Categories
Narrative Poetry

Cosmic Death Of The Lover

Black white photo of flowers in a bottle, a mug of black coffee, cosmic doodles, and a handwritten note
Inspired by NEOWISE, comet that recently apperead in our sky. I hope that one day I’ll be able to see one.

The girl went on singing
Along the road, gushing
The lover merely speaking
Mesmerized, fascinated, adoring.
The girl then danced lovingly
While the moon shone brightly
And where her skin her body
Became transparent and shiny.
Suddenly the lover was scared
As the girl loved flew in the air
The lover thought it a snare
Standing at the verge of nowhere.
Her body was stellar bright
Lighting the sky of that night,
Singing prettier with all her might
Beaming to the lover a warm light.
Frightened, the lover ran away
Certain that it was a dark fay
For dark ones emit more light
That’s what they say
Thus feared to never see another day.
The cosmic body persued
As it sprinkled and spewed
Fairy dust filled of lewd
For the lover to be lured.
The lover ran and ran and ran
Horrified while it beamed closer
Terrified as it shot nearer and nearer.
She, was not anymore their lover
She was now a blazing flame
A girl now estranged.
Her long hair became a tail
A fiery comet that sailed.
In the end she burned and died,
The malefice away flied
As the lover forever cried
While their day became forever night.

Categories
Narrative Poetry

Our Anthurium Like Heart



All races give out rays of light
Under a sun that rises for everyone
And stars that shine brightly for everybody.

And what about the plants, the trees?
Same too, you see, they appeal to all of us –
We’re just different colors, sizes, & shapes
Different types of body embodiment.

The ocean rests there, extending itself till horizon
For the eye of everyone who surrenders to beauty
And for those that mesmerize at the miracle of life.

And then it dawns on everyone, everything
As our tears look alike like diamonds
That cascade down on those cheeks of us
While our Anthurium like heart blooms in same soil.

I would tell you too of the beauty of our variances,
Of all these mysteries that make us up
And of that blood like magma that streams in us –
That unfortunately erupts oftently, with ache and hate.

I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –

My whiteness, my blackness, my yellowness, my redness,
My coffeeness, my greenness, my contrasts, my uniqueness.

I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –

My querness, my disabilities, my loveliness,
Our weaknesses, our weaknesses, our weaknesses.

I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –

We are only one tiny drop in that ocean of life,
Making one member, linked, linked.

And when I finally go to rest, I return to our ocean, mingling as one.

I love you brother, I love you sister.

                             /

If you see the uniqueness, if you see beauty, if you see intelligence, if you see the richness, if you see the love, in everybody else, then you’ll be beautiful, you’ll be intelligent, you’ll be rich, you’ll be loved, you’ll be unique. These are the magical words I silently repeat everyday in my head – that one law of attraction that I try to practice, though how difficult it is.

Perhaps I am the leaf, perhaps a bud, or the root, that holds on firmly to a stem. Or perhaps a hand, a finger, a tiny cell, a little bacteria – a function of that one body!

I think that the anthurium plant is an interesting metaphor to describe the human race . . . don’t you think so?

Categories
Narrative Poetry

The Sequential Dream I Made Of An Abacus

😩I am busy these days – helping my children with their lessons at home, writing, and masterminding new plans. I made a wrong decision at the wrong time, that is, to subscribe to the premium plan when I haven’t even made a cent online, to inject further in my small biz. I don’t want to lose my .com domain – thus my decision to wait until I am sure that I’ll be able to pay for my premium plan. Fact is, if I am unable to pay for my domain name, this web address will revert to its original subdomain address, and there will be too many work that I’ll need to do, that is, changing all the urls on my social media sites and all the rest. So, I do think that it is preferable for me to wait and see.

i

I try to count –
One, two, three, four, five, six Learning calculation;
Take that one bead I found,
And plus one more around,
There you are, it makes a two.

On my wooden abacus, there I slide the beads,
Red, Blue, Yellow, Green,
Learning calculation.
There pops out the numbers in colours,
In my twinged mind filled with confusion.

