We hear so many stories concerning noble, heroic folk but is that truly an accurate representation of our species? Are we always so honourable and fair?

(Maggie pauses to whistle into the distance once more.)

My thing is dogs. I have never mixed well with people so have remained apart mostly. ‘Stick with the dogs,’ I remind myself and the loyalty I expect will return in kind.

(Maggie looks down at her muddy boots and makes a small show of cleaning them off.)

I love taking my girls our for a run in the fields but it is spring. Forget renewal, and the majesty of rebirth — all the poetic nonsense. Spring means mud — more than you can bear. Always makes such a terrible mess in the house.

(Maggie stops fussing with her boots.)

As I watch my girls till the empty fields with their racing paws, they raise ghosts along with the occasional jack rabbit. Easter is coming and that will make me think of family. Even though it’s been years since the girls and I celebrated a meaningful holiday together, it still takes me back. We’re all scattered now, across the country so it’s not always convenient to get together. They have their own lives now and I was no different with my mother — worse perhaps but I was quite unprepared for marriage. I didn’t watch much television or see many movies so I had what would be called a rather narrow view of the world. Things are different now, of course and I realize today that if my life had been like a television program, I would have been the one who cleared-up after the pigs and we called ourselves a family. I know animals — understand?

(Maggie call for her dogs again.)

If Mother were a dog it would have been a chow — she was fattish, fiercely loyal but easily confused by the expectations of responsibility for her position at the head of the pack. That was Mother in a nutshell — she didn’t have the guts to do it herself, but then attacked you for being uncertain. I had little support in my early life so I drew from animals, you see and what could be learned from their true natures. Cat or dog — what’s the difference? One is waiting, the other is not. With cats, it’s either love or hate; that endless game of approval and disapproval they’re so fond of. Cats take what they want and off they go. With dogs? Loyalty, all the way. I am loyal that way, like my dogs. This is the animal inheritance accepted at my wedding — dominion and the legacy of slavery that comes from following my husband’s impression of God’s word. My husband also gave me my first dog and I called her Sasha. What a beautiful Irish setter she was, and I fell in love with her instantly but honestly? The most surprising things was that I’d actually been given a gift. Looking back, I think my husband was the type of man who would give me things in his mind and I believe he was often very generous in his imagination but then he would take credit for it as if he’d actually given me the present he’d only thought about. It was a confusing marriage and I spent most of it not moving, waiting for his approval. Reflecting on it leaves me feeling rather baffled, though that is nothing new.

(Maggie calls to the dogs, promising treats if they return.)

More often now, loneliness sends my mind drifting out upon the sea of time, where it flows into the undertow of the past, pulling me to places where I am dared to remember. My memories are mostly a collection of facts best justifying a lot of foolish mistakes and what is slowly surfacing from these reflections is how utterly blind I’ve been. How could I have passed a pathetic existence, ruined by violence, with worry as my only shield? Who can be blamed for that? I took few risks in life and received little in return. Wisdom doesn’t automatically accompany old age and like my mother, any attempt I made to build a family ended in a failure for reasons I couldn’t see at the time. I never knew to ask for help. When did I stop praying? When did I stop asking God to listen and prevail?

(Maggie paces slowly.)

It was after my first communion but before the rage. Rage — you can ask me anything about that. Gentle as a mother’s caress, then roaring up to burn away love and patience. Bet I know as much as anyone could about that. The Bible tells us that inside the four walls of a home, Christian values are best cultivated. Honesty, patience, love of neighbour but nothing sears a family together like rage. Only problem is — too much and eventually you stop fighting back. ‘Don’t be so unreasonable!’ he would yell at me. ‘It shows how stupid you are!’

(Maggie rubs her eyes, as if trying to dissolve something.)

Bad memories. Sometimes on will come along and rip the breath from my lungs.

(Maggie composes herself.)

