the traveller grows weary
on solo walks
when some roads converge
hail the fellow traveller
walk in hope and in quiet companionship
much is communicated
in
silence
forget you not, daisies grow where you go
little pebbles underfoot trouble but do not stumble
hiccups come and go, finding a fresh spring within
bodes well when the waters seem so deep
to earth and sky, time does fly with time so short
much learnt in passing, another time and place
peace and light, pray guide you on your path
Phantom pride thyself not just in action but words.
Words wander round the rocky slopes of my mind.
Perceived, received, translated and pondered upon.
There are ghosts in my scary mind, haunting in the halls and corridors. I am a phantasm.
There are ghosts in my attick
I don't really have an attick, which makes it worse
Atticks can be dusty, and musty, and smell
like rose colored glasses shimmering in the dusty sunlight
watching the multicolored streams of dusty light flowing
wandering on it's way to reaching it's love
Maybe it is. Why? Who knows. What I think is that magic is not magick but both server their purposes. However my current and ongoing interest is in applying various chakra awakenings to tantra. This is a good thing - believe me.
It has nothing to do with canned yams though. Or archery.
Ritual is a crutch.
Robes are training wheels.
Use your wand as a cane if you must -
but throw it out before you need to beat
your athame into a walking frame.
Put the chalice back on the shelf
with the other 70s brown tea cups.
Know your body, and hers.
Dare to awaken the kundalini.
Will them to entwine, and in
Silence celebrate the rapture.
I am looking at
A potato
On the steps of
The bus door
As I get down
It rolled
Back and forth
With every lurch of the bus
Looking somehow happy
In a uniquely
Potato Way
The Travels of a Wayward Potato.
Once a lowly
Tuber in the earth,
It has ridden
For an unknown
Length of Time.
All alone,
But never lonely.
The Potato sallies on.
You may have noticed the bush
that it pushes to air,
Comical-delicate,
sometimes with second-rate flowers
Awkward and milky and
beautiful only to hunger.
Noticing the bush
See the birds
Empty hands
Full bush of birds
Birds in bush
Bird in skye
Poop in my eye
Fly to my hand
Bird from sky
Twitterings in bush
Bird in hand for seed
Birds in bush no need
Bird in the hand is worth two in the bush
Reliable hand, risky bush.
Also - A living dog is better than a dead lion.
So Ecclesiastes says.
in a vulture's eyes we are prey
die in the open
or even just nearly die
and they will come
adventure me with promises of dancing popcorn
laced on a string of purest silver
breathe through the bong of highest justice
wreathe yourself in swirling smoke
and dancing flames
such is the way of things
here beneath the vulture's sky
In the sky
in your eye
We are yet to be
picked apart
Our mind to start
it is an art
The octagonial banter
the images it conveys
brings us together
a group, away
From public
In private
I think highly of you all
and sigh, occasionally
Being still whole, I have yet to be picked apart.
Yet to be dissected on the altar of the real.
And that is just fine by me.
Will you adventure the wager of an octagon?
Will you adopt a toy from the island of misfits?
Forever vererable be the hands that craft a multi-sided offering.
Forever hallowed on these boards be thy moniker.
Being addled without coffee, I apparently have yet to grasp the notion of signing in before posting.
Pass the caffeine IV please, the past post which was allowed to roam free without its tags, belongs to me.
lost posts in an unregistered sea
caffeine, caffeine everywhere....
drive your posts deeply into the mud
at the river's bottom
for the pier must be sound
its anchors fast
speed along steamboat
churn the mud of remembrance
for a green-eyed girl and me
for caffeine isn't always there
when the lights come on
while the gentle brain still sleeps
Optimism only gets you as far as a half full glass of water.
But realism gives you Picasso and Warhol.
However, that depends on your definition of realism.
It's all about the definitions baby!
And the definitions baby needs a diaper change, because this pun stinks.