These all that gives whats equal,
Trying to confuse my mind even more,
What I may say about it –
I and the world of digits don’t get along very well,
I prefer the formulations
That emanates from alphabets.

ii
The arithmetician tried to show me the realm of all his calculations,
Ideas that intersect to make a web,
The power of the alphanumeric.
But my mind dreams in images,
Which is much less boring than the mathematician’s integers;
But then, what secrets link those that see
Beyond the forms of things. Spit out,
Beyond the numbers. Chewed out,
Beyond the sentences. Flamed out.

iii
There stood I pale and incensed,
With my mind blowing out nums;
Blowing out nums I don’t logicize.
My mind’s nestle the mistake of logic,
Logic that strays into that dreamer’s eyes,
Eyes that’s black contoured of fatigue
And of the concentration to answer
to nullify or equalize,
I found it was all of a nightmare
My abacus in my bare hands
I try to count, dreamily senseless.

iv
The abacus sits on the corner of a desk
The child needs me to help them count,
My bed is still a mess when days break
And my heart pulls out like daunt
Seriously thinking that it’s no fun

I slide the colourful playful beads
On the wooden abacus that still sits
In a little corner of a white office
Whose circled panes seem to miss
Of the warmth of the throning sun

In the end, with the abacus at hand
I teach un-merry to the curious child
Some calculations that seem to bend
Unrevealed matrices that openly hide
More of coming formulations undone

The abacus sits in the corner of a desk
Alongside some books and other carnets;
Carnets that the child curiously open
Happy now am I, till the coming dusk
To read merrily, holding my pen.

Categories
Narrative Poetry

A Letter To …….

Black and white photo of a withered flowered branch on a handwritten letter note,  and pen
When will we gain enlightment?

We are merry-go-rounds floating above the ground,

Little shingles shining in the night;

Foams too, escaping till the landscape.

We are closed cities, yet still pretty,

Sending kisses far away, to another galaxy.

We used to bump each other’s head with bones of Mammoths,

But embraced mechanic, became megalomanic, and created weapons.

We are addicted and addictive creatures,

Easily sprinkled with made up dreams.

We are cells filled of filthyness, of excess of fats, sugar and salt,

With scars that’s hidden deep, deep.

We pretend that we know, but to fend a coconut is knowledge too.

Some of us dream to remain naked, others on the other hand dream of prudery.

We are fragile beings, easily infected, easily affected, easily ruled –

By planets, by pathogens, by tides, by other beings, and more;

Yet we pretend that we are superiority –

The dream of ruling never leaving most of our minds.

Our cutesome babies giggle and cry out loud

And we are able to love, to care, with all of our heart.

We still don’t know who we are, for we are all inflicted with amnesia when morning comes.

Our species is a very clever one, but not yet intelligent, way too material, unaware of what’s energetical,

Thus we burn while we learn, break while we learn.

Look! We’ve been able to materialize that’s what’s only blurry shapes.

We are filled of flaws, of vanity, most of the time disoriented,

We are vermines, vandals, eternal unsatisfied –

We do get easily angry too, forgetting that we are free to be,

Yet, we still beautiful, amazing, and worthy, you know –

Such fascinating living creatures.

We love to dance, to sing, to write poems and forgotten stories of us,

Though unaware of the soul connection,

We are just everything coming from everywhere,

One of the kind, a beautiful find, called the human race.

In such difficult times I always wish that there is something more superior and intelligent that’s above us – guiding, guarding, and watching over everything and everyone that makes up existence. I am not a sceptic nor a believer, I just go along with what I know from my own perceptions… an individualist who suddenly feel shaken by the threat of the Corona virus.

Categories
Narrative Poetry Occasional Poetry Ode Poetry

Sweet Is Thy Beauty

Tomorrow 12 March is the day where we celebrate the Independence of the republic of Mauritius, but all festivities have been canceled. For 2019 I had written nuance, a poem where I describe poetically the different colors that makes up our multicolored flag, and where this time, I was inspired to write this poem from a sentence taken from our National Anthem, which is Sweet is thy beauty.

Glory to thee, Motherland

O Motherland of mine.

Sweet is thy beauty,

Sweet is thy fragrance,

Around thee we gather

As one people,

As one nation,

In peace, justice and liberty.

Beloved Country,

May God bless thee

For ever and ever.