When I first met my husband, I thought it was a case of animal attraction. The instinctive pull of two separate forces. I saw myself through his eyes and the walls fell. ‘Think of Frank Sinatra,’ he whispered to me at a church dance. ‘I’m just like him.’ If I’d been raised to have my wits about me, I would have realized he was more the last stop on the bus but we are so often at our most desperate when reaping overdue rewards. I was lonely even then and he sent some big plans in my direction — plans for a future I could have barely imagined. He was older and understood the ‘Bigger Picture,’ with an eye for the finer things in life. He seemed loaded with insights into how the world worked and he promised this would give us that extra edge for the finer things in life. He must have seen me as someone who was dying for structure — limp, passive and pretty, with years of slack to give and no aggressive ego to tame. To a certain type of man, a married woman is a hothouse bloom, delicate and in need of careful maintenance. The more precise the conditions of her care, the sweeter the scent of her bloom and no word wets a woman like ‘forever.’

(Maggie calls to the dogs, saying she is getting tired.)

My husband had options — lots of them and it used to make me nervous, all those other women buzzing around. In the end, he chose me and it was my youth — where space seemed open and fine and I revelled in the sense of escaping to something more than I could ever hope to find watching my own horrible family age. He kissed me that night at the dance. A hard, deep kiss that smeared my Woolworth s five-and-dime lipstick. Actually, there was more that a kiss but I never speak about that. What did Mother say? ‘Some secrets live.’ I guess that’s the way it goes. As far as ‘sex,’ I’d been given the impression there was more behind it all but that wasn’t important anyway Mother assured me. ‘Love, honour and obey.’ That’s what counted and Leonard was right there to train me along the many steps of my domestication.

(Maggie laughs quietly to herself.)

Edgar DegasThat feeling doesn’t last long — the one of listening to the radio and thinking every love song is about you. Living it was supposed to be what we were doing — skilled living, where we understood the rules of the game and made them work for us. For that to have happened, Leonard had to remain the same as on the night we met, then grown and matured like a dance hall crooner — shy at first, respectful of the band that lead his pure, clear voice to greater effect but then growing in confidence, until he became a roustabout cowboy, flying over the notes of the music, leaving the band panting to catch-up! My own Frank Sinatra.

(Maggie chuckles to herself.)

If this were an ideal world, the music would never have stopped but early on in our marriage, I became this sputtering, fussing Edith Bunker kind of wife and I hated myself but didn’t know what else to do. You see, my husband could never have respect for anyone who respected him. That was his problem. He demanded loyalty as a condition of his affection but once he had it? He’d turn and that’s why I love my dogs.

(Maggie pleads with the dogs to return, telling them it’s going to rain.)

Men like Leonard always know the rules, the real rules—how cards should be played and how a life should be lived. Leonard was one of those men who was also privileged to know the ‘truth.’ Truth with a hard, capital ‘t’ — truth meant to correct, meant to straighten and I accepted this unconditionally. Everything my husband said was an explanation. I never knew how to do things properly and his approval meant a great deal to me so I allowed myself to become completely devoted to a bad-tempered man. I had been raised devoutly Catholic and my family attended mass dutifully but once we were married — hardly went to church again. Leonard demanded all my faith. Demanded it and then mocked it by saying it wasn’t enough. Is it love that makes one hold all that down? All that pain and humiliation from boiling a heart in the anger one calls injustice? Rage: hot and fierce. It needs to come out but when it does tends to make a mess. In time, I learned to see the violence as renewal. Fresh vows would always fall after the worst attacks and restored faith would erase all doubt. ‘Don’t get yourself so worked up,’ he’d say. ‘Think of the baby,’ he’d say when I would cry after a beating.

(Maggie pauses.)

My daughter — she’s a good girl.

(Maggie takes a picture from her breast pocket and passes it to an audience member.)

That’s her on her wedding day — Emily is her name. Looks beautiful, doesn’t she in her off-white dress? Beautiful but afraid to think for herself. It’s hard to tell form that photograph that she is slipping on a banana peel — a fool in flight. She married a splinter of a man but she has always been eager to learn the hard way. Her demons sent the first husband packing and I felt sorry for him. I truly did. He was a good dancer but it drove Leonard crazy and he was hard on her. Mistakes are the land mines of any adolescence but each one Emily made blew Leonard’s confidence in her more and more apart. She was even too frightened to tell her father to go to hell and he deserved it, he really did that pushy bastard — with his fear and the flimsy nightgown he thought would make a good wedding present. It made her sick when she unwrapped it, the poor child. May I have the picture back, please?

(Maggie smiles weakly and replaces the photo into her pocket.)

