In The Dark

Shake off the folly of trying to make it,
Take off the shame of trying to fake it,
Trade off the part you persist to partake in,
Remake a world you want to awake in.

Turn off the light so you can see clearly,
Step up to embrace and enter the black,
Take a walk in the darkness to find your clarity,
Enter the labyrinth, bring yourself back.

Explore the places you have hidden the key to,
Take up the shadows like an old linen sheets,
The promises broken, the power you yield to,
Shake out those dusty memories of weakness.

Remember those times that you found it, or lost it,
Shake off your delusion; there’s nothing inside.
Send skeletons scattering out from the closet,
And take a look at what your mind tries to hide.

In the deepest darkest place in the story,
The inner world where you govern yourself,
Where no one is seeking Hail, Grail or Glory,
A warrior stalks in spite of her stealth.

Shake off the folly of trying to make it,
Take off the shame of trying to fake it,
Trade off the part you persist to partake in,
Remake a world you want to awake in.

Lisa Goodwin – February 2015

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Island of Chaos – Glastonbury Town

 

This town is an Island of Glass.
The angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection
with an echo of frankincense legends.

The taste of our heritage, no more
than claret wine spilt on the altar.
A stain that even Joseph,
with his Aramaic descent would not permit.

He would shatter the illusion; reveal the truth.
This town is an island of chaos.
The ubiquitous temple of pandemonium.

It’s not even an island. ‘Nor plim ti gripes an bens.’
Yet the waters rise only to startle our eyes with
weeping for a memory long gone.
Tales of Dee, an apple-squire and a plum cheeked wench.

And if ‘those feet’ walk over water to this mountain green,
would they rush to the market place? Fill bags with
prayer flags, crystals, sheepskins and slippers?

Not even Medusa can transmute profit’s bane.
Turning stone to silver until dragons rise up
in dissent to reinstate sovereignty.
A soundless clarion to build heaven on earth.

It is a wise man who stands
in the wildness of his conviction
and gives no master the key to his immortality.

Nor the gnosis to immanentize the eschaton.
A grail talks to those who are worthy.
Shattered fragments reveal a reflection of sorts,
a sword calls us to remembrance.

The King is dead, long live the King
And still the question remains,
Whose bones are they?

Lisa Goodwin –rewritten December 2015

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On the Road to Damascus

There’s death on the road to Damascus.
Terrible, shocking – it’s disastrous,
Men seeking fame with a war compulsion,
In a politicised game of mass destruction.

And no one even bothered to ask us;
cos we’re classless masses, observers of the madness.
We have to find our way to redemption!
Not in My Name! Did I forget to mention

that this time, Jesus won’t transform Saul,
and this time, Peter won’t return to Paul,
and this time they are all bound to fall,
cos there’s more blood flowing in the holy halls.

And we know it’s not a religious conversion;
It’s just a new version of terror and coercion.
All this fighting, just to cause a diversion,
while they sit and trade arms in the houses of perversion.

While they re-write a violent history,
how could anyone think that this is a victory?

Meanwhile on a street in London,
A man is struggling, can’t trust the government,
Cos they vote to bomb another continent
For a problem reaction, natural consequence.

He can’t deal with the humdrum days
Of going bout his business,
and ignoring their dark ways,
lost in the maze of his own psychosis,

and his Muslim brother, yeah he noticed,
he told the police, and mental health services
They said he was no danger to himself or the rest
– so now he aint no Muslim bruv,
he’s a hashtag terrorist.

Yet there is still death on the road to Damascus.
Terrible, shocking – it’s disastrous,
Men seek fame with a war compulsion,
In a politicised game of mass destruction.

And no one even bothered to ask us;
cos we’re classless masses, observers of the madness.
We have to find our own way to redemption!
Not in My Name! Did I forget to mention?

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Unbroken Silence

never again

An unbroken minute of silence echoes remembrance and loss.
Still warriors are sent to fight while nations count the cost.

A painted banner cries ‘Never again!’A white poppy wreath flecked with red,
to remind us why we remember the servicemen lying dead.

The comrades who never came home to our arms.
Soldiers, broken warriors, who no longer tend the farms.

The medals in their boxes and the names we won’t forget.
The distant graves, unvisited, of grandfathers we never met.

Do they still die for you and me?
Do they die to continue the violence?
Do they die so that we can remember?
An unbroken minute of silence.

Lisa Goodwin – Remembrance Day 2013

Veterans for Peace mark Remembrance Sunday at the London Cenotaph. 10-11-13 The organisation of ex servicement set up to peacefully oppose war marched to the Cenotaph from trafalgar Square and laid a wreath of Red and White poppies. The event was not agreed with the authorities but police allowed the veterans to mark the occasion in Whitehall.