National Anthem of the republic of Mauritius
A volcanic rock formation with plants on it in the middle of the lagoon of Mauritius
Crystal Rock, Mauritius

The sea of that day was boiling violently,

And its sun was shinning radiantly;

The sea bed shook incessantly

As Vulcan made love to the nymph of the sea –

Troubled was the depth of the sea crust

So much, it geysered out buoyantly,

Its dark matter floating upon the sea

Stretching itself wide and large elegantly.

A lone island inspirited of existence,

Waiting for life to grow upon its skin.

And as years and years went by slowly –

Wild winged creatures dropped seeds,

Drifting things ran aground on its reefs,

And seaweeds and dead corals clothed it’s barren landscape;

While the waves wonderfully sculpted

The curving design of a fine island –

Most beautiful curves amongst them all.

And after so many setting suns and moons

A nation of rainbow came to populate the island –

Raising rainbow children upon this land

Thus an eternal rainbow appeared in the midst of the sea,

While you became a city ornated of these bright lights.

And while our bodies became dust within,

While every other creatures decay deep-in

Where our motherland engulfs our whole, our souls –

Regurgitating all of these rainbows

That flow again upon its rough skin.

Categories
Narrative Poetry

Behind A Fog

Black and white clouds
Foggy sky

It had the face of a luminar

Thus attracted me to what’s far –

A gigantic fire, fiercely burning

It’s body, an incensed torpedo

Those flames, a sweet spot for melting

The shape of its eyes, a glittering facet

It’s enthralled chant, a musical crescendo

And like a moth, I died inside its flames.

It’s so unlucky, you see

As to live an illusion,

Running away as to be free –

A slave to these things unreal

Chained to those beings all fake

Wanting liberation from the confusion;

Trying to catch the state of what’s real

Dying to know, for one’s own sake.

How I wished your dews were pure water;

Not infected by a poisonous enzyme

Fogging my ideas for me to deter

Things and places that will never be mine,

I was taken aback by fear, certainly

Undigested feelings burning me

But I am too, an undefined structure

Ready to break out, like thunder.

© Eiravel

Categories
Lyrical Poetry Narrative Poetry

Layers Of Chaos

black and white picture of pens, pencils, ruler, scissor, cutter, and folded papers scattered on table
Amidst the chaos of disorganization

When it’s Dark, I can’t see

The confusion alleviates me

My senses are in dissaray

And I am lost screaming mayday.

A light goes on, shinning brightly

But its rays beam out faintly –

I am lost on my own way

So blind in a world filled of dissaray;

A sound echo confuses my mind

Further again I am unable to find

Where’s the center of my cosmos

Within the layers of the chaos.


Busy With Organising

I am busy on my own, trying to keep up with the organization of my posts and feeds, trying to experiment with days and time of posting. When my things are not organized I am very confused with knowing what needs to be done, and I am quite unhappy with my writing activities, for as long as nothing is working as I want it to, my brain is completely shut off – I am unable to focus further.

Categories
Lyrical Poetry Narrative Poetry

Am coming back to you on a wing of storm

Black and white ocean view
Ode to the mind

A sky teared, opened

A form, levitated, hovered

My body trembled, raptured

Everything around, fell down, so sad

I tried, likewise, to reach

But my mind, ran away, to a beach

But still, our link, unbroken

Our eye, remote, and hidden

I realized, my only pleasure, taken

You were lost, then thought, forsaken

Oh! My featherly soul, I had to find you

Wherever you were, under that sky so blue

Am coming back, to you, on a wing of storm

Tearing, my flesh, to find again your form

My corporeal, its core, was attracted, and gravitated

Around, man-made planets – all, illusions

But now, that I have dragged, myself out

Am coming back, to you, on a wing of storm

Ready to dive, inside, the cosmic ocean

There where, without any attraction

We’ll only float, carried by the current

Until we touch, and remember, what we have been.

Copyright 2020 Eiravel

Most of the time, when I start to write a poem, I only have ideas for the two or three first lines, and for the rest of the poem, I often need to get the needed inspiration from nature, reading, or music, and where, strangely, the poem I write, takes the form of something that really connects to me – as if, I had solved a problem concerning my situation.

Of course, it’s art for the sake of art, but more than often, I don’t know why, but I unconsciously unleash things of a profundity that I wasn’t aware before.