That’s one daughter. She is remarried now and the new one barely says two words. My other daughter was never the same after she discovered there was no Santa Claus. I’m serious — she never trusted Leonard or I again once she figured out we were the ones putting the gifts under the tree and got out of the house as fast as she could and married a man completely supportive of her flat, embittered personality. She believed we only loved a part of her and I don’t know about Leonard or if he was even capable of loving but I loved her. Still do but she doesn’t believe that. She went off to school and became the first in the family to graduate from college. The only one to win anything, much less a scholarship to study chemistry. It was there she found the man she believes could give her the love we couldn’t. Perhaps one day she will see differently, but for now at least, she has made enough peace with me to open the path to my first grandchild.

(Maggie holds up a photo of her granddaughter.)

I was occasionally allowed to go for visits and help take care of that precious child. It was like an oasis in the desert of a barren marriage.

(Maggie kisses the photo, replaces it and removes another photo. She holds it for the audience to see.)

A picture of Leonard relaxing on a break from work. He enjoyed his job at the psychiatric hospital and I believe from the little he told me he was good at his work. Being an orderly is no cakewalk but a real man should be self-employed, Leonard always said and when he was laid-off from his job at the hospital, I agreed with him. That’s when the shed went up in the backyard. The shed — the head quarters of what was to be his ‘industry.’ He would go back to his shed to create what was going to be the source of our bread and butter once the unemployment cheques ran out and run out they did. ‘So what’s the business?’ I’d ask him after he come inside from hours of ‘meditating’ in the shed and he’d growl it was beyond my understanding and demand his dinner. You see, the shed was off-limits. No one was ever allowed inside and the girls were, naturally curious but he defended his selfish stand with anger that was like a sledgehammer.

(Maggie put the picture of Leonard away.)

Year after year I waited in the darkness, believing in his dreams. ‘Where is thy faith?’ Leonard would demand and to that cupboard in my mind I’d go, one more time to pour another cup. Faith — I’d write the word, then finger the paper raw. It is difficult to count the years that were chewed through by the weight of regular disappointment but I aimed to show him I was loyal. I met his violence with an open heart. ‘It’s what Mother did,’ I’d remind myself, while the pillow soaked with buried tears. I learned the rules soon after the wedding. ‘You’re the wife. You do as I say.’ ‘Who says?’ I challenged back. Oh — you’d have been proud of me. In those days, I still felt entitled to an explanation. ‘It says so in the bible!’ Out it would come from its place on the shelf, thick and dusty. On the inside cover, written in shaky hand was where it all began: ‘To Effie, Love Grandmother Phelps. Christmas Day, 1923.’ The dawn of time as far as Leonard was concerned and who could argue with great grandmother Effie? Over the years the bible came out more and more. Leonard would make the girls swear before God, with their hands flat on the cover when he wished to test their truth. I would object and Leonard would lash-out. ‘Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.’ Job’s lot, too. Poor Job. I used to pronounce his name like the place you go to work. ‘It’s Job!’ Leonard shouted from the dining room table. He and some friends were having a poker night. ‘What an idiot! Calls him job. Can you believe how ignorant she is?’ They laughed at that — Leonard liked to have a good time and we had a terrible fight about it afterwards. I was proud for a long while after that evening because it was the last time he ever hit me in front of his friends.

(Maggie draws out a crucifix from the inside of her blouse.)

Christ said to turn the other cheek when someone strikes out but what if that cheek is still stinging from an earlier slap? It confused me terribly, and in this violent climate, I built a home plagued by paralysis and fear — paralysis that wove it’s way through the minds of my children, binding us like an invisible elastic of terror. Brutality is a hammer, anger the leveller, the bulldozer of emotions but that was Leonard’s way. Once he got sick though — once he got sick, I started remembering. Then he got sick. It was just a bruise or so he kept saying and he refused to mention it to the doctor when I urged him to. That time, his arrogance got the better of him and that blemish became the site of a long-suffering, devastating illness. When did he start getting sick? When did weakness and depression take possession of his heart?

John Morgan(Maggie looks into the horizon but does not call for the dogs.)

