the poem i write

[revolutionrabbit]

The poem i write
i do not write
from the loftiest height
nor is it written from
the lowest low

i haven't got there yet
i'm going down this shaft
its like inside a alien craft
to some its called the descent
to all history we seem to be
falling from some above

the apple fell or was plucked
knowledge of good and evil fucked
the to-proud angel a plummeting object
chucked from the mother-ship of God
in antediluvian meaning of the word
the oldest texts mirrored this rift
and now as seen from below

thus the poet enters the time-line
drawn from some infinite to some
local in some zone of what once was
to what it became upon reflection
in the lake of fire and ice

the poet, the poet is like Egyptian dice
they come in all sizes, styles, and numbers
they all do one thing well, they roll and roll
and when they stop, the spots do tell
the poet then is a connector of black holes
or red dots

we roll like the planet, and we melt like cubes
of consciousness into the ground, and tumble
down, through the layers of ages and yellow
pages, the conflagrations, the combinations
the progressions of the heavens, the seven
elevens...

oh but its the snake-eyes that seem to sparkle
in the ululations of the Goddess as she rides
the unholy mask down into the underworld
she is made to become naked as never before
and into the core she will perform her chore

as she wears the nights-colors---as she enters
the deepest vaults of herself unwinding her ways
unfolding into the labyrinth of all points departed
floating past the ruins of dice like buildings of
brown and pink, sink sink sink she does as her owl
winks in the glow of a thousand lamp-ships, wicks
so low trimmed, and the tale is skimmed
as long as the tale is told

[hester_prynne]

"the lake of fire and ice"....
Glad I jumped in here!
Fantastic read...
H

[judih]

i have a problem.
after i read a poem such as this
i am speechless
and also shy away from adding a banal comment.
thanks, hester for taking the plunge and bringing me back to read again.

revolution rabbit, rockin the poem, this page is energized

[revolutionrabbit]

you must remember this: a kiss is not just a kiss
a rose is a rose is a rose, and, a rose is not a rose
when i wrote my first perfect poem, it was intrinsically
flawed, the perfection was its arrival in the moment
the flaw was that no diamond is the only one diamond
yet it holds all diamonds in its claw

"the center cannot hold", neither can the periphery
"the Falcon cannot hear the Falconer", so the dark bird
is set free, if only from illusion

so too the poem in all its grand illusion is set free
within its fatal flaw, within its vision of immaculate fold
for within that first jeweled image, the beloved beheld
the sequencing of sequined facets setting off the whole

there in the middle of its vast architecture of planes and
levels, does the absolute purity of its delicate promise
its hint of luminessence from deep within the interior
whence the field of expanse measures the crystalline drop
of the morning's let go rain of tear

And only then to penetrate the fabulous mystery at her opening
the flower reveals its perfumed inner dimension through infinite
art of its wild dance of colors and soft petals yielding to perceived
touch of eternity, the kiss of rose to the light lips of the sun's rays

you must remember, or you must forget, but a kiss is not just...