The soul, to me, is the intellect. Before, I didn’t need it, for I didn’t need to think that much, my whole life had only been flesh and corporeal. But now that I need it more than ever… Loll – because now that I need to think a lot, because writing is an intellectual thing, isn’t it? I need to find my intellect again – thus, this poetic metaphor, an ode to my own mind.

Categories
Narrative Poetry

The Vastest Of All Oceans

a wall decor of planets and stars
Sleeping giants

This world ends in various seasons

Our heart seldom break without reasons

And the cloud is so soft, that it rains tears

Right into a bucket above my head

Where it’s filled with sand and sea

While my attitude is a longitude of the sky

Yet my heart is a heavy metal

Meant, to be carried everyday

I wish it was as soft as clouds and sands

But all these emotions it carries, shadow its functions

And my bones crack with each move;

Can there be somewhere in me left unattended

With particles that freely flow and glow

And where everywhere I turn to, are places I know

I want to forget what I’ve seen on that night

And of all the places I’ve been to

Locked, within an amorous embrace

Where we rested, hidden from all sight

While above my head, sand and sea

With all these creatures swimming all free

And that’s when I’ve finally closed my eyes

That I became the water above my head

For I had remembered why my heart was broken;

Why my heart was soaked wet and heavy

And thus, I became the vastest of all oceans —

Hosting the creatures of my own mind.

Ⓒ Eiravel 2020

I don’t know, I just wanted to write and share a poem on my blog. I miss writing things since I’ve been busy trying to set up this new website, and doing all the rest.

Categories
Narrative Poetry

Tiredness (A Free-verse Poem)

The metaphor for tiredness

I am tired for so long, with nobody to alleviate my pain, and the burdens of all my mistakes. I stay into a mental gauge, unfree to decide on my own of what is to be made of me. I see enemies and wrecked soul all along the way, where they stay into a darkness, filled of morbid thoughts. I hate you for imprisoning me, and taking the steer of my own ship. I hate you for what you are, and I hate myself moreto not be able to extend my wrath over you. I am tired of all this shit and brokenness, and I want to go sleep into my own bedA bed made by me, under its wondrous eye. I am tired of all of you and of your wickedness. This game, doesn’t please me anymore . . . You, getting everything, and me, nothing . . . You, the parasite that feeds on me . . . You, that hide me from all good eyes . . . You, that keep taking everything from me. You think I don’t see you! You think I don’t hear you, and you seem to forget what I am. Hence, I am tired, for you’ve taken too much. And now my bones, they are all dried up.

Oh. Wait. What I see there. Isn’t it the gigantic woad-tattooed beast. All bare naked. The companion of vivacity. It is always breaking in. Not to take. But to give. Only to me. As it always says. Vivacity. Strength. Self-love. Self-confidence. It feeds me. Of hatred for all. Of disastrous stories. Of the ones it devours. For it to grow. To love only me. To love only its shadows. Of life. Of aliveness.

I was tired for so long, then it came my way. Breaking barriers and oceans. Stirring my emotions relentlessly. A booster, to feed my appetite of raw meats and blood slicking out. While it goes out hunting, I sleep and make good dreams; I rest onto our hidden Eden. Then, between dawn and dust I am fed with the strength of wicked things. Where it sings horrific lullabies to my ears of the humongous deeds it inflicts to the wicked. It whispers into my ears to keep these as livestock for us to feed on. For its appetite is bold and time is long living all alone. I used to be always tired for such a long time. I was too soft and too cool; Too good and too forgiving. So I made a business deal, of course, with the beautiful beast. For it to feast on those emotions that tie me up, and of all things that feed on my deeds.

And how do I pay back, shall you say Well, I lay into its strong armsIts love for me is ferocious, you know It can bleed you to death If ever you make me cry, Thus, I listen silently to all the news of horrors And it rocks me till I sleep, with its whispers of death. I used to be always so tired For too long, way too long Now, I have a shoulder to lean on One, that take care of me, without taking.