In those times of his despair, when they told him the illness was terminal, he was relentless in his obsessions. ‘In the future,’ he insisted, delirious on the pain killers ‘after the work, there is the glow of reward.’ Not the horse before the carrot, mind you but the understanding there could be relief. If time is the true measure of luxury, when Leonard finally died I felt like a very rich woman. Someone who could finally savour the night without interruption. In the days that followed, that peace of not having to be obedient washed over me. Not have to think of someone else first? Unimaginable. What did I decide to do with this free time, this return of vital zest that had once life’s work so easy? I decided to clean. Got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floors he walked on and bleached the sheets he lay upon. Scrubbing fresh all the grimy layers, I needed to experience the house without him and like any cleaning, once you get started on it you have to keep going because you can see the contrast between the grime and the clean places. Once that is complete, you’ll need to start all over but it will be easier behind the power of momentum. It’s mostly a blur but I remember a moment standing at the sink. While washing the dishes from the small party we had after the funeral — just a formality really, you could hardly call it a party — while I was washing up the cups and plates, I paused to read a label on the dish detergent. As I scanned down it’s clever design, I remembered how housewives used to get wingy about grease. You never wanted any grease on your pates when I first started buying this stuff and God forbid if there was a smudge on your glasses! Today, it’s bacteria and germs that are the home makers greatest enemy and just as I was realizing this, and I forgot to tell the police this part, Leonard’s shed just popped into my head. I put down the bottle of detergent and through the empty, freshly scrubbed halls I travelled to Leonard’s room. We had mercifully slept in separate beds for the second half of our marriage but I knew he kept the keys to the shed in the top drawer of his night stand. I slid the drawer open and sure enough — there they were.

(Maggie holds up a ring of keys.)

I went immediately to find a flash light — the light that would brighten the darkness that haunted my marriage for so many years. You see, I was never to look inside the ‘hobby shed’ as Leonard called it but the crazy thing is that I did what he said. Never once went inside that rotting shack. This is probably going to sound silly or mental but there was an evil in that building. I could feel it and stayed away happily. Facing my resolve with considerable fear, I walked across the backyard, keys trembling in cold hands. Approaching the shed, I carefully slid a key into the freezing padlock, then pushed open the door on the stiff, rusty hinges.

(Maggie imagines herself back in the doorway.)

Inside the room, the flash light revealed an empty space, bare except for some odds and ends and that disgusting mattress. It lay on the floor, soiled and rotting. It was a junk yard of a room and I stood frozen, unsure of my next move in life. I poked at the mattress with a broken fishing net and imagined it burning. Destiny is specific it would appear. and in there, in the stench of that goddamned shack, I cursed the heart that lead me to such a pathetic devotion.

(Maggie reflects, the emerges from her reverie.)

Listen to me — I still get so lost in it all. ‘God hates whiners,’ Mother said and that was maybe the one thing she was right about. Why is it that humanity tends to the morbid? The dogs aren’t like that.

(Maggie once again calls the dogs and finally notices then with relief. She returns her focus to the audience, in a new more confident purpose, building through the remainder of her story.)

In the corner of the room was a gas can.

(Maggie swishes the imaginary gas can.)

Still half- full.

(An idea surfaces.)

Must faith be blind for it to count in God’s eyes? This had been my greatest delusion — waiting for strength from places where it did not exist. My husband was a weak man, who set fires loose in our family and I never called him on it. In that instant, in that icy night air, I looked to the dark sky and saw the promise of a flickering dawn on the horizon.

(Maggie mimes splashing the contents of the gas can on the floor.)

Rage — it is rage that lights the fields ablaze and rage that pumps the hating heart. Rage settles every score and when all is said and done, in that cold, damp, musty air, the pungent smell of gasoline filling my sinuses, I came to an understanding that finally ended the haunting feeling of dread.

(Maggie lights a match and drops it on the floor.)

A small fire at first, to burn the weeds of shame but soon I replaced the even, night-time sky with fire and my own rage. As the flames of the burning shed grew higher, an frozen case around my heart melted in the heat of that blaze and drained off into some invisible sea. In that space, I could finally see — and I felt so sorry for the pain I had caused in my weakness — pain that all the aspirin in the world couldn’t take away from my girls. My beautiful, innocent girls!

(Maggie irons her brow and the moment passes.)

Memory offers a bridge from where we anticipate the future; where we attempt to peer through the cracks in Time to review our choices. It is a limited vision — a ray of clarity that could be read only in the freedom of that dreadful inferno. What was to stop me from walking straight out the yard and down the street to a place where those unbearable memories were more easily digestible? Realizing that the mercy of my own salvation involved discovering what had been sacrificed would require a new vantage point. What if I walked as far as the old highway? What would it matter? There was no one to forbid me any longer.

