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Ethereal Bliss
by EsterKittylicious
2014 EsterKittylicious

When All Fails

Journal Entry: Thu Mar 21, 2013, 8:26 AM
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When All Fails


And it’s always on to the next adventure.
Random leaves flicker roads of desolate
neglect
trod and cried
over, fallen quicksand depths demanding
flight
for survival.
Frozen wings, sudden sparkling cold
commanding
damp unforgiven. Bent below, tramps
expecting handouts,
bankers expecting deeds,
women expecting hollow forcomings.
There is no easy fantasy. Tales of fates and
magics
lie on quantum desperation, haunted nights.
Winter always lurks on Spring’s horizon.
Keep moving; keep life singing, gyrating for
warmth.
The road long saturated with evil, rise above.
Learn, grieve, abandon.
Envision a grander hope, shining spire
beckoning.

~poem by our cofounder libramoon :iconlibramoon:

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:iconlibramoon:
Poetry Month
 
 
Resonant words align.
Mystic energies manifest, 
call to neural chambers: "Come to play!"
Sparkling children fashion dance.
Innocence against a random nightscape
humbling the wise with unknown unknowns.
 
The moment flown, eyes carry to the next entertaining bit.
We've had our fun, perhaps an epiphany or two.
 
Inner ears listen,
merrily engage in lingering song.
May dance displayed as heady words
sparkle.
Mystically lit lanterns
illuminate without end.
 
 
 
A Woman Disappointed and Disillusioned, Courageously Facing a Seemingly Empty Life
 
Dressed in sadness
Depressed to madness
Mad to believe in passion,
which never lasts beyond the hour.
Shrieking to bequeath the
power to stand, to breathe.
Time appears, macabre hag
preening her wares.
"See how it was, how it could be.
Drag and drop your face, your fate
onto a printed page. Can you see
new meaning? New lamps for old."
She cackles, like
a metronome.
New maps for a new age.
That charming village erstwhile
known as Hell
has realigned into Helvetica.
All that pain and sorrow
tomorrow's poetry.
 
 
Pop Quiz
 
What is more useless than a poet, and why?
 
Encloistered in my artist's garrett, threadbare garments more holes than whole
Paint spattered, unruly and unkempt
Barely aware of the need for sustenance or even air
Entranced by the necessity of exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.
 
Writing words on paper, I am merely effete,
Despite my black attire and permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words, finely wrought, expressing deeply true emotion
They are almost literally a dime a dozen.
To expose my wound is inelegance, to explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.
 
I am the real deal -- the poet-philosopher, the idealist dreamer, the journey's fool.
Surely I should be surrounded by accolytes at my feet, honored to breathe the sacred
Incense of my magesty.
 
Yet here I stand with bills unpaid in the squalor of a rented room,
Unadorned by idolatry.
 
 
 
 
Perhaps a poem of love,
thick words upon parchment
to hold to your heart,
as it dampens through the years
from dripping tears
might seem a heaven sent reminder
We who love without rhyme or
rhythmic scheme to slow our tune
if we are truly in the spire of love
create in shining halls of memory
poetry that never dies
 
 
We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
a web of space and time
All that ever is, like sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
rainbows
or other illusions
into effervescent poetry
 
 
It is a poem because of the evocative nature of the language, because it intends to speak with more than the prosaic words, but as a massage for the mind and heart. The line breaks are to make the reading easier, to put the phrases together as the poet's ear hears them, like stage direction.
 
Poetry throughout written history has been both an oral and visual art. There is a great deal of spoken poetry available, as well as more and more writing, experimenting, genre melding and overturning. Look for what speaks to you.
 
 
Voices in my head speak
in poetry, prose, creative nonfiction
stories of courage, adventures in change
 
Tales of whispered words hypnotize
wrench veils between dream and sleep
Deeply darkened mists of memory
prismed in poetry
arouse such imagery
Be at peace
Breathe in wintry wind
to warm in secret private seasons
Breathe out
a better world
 
 
 
Perhaps we constrain ourselves by our definitions of "poetry" whatever they may be for each of us, or collectively. Perhaps we would better serve the honoring of our deeper, more carefully observed, more cherished, more reflective, more emotionally evoked or thoughtfully worded communications by freeing our critique from "poetry"?
 
