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Scorpion poetry

I drank a lot today

It read back to me like it was poetry

I woke up yesterday

Tomorrow

Some other day

And the words hung over me like a scorpion waiting for a punch line to pass onto it’s ancestors

A bloody Mary

Dog of the hair

These words aren’t poetics until

I glare at that question

Maybe another time?

Today

Walked out my front door

First time in 5 days, I turned right for a change of scenery chucking out the rubbish – the highlight of this today

Beneath my feet the concrete was still grey

My demeanour resembled the bland council houses unimaginative choice of decorating on the cheap -resembles a prison … whatever . No , I’m done rhyming today.

What prompts these feathered words typed and on display – a bird not in flight

Wings tinged with blue a sorrowful sight to see no fight

Eyes bright with dew dawn light.

Eyes screetching victoriously: I found the worm special of the day!

How do I say , justify , describe the way my heart swooned the wrong way. I looked up at the sky thankful for the first time in many for it’s consistant rays.

A distraction , a rouse – I knew it was dead . I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t move him onto a more dignified path. I was afraid he’d come back to life.

Circled around him in a hesitantly callous way

How dare he interrupt a quiet walk-the first in almost a week from sunday?

Did I imagine it semi flutter whilst I walked past him with my bin liner full of litter ?

I profess to love watching those with wings -airborn soaring . I’m envious in away. A speculating visual painting adorned with glittered hues , proof that life moves in every way.

I confess I have a phobia of dead birds. Past memories of one I wasn’t able to save in my childhood

Direction moved me to walk the other way from a lifeless soul left to rot on a staircase.

I’m ashamed.

Deity

A smudge, a mark on those dissident souls who dared enrage the olypiums with a cry for mercy.

Crimes captured in , mud clay, paint , words, thoughts , emotions – indulged passions strewn over Bacchus shrine.

A brief Collison

The Thunder bolts,

The snow blizzards,

The rain

bows, illuminating deities with human mannerisms scowling stares

A Compelling spectacle – a free fall for all denied access to an Olympian banquet

Persephone lingers loftily draped in a seed sewn solemn shawl

This sabbatical reunion reveals her true fabric fertile & willing to share.

Soiled sapian of sand doomed to a prom thesis saloon for the forgotten , the abandoned

a gumboot dance off -The patron muse of Genocide –

Our namesakes never forgotten.

Latin ized, hubri sized, hibridized, sacrificed, sodomized.

Sacrificial slaughterhouse our ancestors offered up our mothers, sons and daughters

Faith a wake for piles upon piles of ignorance a holocaust of corpses cremated on the pyres of unknown sires

Faith adrift the bells and whistles promised to those lovers lost to the after life

Her Grace.

partly concealed

partly revealed

The dichotomy of lace.

propaganda tree

Random reflections.

We shouldn’t be afraid to reach our full potential in life and blossom. Yet we do. Are we so scared of decay and rot and to be forgotten? 

Seems that way.

We must not fight what and whom we were born to be. 

Why do I have to pick the one tree that I love, over all the other ones, that is only with us briefly?

A blossom tree

 

I wanted to get married under one. There is something so ethereal about them when I see them at the height of their beauty.

Falling petals.

The moment they seem most exquisite is when they are closer to death than life.

I see the beauty in death.

I see the beauty in life.

I researched what the Blossom tree has been used for as a symbol.

In Japan, in world war 2,

It became the symbol of patriotism to the Japanese people.

They too see how fleeting life is. All the more to live it with great deep breaths and with as much gusto and energy as one can.

LIVE!

 

What does piss me off is the propaganda the government spread around beliefs of the blossom tree.

As poetic as it sounds: It is said that people were encouraged to believe that when the souls of warriors died, they came back as blossom flowers.

A lovely notion but this is on a par with Roman rhetoric. It is a manipulation and I hate seeing the words – Nature and manipulation standing together.

But can the two exist without the other?