(Maggie slowly starts to move.)

Mother always said ‘Senility in abundance. That’s the promise of Old Age.’ Mother was wrong in that regard. As I have aged, I have found the key to the chains that locked my heart to a tyrant. Certain now of a world beyond that inferno of misery, I walked away from a jubilee of flames, and this story — my story, which began in such a miserable setting, continues upon the lines that connect to form maps. A walk which leads to forks in roads, as movement provides the balm to soothe a ravaged spirit. I walked following in the footsteps of people who’d lived honourable, magical lives — people who had lead free lives and with each new step, the light brightened by a degree. To walk, is to pray — to step, to cleanse, moving steadily towards the truth.

(Maggie pauses serenely.)

Soon? It’s not like walking at all but as effortless as gliding across a bed of marshmallows. Now? I am greedy for more of this life, like a recent convert, free now to cultivate my own sense of loyalty.

(Maggie looks into the audience for a moment, respectfully and with quiet appreciation, then exits gracefully.)

Katyare

 

 

 

{Artwork by Russell Lee, Edward Degas, Katyare & John Morgan}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Horus of the Resurrection”

fineartamerica.comFor magic there must be
a swirl,
a deep current pivotal to any continuance
of further understanding.
Next stop: into the unknown by
a long jump.
Marketing the rise of a new era,
over-pitched & hidden
in plain sight,
inbred subtle symbols peppered throughout
empathy;
a juggernaught of conspiracy fuel—the vile register
of delusion.

The prophets say it all:
It is a period of spiritual anarchy.
As the flames lick higher,
discontent grows.
For mental sanity, our names need be over
everything healthy & good;
the swinging weather-cock,
the billowing tumbleweed—something that agrees
to disagree,
that works from the inside/out,
all tyranny devils labelled by a
body & soul child of the church,
who rose through compensation culture
empty & marvellous,
the brightest star in the sky—to be succinct:
a symbol is the human
soul,
insists the smiley-faced slave.

Today sees a revolution of identity,
where all may
participate
& various elements compete
for exposure.
Lost in the aimless, reckless, hedonistic irony
of saturated marketing, sustained through
malice & buried privilege; burrowed
inside a phenomena
of faith,
a synthesizing system which lets loose
a rage—marvel at the savagery of
this magnificent hatred,
solid & unforgiving,
rendering us united
in our loves & whirlwinds of mergers
& alliances,
destined to become solid & corrupt—any similarity
is merely coincidental.

{Artwork from www.fineartamerica.com}

 

Fresh Poetry ~ “Pseudo Grandmother Moon”

Max Ernst…for the love of B-sides, obscure sequels
& failed enlightenments.

A strange shadow runs
through the randomness of
instinct; an assumptive layer
of interpretation—a ghostly image
pulled through prophetic channels
by
reflection & contemplation,
driven wild from instinct by
an inexorable drive
to barter for secrets of the Labyrinth,
to take it all back into
the seething clay;
a quest to avoid disaster;
a purified tapestry blessed with the art
of detecting divinity & demonstrating
a bias for
pure sacrament.

Fragmentation is epidemic—who’s mind
is reading
who’s?
Repentance is fear & hope
combined with
any form of goodness becoming
unbalanced
when carried into extremes.
Can nemesis be blocked?
Myth equals oral tradition;
keep all truth for yourself,
those joys of hazing blind faith,
the interior scenes focused on symbolic intervention
but
offer sacrifice to repair the
lonely damage—fakirs, monks & nuns
alike, those conscious souls
programmed by faith—sanctuary
for all who
without admixture of matter,
don’t make it past the state
of modern theology,
perfidious & cruel.

Are you the one who named it,
you ugly believer?
Then you get nothing—ask for
an autograph. You lose
the most infamous instance,
hence the chipped crown,
that symptom of the Apocalypse
dark & impure, wise beyond what is
practical, doubt-addicted
in a place of honour,
full of obligation & renunciations—the secret delights
of calling
the shots.

Who among us doesn’t have
a secret?

