Taste your sacredness.

Do not seek to be Sacred,
no need seeking fulfilling;
you are full.
A sturdy bucket of
tenderness, drawn up
the dark way of the well.
Honour the treasure
turned from the shadow
of seeking to find.
Something or no thing
lifts the divine in you.
As light compels you to
aspire to that which reveals
the very best of you.
Claim your power;
freedom is, love is,
joy is, freedom…
All is set in place
before the altar
of this being,
this you, who
created illusion of you.
The delusional sweet
and bitter taste of feeling, 

‘If only’.
You are the cup.
The chalice is full;

taste your sacredness.

I am Drunk

green beltane.jpgI’m drunk, I’m really drunk. Not any old drunk,
I’m not punch drunk, or drunk as a skunk
I’m Beltane drunk

I’m dizzy on the heady scent of late night blossom,
I’m giddy on the sweet salty smell of the ocean
Last night I put on my best red Beltane dress,
and I’m afraid I got into a bit of a mess.
We danced around the Bel fires
and felt the hot rising of desire.
I woke up to find a green man in my room!
I had to get up early to wash myself in the dew.
Well when a green man has the horn,
what’s a girl to do?
I don’t often get that drunk,
maybe once a year when winter’s done,
because Beltane drunk is the best kind of drunk.

Poetry in a unique community – 27

poetry take away.jpg

We are rooted in the heart of our community,
connected with our history,
of what was created here before us.
We are finding that which feeds us.

Our branches reach out for one another
father to son, daughter to mother,
misters and missus and not specific,
middle aged, younger and older,
all standing strong, shoulder to shoulder.

Together we are sowing seeds,
like a forest of magnificent trees,
like leaves floating on the breeze,
Each one of us is a unique story,
together we are Community.

Poisoned Apples – #Napowrimo 26

apple icon.jpg

Since the dawn of man,
the apple has been eaten,
divested from the garden,
ingested with poison,
turned into a tool of wickedness
and sweet hot apple pie.

Five black magical seeds
hidden in white flesh,
wrapped tightly in red skin
as if to hold the magic in.
From blossom to fullness
the apple inspired.

The first fruit taken by woman
twisted into a chewed core
of what she was before
the pomegranate transformed,
forever more to be
grossly misappropriated.

The gravity of the situation
should not be understated,
this rose tinted fall of man,
ripened full to fall again,
Seeding in Issac Newton,
a scientist of notable influence,
universal gravitation and a deeper
understanding of planetary motion.

But for one time in our history
when the apple was overrated.
Saint Steve had just one job,
to bring the apple to a mob
of hungry eyes, seeking evolution
to feed those idle minds.

Man, still looking to be free
from the boundary of a garden,
still hungry for more, took a bite
and thought they were enlightened.
Instant answers, faking knowledge,
with 1000 songs in every pocket.

Now we know how far tradition went,
by the lives that were spent
in slavery, producing icons
of poison or liberation,
good or evil, manipulation
for generations to pin hope upon.

An uprising of some faith or other,
people could globally get together
and network to unpick, to overthrow
the wickedness in their pockets.
Searching thousands of poisoned lies,
for a good old recipe for apple pie.

Now these apples didn’t lie rotting,
or seeding a new generation of life.
These apples were worshiped in temples
of profit, mimicking divine connection,
and rather than getting to the core,
promoted self-ejection from the garden.

The ancient temples fell to ruin, the world
was choked with plastic boxes and cartons
that would never decompose. They remained
with all the data, so we could finally know
why the world fell, and all the people left
their apple icons to litter the global garden.

Psychic Remnants – #Napowrimo 25

 

grahame park.jpg

I wonder if some memories remain
in the space that they were made,
echoes of distant times
residing after we have left the place.

Ghosts in the atmosphere
of who we once were,
while we are still living,
could a part of us still be there?

In northwest London,
a brand new 70’s construction
on the fourth floor, the middle block,
the hallway smelled of fresh emulsion.

A child, just seven years old,
wilful, uncontrolled,
sent to her room
red faced and scolded.

Her sister was out,
her mum was shouting
as she climbed the stairs,
13 of them, she was counting.

From under her sister’s bed,
where she ran and hid
among dusty sweet wrappers,
her still shallow breath!

Just imagine staying there forever,
among the lost treasures,
of childhood fantasy,
and living on displeasure.

And discarded mouldy snacks,
shifting right into the back,
disappearing into nothingness,
so there would be nothing to smack.

Is she still there,
now the tower blocks have fallen
into shallow gentrification,
memory of a girl suspended, high in the air
of frightened anticipation?

Demons in the Margin – #Napowrimo 24

images

It’s sometimes dull to be a monk,
So I’m going to draw some demons,
Doodle dragons, then a drunk,
dirty pictures of the heathens.

 
I’ll draw a goat with a fish tail,
Then I will turn it all about,
A hare can ride upon a snail
Set off to hunt the hounds.

Behind my quiet dedication,
No-one thinks it is a sin,
For wicked illuminations,
To live in the margins.

I’ll have the figures farting filigree,
And since no-one seems to mind.
I’ll hide my devils in the detail,
No-one reads between the lines.