Lately, I’ve been very tired, and I do think that I am really fed up of all of this. So, this is a metaphor for the subject of being tired itself. I find tiredness as being a parasitic thing that sucks all of my energies; feeding on me and gaining all the strength needed to continue growing. And like all these horror movies that I like watching, I see it, as being the enemy that alleviates all my hope and dreams, and somewhere within this negative aspect of living life extensively, something else sprouts out of this body and mind condition. Thus the second part of this free-verse poem, is a metaphoric allusion to the contrary of tiredness, which is vivacity, powerful energies, and raw blood (it’s just that I’ve got some Iron Manganese Copper (😂😂it’s so beurky-beurky-beurk, I don’t understand the vampires… dude, blood is not tasty attt alllll) when I went to the doctor during my recent anaemic condition, and as the good fictionnair that I am, I had to invent some untypical kind of imagery).


I imagined some kind of powerful mythical creature, exactly, one that has a tribal tattoo on the middle of its forehead, that goes into a battle against tiredness, feed me of the energies of the enemies, and giving me back my vivacity, which brings balance to my energy and helps at my rehabilitation.

So, as you all can see, with high doses of nonsense, pints of metaphors, mythology, and all the rest, this poem took shape.

Categories
Narrative Poetry

Imageries Of Fiction

I am currently reading catch-22, by Joseph Heller. 
And I found myself being immersed into a strange 
world filled of absurdisme, with pints of surrealism; 
genres that I have at heart. And I do think that while 
writing this piece, my mind was still planning
into the dimensional space of this book.

“Sometimes, when I can’t seem to come up with something deem as being the norm for writing a piece, I abandon myself to whatever my mind commands during the process of drafting something; where most of the time, the sentences seem to be bits of some kind of analysis I have unconsciously stored into my random access memory. In the end, it becomes a piece rooted into absurdisme, conquest, and surrealism. It becomes pure invention of a genre that begs to become concrete. And whether this writing experiment works or not as to fit the certainty of pleasuring the mind of readers, I personally think, that it offers the evading experience needed to achieve the finality of what reading fiction has to offer.”

Why you love reading fiction? Because of time.

Time! What’s time?

A fiction

A fiction! Say . . .The process.

What’s the process then?

The writer thinks. The writer writes. The writer crafts. Time. Then, the reader reads, and, it’s a story with a start and finish, compressed into one whole book. Time.

No. There’s more. There’s more. Tell. A book. A creation. A subtle aesthetic design.

Then there it is. And what if
What if we can’t seem to feel
That these filmsical skies seal
A spell with which we can’t deal
Hidden under glows of sun
And glows of moonlit beam
Of this one thing that wants to be seen
But still remain lock away behind screen
And where one can only feel its eye upon us
When attuned with it with all of our senses
With all of our mental capabilities
What would have you done
If ever you were all alone
Into a cold and darkening void
Accessing remotely to everything
What would you have done?
That is the question
                      To you.

Categories
Narrative Poetry Ode Poetry

Gloomy Season – A Poem

Mythology too, is a great source
of inspiration to me

800px-The_Wolves_Pursuing_Sol_and_Mani.jpg
“The Wolves Pursuing Sól and Máni” by J. C. Dollman, 1909

It is the gloomy season

Mosses, rain, darkness & cold rule

A noir design explode into my heart

Within my veins streaks of black

Replace the red of my blood

Where the whispers of night causes shivers of fright;

Summoning the beasts of my mind.  

A noir design devours the fiery Helios

Trailing it three miles away

Inside its dimensional chariot

While the gloomy season

Crown the winter emperor of the coronal of icicles,

Clothing it of fur coat & skeletons ornaments

Summoning the creatures of seas

Bloody wars of tentacles & shimmering scales —

The end of halcyon days

Only to rest beside the mistress of seas  

The mermaids chant in hysteria

While into wetlands the cold becomes colder

As the city of lights goes to sleep in tears

Saddened by its failure of setting the world ablaze

In its embrace, boiling lagoons & burning down the trees  

Its, trees   Murdoch… Murdoch

Do you think that the dark would have let you?  

Shooting meteors stopped on track

They become ice, exploding three miles away

And shattering on earth as hailstones on roof,  

It is the gloomy season

Mosses, rain, darkness & cold rule.

We’ve been struck by a harsh summer, where the heat of the sun was at its maximum temperature. Thus, while it seems that we are entering the winter season, I thought of wrapping this poem into a surreal style; with a pint of mythology. 