Given supernatural abilities,
after weighing the risk/reward ratio,
this world is more eerie
than before.
Think of the many
hundreds & thousands
who
remain anonymous along the trail
of altruistic action;
chivalry of the West
joining philosophy of the East,
fuelling dense Ætheric mental vehicles,
corrupted beyond hope,
knowing
truth only through metaphor, hidden
within
archetype & symbol.

In trying to make sense of
the story,
signs of preservation emerge:
the currency of this empathy is
blue, the colour of Isis
underneath a blazing star—
lascivious scenes spinning concepts
of cohesion,
from control to surrender;
manifestations of will inclined to separate
death from the web
of life,
from a centre pin initiated by the force
of Ancient wills weaving shadow
into armour;
from a thick dark bubble critical
for remedy.

*Enable comments*

The revolution will be looped.

{Artwork by Max Ernst}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Sons of Manifested Power”

Spin Art by KungfumanSpin. 
In this hour of quintessential thinking
the wheel of revolution spins; 
we fasten aboard tightly. 
Questions abound, 
finally come answers through
a visual language, 
a social language — this delight in belief substituted 
for silence. 
 
These types are everywhere but a minority.
 
Sequence versus an ardent will is the true 
nature of history
in anticipation of revealed chronology;
to then write
a catalogue of that virulent essence,
inviting submissions in cipher,
accepting only excerpts where
humanity shines through;
enjoying the pressure of
a golden flow which propels 
unseen influence:
the puzzles of antiquity.
 
This is the power they seek.
 
To understand celebrity one must consider unlimited 
potential.
It is a different landscape; a metaphor for renewal:
the sun is matter &
the sun is spirit,
an old fan
so to speak. 
 
The signals we pay attention to are
part of some illogical fallacy
drawing
the hungry curiosity of an onlooker,
the forth wall principle
people love that stuff;
turned to mind-numbing entertainment, deliberately seeking to discredit  —
the anticipation of a voyeur
lies behind much of what is 
considered magic.
 
The face of evil shifts:
it calculates salary, bonuses, prerequisites, above-market interest;
charities are frauds; 
wolves lie murdered, you might say replaced,
bullied from the temple
to paint
the theory that art is made 
viable once it has entered the marketplace,
geographically metaphysical
gold buys & the power of 
dollars blessing the arms,
the apocalyptic cycle,
all those swampy little tanks
memorizing a new philosophy after it appears 
they all survived; something
sacred to Hathor but retired from acting.
It is an enormous privilege  
aligning moral vision, 
a spirit of fear,
the dark aspect
known as foreshadowing.
 
Sci-fi skies mean more now than before.
 
Two spiritual elders,
just some dirty mystics from a secret society
walk into a bar:
a period of spiritual anarchy
ensues.
Divided attitudes & implausible response—
we all answer to someone; a step-by-step formula,
the impossibility of remaining neutral 
to those in anguish of soul.
 
We are not the clothes we wear; we are not the television we watch. 
Nor the movies.
 
 
   * * * * * * * * * 
 
 Delmais AlainThere is tension in the air, but 
I shall fight this instinct to flee, if only 
to carve channels for
constant stimulation; 
the antidote to suppression, so effective for 
minimizing anxiety.
Leave them to poison & constant complaints; leave them
looking for a mantra, 
communing with Nature,
screaming abusive filth — paying the price of greed.
 
I read your mind: They say the ritual becomes too much so
talk about it then. Share your story with the essential nature for
self-discovery; present in Herculean challenges
with regards to the errors of collectivism; bash, mash, trash & thrash
the old razz: it could 
help someone else with 
the same trouble
put some of your meat on their bones.
Identify all belligerent forces.
Etch
the influence of unrecognized symbol,
permanent war, direct or proxy
never more potent than
when in a circle.
 
Catalogue all evil; struggle to identify forces which result in isolation; 
the infallibility of authority
identify it, 
suggest subtle remedy.
Pull out a camera, do anything
blame the victim’s
previous lack of compassion, 
the symbolism in music & films 
words & rhythm supported by the
echoes of an earlier age. You want to film this?
Mould a sort-of psychic filter 
from this vantage,
this hidden subplot, from the
more preventative: 
that’s the road back. 
Take it or leave it.
Be some rare breed
just trying to teach us a lesson; clarify the aspects of
sumptuous jewels,
thus the ability to continue 
size & involvement in essential enterprise;
varying adjustable agendas
work subliminally with an undeniable capability 
of feeding borrowed outrage directly 
into 
the big pool of Unconscious clay. To tell you something for 
nothing?
All that remains is the endless hum of the inevitable.
 