When we call "poem" expectations climb aboard Is this one of those silly word games or a test of my ability to please teacher or take teasing for being studious or wrong or rhymes herding phrases out of clarity over-ardent attempts at sincerity What if I just want to explain beyond the everyday chatter What if I want to say how and why feelings matter or work out ways to scatter bits of meaning on a page to save visions, ahas! glimpses of horror or wonder as I gaze at nature's seas and stars or the grace of deciphering commonalities that could lead to human conviviality
 
 
 
You tell a tale of private familiarity simple, trivial, self-contained
Profound sincerity eternal poetry
 
 
 
Poetry is about meaning and wonder
Poetry can say:  "Yes, we feel the same"
and "Yes, we can go further, together."
It's not the rhyme or word or name
that creates this form we ponder
to say what we've seen, how we came
to be who we are, how another's
ways of making sense have made us
more ...
 
 
 
poetry mice
nibble nimble syllables
feed on grainy meaning
scamper renewed, enlarged
 
 
 
Poker as a Metaphor for Poetry
 
 
Play the cards you are dealt,
inflated for the gaze of your opponents.
Don't squander emotion reactively.
Enjoy the thrill of being in the game.
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
Check out this project [not mine] to post written works and short videos that detail the difficulties of artists' lives. Stories can create awareness about what it really means to live a creative life. 

artiststories.wordpress.com/su…

Send emails to jrowartist at gmail dot com and I will upload your story to this website. There will be a library page designated for stories once we have a good collection of stories. 
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
World Poetry Day



 
speak low
 
 
We could speak poetry,
language languid with eloquence and charm,
evoke meanings far beyond
common conversation's command.
 
Spin me daring scenes and inspirations.
Call my essence to imbibe shared meditations.
Lean mean serene obscene,
we careen floor, wall, ceiling,
fulgent air of ecstasy’s semantic
play.
 
Speak low, my wondrous love.
Echo within interstice of heart and mind.
Lift magic's metaphoric blind.
Elicit ribbon binds of pure enchantment
only poetry can conjure.
 
 
 
 
Neptune's Fool
 
 
I burst my bubble daily
just to feel the pain.
I paint my face up gaily,
and melt out in the rain.
My bag of tricks is magic.
Yet no one calls to buy.
I wish my life were tragic,
horrendously awry.
‘Twould explain my sad refrain:
so bravely strong, heroic,
a saint, stately and stoic.
When truth be told I'm just a bum,
the very lowest common sum
of higher expectations.
So, let’s elbow up and drown in rum,
libertine libations
(congratulations obviously optional).
It's not that I'm exceptional
(what a wrench that was to say),
but that the conventional
I label reprehensible.
Freudian snake crawls a cross,
a highly wired state.
Too late to deny reliance
on random strangers’ kindness,
I issue this groveling plea:
Feed my sustaining fantasy.
See my poetry, and shout out:  "How profound!"
 
 
 
Art Magic
 
 
Listen to the heart of bliss.
Lie supine on vibrant sand, inhaling,
under oceanic starlit sky.
Breeze breathes eternity, circles ever
inward to divine intricately
expansive poetry --
thought in magnificent splendor.
All art is magic; all magic is art.
Yet they are not the same, and part
of wonder's widening landscape.
 
 
 
Mississippi
 
 
    Riverside romance one dusky June
    Turned into a winter poem
    By firelight - light of the moon.
 
    We loved and parted all too soon
    Each to return, a separate home
    Riverside romance one dusky June.
 
    I catch a glint, a ring of spoon
    Flashing through the tale I spin
    By firelight - light of the moon.
 
    Sometimes at night I hear you croon
    "We never had a chance to win."
    Riverside romance one dusky June
    By firelight - light of the moon.
 
 
 
We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
a web of space and time
All that ever is, like sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
rainbows
or other illusions
into effervescent poetry
 
 
 
A forest is a poem
in a language of life, of action.
Symbiotic energies swell into echoing song.
Bright catalytic light, dark layers of still
nurturing long decay, fragrant rhythms
hold tune to animal play and parry,
seeds joining in emergent glee, new forms
for old, set in sound and fury.
Forest
the word itself carries mystery, tales
of magic and remorse,
of maidens hiding from giants and
handsome knights sworn to fealty.
Sweet sprites, winsome serpents and ravens
whisper oracular spells to trap or free.
A mere parade of words may create no sap,
no clinging moss, no berries enticing birds
to build for a future family.
Yet a forest is most certainly
a poem.
 
 
 
A Woman Disappointed and Disillusioned, Courageously Facing a Seemingly Empty Life
 
Dressed in sadness
Depressed to madness
Mad to believe in passion,
which never lasts beyond the hour.
Shrieking to bequeath the
power to stand, to breathe.
Time appears, macabre hag
preening her wares.
"See how it was, how it could be.
Drag and drop your face, your fate
onto a printed page. Can you see
new meaning? New lamps for old."
She cackles, like
a metronome.
New maps for a new age.
That charming village erstwhile
known as Hell
has realigned into Helvetica.
All that pain and sorrow
tomorrow's poetry.
 