Categories
Narrative Poetry

– Metaphors For My Imagination –

notebookandsmoothie.png
My lil’sis gave me this notebook that she brought from Paris. Have to say that this is my new favourite one, beside my Egyptian  hieroglyphs notebook.To me, this graphic represents ideas and images that blooms out from the mind, where to me, this picture is an excellent metaphor for the imagination at work, hence my main inspiration behind this micro fiction.

I close my eyes and the night veil behind my eyes seems cold and lone, so I shut them a little bit more, letting my eyelids stretch out their skin. And right there, behind this curtainless path, phosphenes starts to dance, dotting the night, drawing the forms.
 
Clause Cott pushed the man beside her, from the lengthy ladder that stretched itself to his domain, he fell into eternal abyss, bound to start again — was it an abduction, or was it the insanely love thoughts of a mind in love?
Something behind seems to push my mind towards a screen inwards, where whom is observing seems like an alien wavelength of 10-millions-and-billions of endless light-years. Phosphenes and dark are  the designs of immaterial images, formed from the essence of my own experience.
 
Clause Cott took her by the hand and showed her his realm, a realm filled of intermingled thin cables, and lengthy-like-file-cabinets filled of flashing small lights.
Something spurs right into my mind, an abstract idea filled of the imagination of what seems to be to me, and of the stories that writes itself on a night canvas filled of excited phophenes — joyful of running away from a galaxy cluster, to become shooting stars into a mind that blossoms from nebula-dews.
 
“I knew you would come, so I made this bigger sleeping cove,” Clause Cott gently said, as he laid her by his side, kissing her naked shoulders.
Evasion, always evasion that partakes my mind, too imprisoned into these clusters of unfilled brains and nightmarish dreams of conquer and freedom. My imagination flies onto wishing-wells, to mingle into pen-ink and digital-codes, morphing into writings, that fills my heart with happiness and beauties.
Come, I’ll show you something.” Clause Cott took her hands and led her to another chamber, throned with a gigantic plasma globe, shooting lights into  every-way, inside of a glass prison, that rages to set itself free.
The first alphabet sets the playground for my imagination, where the stories become concrete, where my words become the witness of my existence, where everything for once seems to be under my control.
 
“You’ll see what happens when I plug to this globe.” Suddenly Clause Cott went under seizure, as his blue eyes completely turned static.
“Imagination is the only weapon against the war of reality”, and as in Alice in wonderland, my mind keeps pathing its way deeper, far away from this cold void, more and more into the warming light, coming to me, shading those black mirrors that fakes eternal spins.
 
Suddenly, out of her pocket, a mini laser beam, that she shot till the plasma globe. Lightnings were set free, where they streaked into every ways, stretching further and farther. Clause Cott disconnected, his eyes becoming normal again. He looked at her, and she was smiling, and to him, she looked more beautiful than she ever did.
I unwrap from self to become myself, far away from those judging eyes and hearts, into a sphere made of self-love there can’t be hate for the others, so I back-end my way and continue towards further and farther into my stretched imagination.
 
“I had to do it… I had to, they were too sad into this prison,” she said happily. Suddenly all of the thunder-lights wrapped both of them, flying them up into the darkness.
 
“See, I command them, and nothing that you might do or say, cannot  appear ugly to me… I know, for every inch of you is beautiful to me,” Clause Cott said, as he made the lights dance with his magic-wand finger.
At night I often dream that I am phosphenes dancing into other worlds, morphing nightmares into papers, weaving forms and shapes into stories, into which I escape, only for some minutes, only for some hours.
-To all those who dare to dream, continue dreaming, perhaps I might find you, in between those times that suspend – 
Categories
Narrative Poetry

Materialisation

Immaculate canvas —
Awaited for brushstrokes
Like a lover waiting for love
Like a pen in need of use
Like a mould wanting to shape,
Expressions and Abstractions
Materialising from minds
To come alive into existence
To exist, to make you see —
Invisible information, invisible lessons
– Invisible instructions
Focusing elements of life
Begging to be seen through detailed intellect
Deciphering the beauty that’s ours
Detailing the truth that’s ours
His hand draws contours
And bits of remembrance
Comes back each time
The mind creates from genuine self
Lugubriousness materialises
To scream out to us —
That we remembered.