Build 
the power of cinema using wordless images, 
the neighbourhood of Immortals
offering
fictional experience ground into the imagination;
a transposition of ego into honour
amazing nonsense for the mindless; irrelevant, balanced
emergence from the chaos;
a line swirling down the centre of yin & yang.
Money is transacted;
an empty coffee cup is tossed
into a trashcan.
 
Re-establish the integrity of this world:
science got the upper hand because 
magic does not always 
work.
The law of eternal remedy
warped beyond recognition,
allegories bewilder & distract,
cause one to finger the beads,
to dress in a
crooked tyranny wig,
always cutting to some adventure
worldview established through 
task at hand;
identifying enemy forces as 
an elite mega-corporation
eroding the sense of good will 
sworn to avoid future conflict;
details from different cases weave 
in & out; inconsistencies are spotted 
poison leeched 
weeds yanked out 
more to the point:
Where have things gone so wrong?
 
{Spin Art by Kungfuman / Illustration by Delmais Alain}

Quotation from Joseph Campbell

Joan Halifax“The first step to the knowledge of the wonder and mystery of life is the recognition of the monstrous nature of the earthly human realm as well as its glory, the realization that this is just how it is and that it cannot and will not be changed. Those who think they know how the universe could be had they created it, without pain, without sorrow, without time, without death, are unfit for illumination.”
 
                                              ~ Joseph Campbell
 
{Photograph by Joan Halifax}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Serpentine”

Edward SharpThis memory begins
with decoupage, with
an absolute clarity
of behaviour,
of symbolic manipulation
a context of freedom.
 
Justify exploitation as humans,
as excellent companions — hard workers, patient
at times but ever-present,
even if at the periphery;
media disguised as hallucination,
developed in tight community
where space is proffered to reveal 
hidden truths.
 
Know them by the oaths concealed
dark times, friends &
detrimental to a more constructive force,
often severely misused 
icons with forgotten significance
compete within abnormally active
channels of imagination:
This is empty language
possession of spades & shovels
in light of scripture; 
criss-crossed with magnetic filaments & plasma clouds,
more saturated colors
to escape pain
which only appears at the end
of the world.
History catches glimpses,
fin de siecle decadence,
this tense sequence,
more complex
classification
a cocoon of smoke. 
 
Here’s the motive, the Big Picture
in a colloquial manner
but with heart,
forever and anon,
Stalinized, so to speak:
Cassandra stands at a crossroads,
those twin barrels
smell like they are talking to a deeper truth
a baphomet goat 
when it stinks to high heaven,
historical versus legendary, such
a narrative of compounded secrets, 
of
twisted people blindly serving 
the hate 
laid upon addicting children,
in a Machiavellian sense
Serpent seed!
 
If one wants to know? 
Paraphrases:
“Too sad.”
 
What will become of the prophets?
 
Bingo.
 
{Photograph by Edward Sharp}

Advance to the Purple Tower — Reclaiming Thaumaturgic Properties of the Psyche

LeahtwosaintsThe laborious task of purifying spiritual sludge — *sigh.*
 
As expected, a lengthy process, taking the form of an incremental journey into revealing aspects which pertain to current experience. The temptation to grasp at any psychic thread, thus polluting it with toxic interpretation, needs to be reduced.
 
Directory Assistance: It will be helpful to the cause if when I am feeling vulnerable, when memories are turning toxic & old patterns of persecution start to grind a terror scenario, it will be of great assistance to remember that the process is only working properly if the emotions attached are surfacing for conscious analysis. Under no circumstance dissociate from these instances. 
 
The Aim: an understanding that will render these truths free of the certain paralysis that will arrest them if they are presented with the insistence of dogma. 
 
Once details become too persistent, simply place into a rational context.
 
Handicap: I have never permitted the mutant Super Ego a chance to empty its poisonous bag of tricks, thereby allowing the default to gravitate back toward love & trust. Seeing the totality of this surrender makes me think I do not fully understand what will be required, as I once did when experience was purer.
 
The return to self can be a very powerful experience.
 
This is the point of re-connection. 
 
{Photograph by Leahtwosaints}