A selection of my poems. I've been writing poetry since I was 12 or 13. This is my beloved art.
The God In Me Is Raging by Awenydd-Lia, literature
Literature
The God In Me Is Raging
when he finally speaks to me
why does not a thunderclap
boom a gods-voice into his center
where his silence barraged mine
why does not deep prophetic incantation
pronounce what he hath wrought
though he was forgiven
before I even began to pick up
my scattered pieces
and talks of forgiveness he already has
like he forgot and is punishing himself for me
which has nothing to do with me
his wallowing
but shouldn’t the universe screech and growl and explode
at the injustice done - destroyer!
and shake his teeth with the telling of it
I suppose it is doing that, through his self-flagellation
which has nothing to do with me
it is all his
bu
Mesa-top twilight emerges and wafts smoky sage around on the wind
The moon and starlight seem to ride in cold-bright-round on the wind
Will you appreciate the rising tide of howling crescendo
Or let the noise of sprawl, pod, and team pound on the wind
I once lost track of the medicine that I held so blithely
When a nightmare of wings hunted me... downed on the wind
Tuck the holy broken things into the midden, and return
Hide from night spirits screaming up the mound, on the wind
Cast the water, the sand and salt; make your circle bed
Relearning, shakily, to rely on the ground, on the wind
Raining brings ancestors close to whisper what I
Dear Plague Doctor,
If only you had donned your beaked mask
upon arrival, when you came to the task
not like an angel, not like mercy
more beautiful vulture with heady flask
The sight might have given me pause
despite desperation and traumatic cause
not welcomes, not kisses
but wary of warnings like emphasized jaws
Administered hands of helping spread
the worser blight till we all were dead
not in healing, not even in leaving
why didn’t you don your mask of dread?
Regretfully yours,
X
Salted air sings in the cypress uphill from here
air sings of stirring an ocean storm swell
sings out in steamed crystal warning
Distant gray rolling a roiling mad nimbus from out there
gray rolling deep cracking, berating land’s end
rolling the waters like foaming wild beasts
Bright kicking flashes traipse the train of the gale
kicking flashes of odorous energy spikes everywhere
Shaman Rebirth: Inkling by Awenydd-Lia, literature
Literature
Shaman Rebirth: Inkling
My poetry woke me up
and my anger
I used to have all of them
memorized
- my children -
now even the new ones
don’t stick
some are even strangers
my broken brain
flooded with an impossibility
and then wrung
washed out and too weak
to hold onto even myself
But it is still here
holding on, still expressing
when energy permits
and concentration
still with fine-tuned sensibility
and passionate art
deep well of sacred waters
even if the damn bucket is busted
I still deserve to flow
my goddess love flowed through every
single diminishment that love cost me
you all took a piece
but I gave you what you needed
Like John Barleycorn
drinking my
Is this what death is?
Becoming a ghost?
Feeling unreal in lonely thoughts
disconnected from
the living world
drained of vitality
cold center
of will unmoving
the warmth that once
danced up magic
on solid earth
beating
after gravity
before light
Fearing being lost
unmoored and no longer
belonging
unseen, nothing more to say
Is this what death is?
Becoming between?
Navigating a river of thoughts
but an upside-down boat
travels just as well
underwater river world
as real
as what's above
the same surface
shared plane
like a mirror
reflection
after living
before new life
Feeling nothing matters
it's all the same thing
frozen time
breathe water or air, or don't
Is this what death is?
Becoming an echo?
Serving up snippet-thoughts
from another life
that is gone
while biding time
waiting
to see what's next
what the purpose is
of your existence
if it can be called
existing
after death
before rebirth
Feeding people
what you remember
of you
a placeholder for yourself
It is an arbitrary thing, sometimes, whether a poem needs lines. Some poems don’t necessarily need to be corseted… curled, and painted just so, their beauty shaped by the hand of fashion. Some hum with natural beauty -- as the red-haired maid whose frizz flies in the breeze as she treks through the mud with her bucket, thinking spinster thoughts behind her freckled nose, since the lads see her not… though any man or woman who has lived some life would gasp at the glow of her youth -- wild, fresh, and green -- innocent of knowledge that she may be the loveliest thing they have ever seen. Yes, she would be lovely all do
These "almond-shaped eyes"
see two worlds.
Between...
seeing through both.
Lenses overlapped,
a special kind of sight.
Logical, temporal
and abstract, mystical
coming together,
their connections seen,
patterns followed
in exquisite dance.
Fishes must swim
in water of life.
Salmon of wisdom
in sacred well,
deosil movement,
widdershins too.
Engine and lens.
Visionaries lead.
The way is danced,
and flown, and swum
in love and joy
and pain and wisdom.
Catalyzed within
each of you,
remembered,
resonating,
ringing.
Parallax bell.