Artworks of every type have always been of great inspiration for me

Today I was inspired to write this poem when an artwork by Paul Klee appeared on Google Doodles. The painting was so striking to me that it kindled my imagination. Have to say that artworks created genuinely always catches my attention, which brings out-forth my fascination for the creator of the work.

Categories
Narrative Poetry

Deep Down In The Forest

This piece is from an old poetry notebook. I think that formerly posted it on other websites through my old account… but nevermind, here it is again:

Deep down in the forest I looked for you
Deep Down In The Forest
I heard you calling my name...
Deep down in the forest I found you
Deep down in the forest you were in agony
Deep down in the forest I took you in my arms,
And there deep in the woods shall my lover always rest.
Categories
Narrative Poetry

Specimen

The moiras — the three goddesses of fate
I am not a simple person —
I rest my mind into other dimensions
Housed by some kind of alienated specimen
That talks to me as I sleep,
And that disperse as soon as the light shows its face;
I swim into some seas
That look like seaweeds and algae,
Of some sort of sandy past
That sticks into hairs and skin.
I play around on my paddling wheelbarrow boat,
Spun like a thread in the hands of the Moira
And my soldier of fate installs bitter thoughts
Into my heart, as if a reminder
Of my cruel designation as a mortal
Which imprisons gazillions of old atoms.
They travel into their own space universe
Aware of the tricks they play
Of the trouble they cause for a cause
And of the fear they instill into hearts and soul
As they childishly play with that skin I despise.
And as soon as when the light comes shining
On that part of my earth
I say to them goodbye
And we become mortals again... until then...
 
Categories
Narrative Poetry

αρχή

Beginning

 
Into this cave as deep as the ocean
I found a heart as large as space;
Corner stoned by glitters,
Mingled to the colors of the gaseous nebula

Waves of love from galactic particles 
Sublimates my mind & seduces me to be
 
Atomic beings birthed from the origin day
Beseech me to transmogrify the skin I live in
 
We dance in my mind & talk of worlds 
That could be ours — of worlds to create
 
And I defy your mortal laws —
I swim into forbidden seas 
& elevate my mind higher to them
 
Can you see my atoms that plays around?
Can you see us, can you see yourself
 
Now, wake and create — we were waiting for you. 
Categories
Lyrical Poetry Narrative Poetry

Sentimental Epiphanies

a pair of flip-flops on the beach
At the beach on a peaceful day
Strange and odd and eerie -
Just like a season 
I once knew . . . oh so well,
There where sentiments seemed sentient 
And the hours — eternal
As I longed across the rivage
Heavy hearten with epiphanies 
Of the wonderful — over waters
And under a sky not so blue
And walking on granular soils;
I waved signals to a wishing well
Eyes instilled of death and of life
Sentimental epiphanies 
Stirs the remembrance of thy shape
And I remembered of that season 
I knew . . . oh so well. 

Categories
Narrative Poetry

Aeternus

Come run with me under a sepian sky 
Here where things belong to eternity
Thriving to make sense of its own existence 
So as to exist into plurality

Plunge with me into neotic waves 
That takes place into a clear space
Swim with me amongst fractals of light 
That crashes into one another
To thrill your spark

And at the dawn of our species 
Let us rise higher 
Than that of what defines us here
 
“The clock stopped on horrific issues – 
Bounded like soporific smokes 
Through argented twinkled stars”
 
I made my way through the clusters of mind 
Searching for the intelligence that leads me

I looked into them 
And they looked into me 
And there… 
I’ve seen my own mind 
into fractals of light. 
Categories
Lyrical Poetry Narrative Poetry

Elysian Field

Orchids and crimson fountain-grass along a wall made out of stone
Orchids and crimson fountain-grass on a very sunny day
  The sky of my hell had opened,  
And inside of it grew flowers that I liked — 
My bluebells and forgive-me-nots, 
My roses and my orchids —
Of all colors and of all scents
Blooming into all areas of what I am,
Making me beautiful into the inside;
Making me radiant to the outside.
   It was my flowering sky
My inferno and my Elysian field
Trapped inside of my own mind
Forever running away from the cluster —
Those that hate yourself, 
Those that enslave yourself, 
Those that can't understand,

They are burning down my Elysian field, 
But in my head it is a flowering sky.