I think, let flowers live and be what they are.

Let us humans live and be what we are.

Humans with a  heightened awareness of the fragility of life,

are the ones that put the humane inhumaneness.

We don’t need to be any other but ourselves to stand out and be beautiful.

Look how magnificent we look when we coexist with nature.

Appreciate what we have today.

Our beauty in all its manifestations from the second we shine never leaves us -not even in physical death.

Yes.

It does transform.

Transformation is not a bad thing.

Revel in each one.

 

I

Always closer to death but rocking the Wabi-Sabi philosophy.

“Wabi-sabi reminds us that we are all transient beings on this planet—that our bodies, as well as the material world around us, are in the process of returning to dust.

Nature’s cycles of growth, decay, and erosion are embodied in frayed edges, rust, liver spots. Through wabi-sabi, we learn to embrace both the glory and the melancholy found in these marks of passing time.”

http://www.utne.com/mind-and-body/wabi-sabi.aspx

Beautiful because I am withered.

The fabric of Daisy

Daisy wake up

Trends need not dictate this an essential need

Shake off slumbers veil

Success is never found in a blind fools dream

Daisy wake up

Or walk down that outdated well trodden path –

adorned with familiar perilous pain

an old haunt languishing in rags of ruin

Impart a funfair of heartache its sole profit -all yours to gain.

Never to find the seeds of hope

Never to nurture the growth of a place to call home

Never to venture into pastures only future horizons can show

Daisy wake up

Watch the ceiling of creativity dissolve

Watch the truth of your words stagnate in a river polluted by moments spent

On outdated memories

over bloated corpses floating upwards willing you to give them a second glance.

Daisy wake up

Are you willing to drown against the current of change

Are you willing to obscure your voice to clouds of doubt

whitewash all your words as a some garment crafted but in vain

My soul

Don’t you love it when a quote inspires you to write a few words to illuminate your own meaning to it?

My quote inspired by EE Cummings . See bottom quote. Have a fab weekend!

No underworld

I have no soul.

I am just a mix of seeds

When I draw my last breathe there will be no underworld.

cos everything will blow away

Mixed particle seeds will have reformed.

It is Natures way.

Nature can be kind nor cruel. Make sure you always have a witness to back up your worldly point of view 🌅

Gutted heart

My hearts in my gut

My tears already fall in that tropical fashion

My body already heaves with my breath like a speedy version of listening to the tides pull back and pull in -pushing my head under the ocean and forcing me to taste the entire body of it’s salty tears

When the flowers..

When the flowers stood still

My heart ❤️ skipped a beat

Because I thought by the grace of God I knew better.

The winter disarmed me with a smile, I was suddenly subdued.

Momentarily I knew my panic attacks were an illusion

A mind convinced I would die as a strumpet without learning how to be astute.

I couldn’t be a pale white whore for the others to flagellate me.

Keep me in line with further a duty

Because I know my experience wasn’t to be an accordion.

To the whims of those who asked me to be a subordinate

For a season

My tears wouldn’t be known

My tears wouldn’t be recognised

Unless I said NO.

Freed from the shackles

A feminine bitch called crazy and intense

I believe that I was one of the few…

One more month and I would blossom from the weed who knew how to decipher the language lost in translation to her tribe that all wouldn’t always be askew.

One reason passes quicker than one can muster

Bide your time to break free from the shackles

The time the birds will come back to us in due time.

Freedom.

Your soul will find the strength to be reborn by winters ❄️ rebirth the sounds of baby sheep, foals, kids,

All will be reborn renewed

Challenge the elements

A breath of air
Fresh from the battle of morn
A new day has begun.

This has been a tough week for me- in terms of writing especially when I have to I am challenged to condense my words. The pressure to write comes when I’m under extreme pressure. The emotions I’m experiencing before I write are more often than not “negative”.
I wrote ✏️ this Haiku

A breath of air
Fresh from the battle of morn
A new day has begun.