 
 
Life's a Mad Dog in Heat; But At Least There's Art
 
I want a poem, painting, song
to be authentic
heart to heart,
mind to mind
Not to tell me something about you;
to show me more of me.
 
 
 
Poker as a Metaphor for Poetry
 
 
Play the cards you are dealt,
inflated for the gaze of your opponents.
Don't squander emotion reactively.
Enjoy the thrill of being in the game.
 
 
 
 
Pop Quiz
 
What is more useless than a poet, and why?
 
Encloistered in my artist's garrett, threadbare garments more holes than whole
Paint spattered, unruly and unkempt
Barely aware of the need for sustenance or even air
Entranced by the necessity of exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.
 
Writing words on paper, I am merely effete,
Despite my black attire and permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words, finely wrought, expressing deeply true emotion
They are almost literally a dime a dozen.
To expose my wound is inelegance, to explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.
 
I am the real deal -- the poet-philosopher, the idealist dreamer, the journey's fool.
Surely I should be surrounded by accolytes at my feet, honored to breathe the sacred
Incense of my magesty.
 
Yet here I stand with bills unpaid in the squalor of a rented room,
Unadorned by idolatry.
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
St. Patty


You touched me with clear green eyes
Pulled my tumbled mind into
this moment.
Not karma, not destiny,
nothing like history connects our days.
A moment of clear vision
-- divine embrace.
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
"Acts of Desolation
 
 
When the battlefield torn by mines is all the school or playground in which to grow,
how can the children be taught to know, to understand a lexicon of peace?
Bitter hatred permeates mother's milk and what there is of grain,
permeates the very rain, gathered in barrels since the wells ran red
with poisoned blood, since the holiest of sites became blackened
with pestilence and shame.
Rumors expand on who is to blame; not much else to go around..
 
 
I like to walk the dark empty streets.  Late at night, the city becomes its own.  The smells, the silence, the stark black and white, shadows and streetlamps, without the people the city can become comforting, peaceful.  But never for long."

SciFi novelette originally envisioned as a graphic novel

caelastory.blogspot.com/2009_0…
Reply
:iconbaroquedoll:
baroquedoll Feb 17, 2014   Photographer
thank you for accepting my art
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
Candlemas


Warm candleglow through the cold windowpane. I imagine gentle happy family life within. Out here, in the dark and vision blurring mist, I feel the sadness, in my throat, welling up in my eyes, softening my heartbeat into tiny bleats of pathos. I am walking without purpose, or with the purpose of walking, movement, letting the evening take me where it will. It is our sadness, more than anger, more than fear, more than love, that bonds us in that chain of humanity. Swimming through our tears, feeling the dense saltiness upon our skin, upon our differentiating shields, we are creatures more profound, more sensitively layered, than in other guises. 

Sad songs surprising us on the radio, or played incessantly on the jukebox or cd or other technology, the strains grab us by our groins and vital organs. Sad movies make me tear up and want to hide, or hug someone very dearly, very closely, denying any space between. There is bravery in sadness truly engaged. Essential lessons unwind into wisdom through the loving eyes of sadness. Crying out the pain can reveal beneath a wild wind tunnel of new energy generation. I will sing my sadness to the wind and rain and mist; I will cry it onto dusty deserts and rocky plains. I will wash in mighty oceans of all the sadness of the world. 

Tonight I will slowly walk the dark and misty streets, peering into warmly glowing households, dreaming so clearly all the faces of sadness I have ever seen or imagined. I will imagine the beauty of gentle happy people, unaware of my presence outside their sphere. I will take a moment to taste the salt of my tears, which barely increase the misty moisture upon my face. I will laugh, silently, with true mirth, at my sobriety, and continue walking, wherever this evening leads. 

caelastory.blogspot.com/2009/0…
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
What year has this been?
Caught up in days’ parade; now take it in.
Peaceful moments safe with friends and kin.
Joys of open grace, sad tinge of want.
Simple blessings, taunts of goals beyond.
Under rambling clouds, upon solid ground,
jaunty walk intent on happy thoughts.
 
 
December 21, 2013

Reply
:iconlibramoon:
What year has this been?
Star dome navigates over rocky sea.
Terrors to quell before we’re home and free.
Neighbors to invite as friends in waiting.
Search for that happy path tween will and fate.
Sledding, sliding, skating icy hills.
Whether settling for blessing or seeking thrills.
 
 
December 20, 2013
Reply
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