Veterans for Peace mark Remembrance Sunday at the London Cenotaph. 10-11-13 The organisation of ex servicement set up to peacefully oppose war marched to the Cenotaph from trafalgar Square and laid a wreath of Red and White poppies. The event was not agreed with the authorities but police allowed the veterans to mark the occasion in Whitehall.

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Tribal Prayer at The White Spring – For Sun Bird 21/08/15

We stand at a gateway now.
One which all of us must step through when the time comes.

A wizard always arrives right on time.

Sun Bird, you have stepped through this gateway already.
Many of us feel that you left us too soon, but that’s our stuff;
You are bang on time my friend, and you walk side by side with
your ancestors who came before you.

GREAT MOTHER – Welcome him back into your grace!
GREAT FATHER – Welcome him back into your divine instruction!

Let him come into your embrace
and let him know he has left behind a tribe!
He has left a life of legacy.

Let him know that he shall be remembered!

Welcome him home!
Let him speak to the ancient ones and learn of the greater mysteries beyond the veil.
Give him the strength to take these final steps.
Give us the strength to let him go, to allow him to rest with peace and dignity.

Oh, those of us left behind grieve his death,
Yet we know he has come home to love.
We may cry …. We may scream ….
We may laugh …. We may holler!
For we shall celebrate the life of Sun Bird!

Chai Spirit

Chai Spirit

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Don’t Write a Poem About Love

If you are going to write a poem, don’t write it about love – or snow. Thousands of poets have said all there is to say. Is there any way left to make it make more sense without a tense of pretentiousness? These things have been written. My fingers, though bidden, have little to add to the page upon ages of poets’ images. Sage proposals to carve a meaning out of myth. To fit more words on a paper monolith! So don’t write about how exquisitely it drifts through shifting memories, lifting expectations. Don’t write about how it blankets the dark with a cover of clean that cloaks remembering. The cold night drifting on dreams of maybe and might have been. Even when feeling bleeds through inky muscles aching with restraint of holding words back from the page! Don’t write of these things! Show me – don’t tell. Show me the swell of heart in every beat. Hold me, melting, hearts on ice, red on white. I want to feel the cold of you, burning. I want to know the heat of you, yearning. Show me.

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  I’m New Here

I want to move to Glastonbury! I’d climb up the Tor every day.
I want to move to Glastonbury, To live my life in an ‘Oh so spiritual way.’

I want to move to Glastonbury, I would get up with the dawn;
Do yoga in the morning before I get a chance to yawn.

I want to move to Glastonbury, I could move in near an Ashram,
I want to move to Glastonbury, start every day with bhajans

I want to move to Glastonbury, Open a self-help book emporium.
Be a famous Avalonian,ba pseudo-historian,
A sustainable, ethical business-woman,
Make eco-friendly lotions and potions.
I will deal with my demons.
I’ll handle my emotions.

I want to move to Glastonbury to hang out with the hippies,
Meet the Druids, be a Bard; write poems and folkish ditties.

I want to move to Glastonbury, wear purple velvet dresses,
Put flowers in my hair; be really abundant and totally blessed.

I want to be the priestess the Goddess loves the bestest,
I want to be enlightened , like all the rest …. is.

I want to move to Glastonbury. Oh … you’ve heard it all before?

But I want to move to Glastonbury to fix that problem under the Tor.
I’ll change my name to Crystal Clear, be reborn, reborn, Reborn!

I want to move to Glastonbury, have tea with new age gurus,
open a raw food deli, study kabala, practice voodoo,
Hoodoo, voodoo, you do, I could teach the healing that you do,
I’ll have colonic irrigation and deal with all the doo doo.

I want to move to Glastonbury, be a Wiccan Hindu Buddhist
I want to be very, very, very grounded in Avalon’s holy mist.

I want to move to Glastonbury, but everybody knows,
She won’t open up to anyone; only the chosen get to go.

And then it happened,

I got to move to Glastonbury. I’m a lucky lucky thing!
To sip the golden chalice and sit by holy springs.

I got to move to Glastonbury. Oh, it made my heart sing
And here my friends is where the trouble begins.

I got to move to Glastonbury, It was a … tricky start,
Yet, here I found community to really warm your heart,

I was free to be me, I could dress how I please.
I could fill my bucket with a truckle of cheese.
I could love and get loved up, do rituals for the bees,
I could step into my power,
then everyone could see!

Then the mill began to turn and so the rumours started,
Someone said I summoned demons every time I farted.

Next thing I’m a witch. (I’m supposed to feel offended?)
Which is pretty kitsch, so I wasn’t upended.

He said, “you do black magic,”
I said, “Sir, you’re a fool”

Oh, I tried to keep my patience but I fear I lost my cool,
and I wasn’t feeling so spiritual.
I got to move to Glastonbury now I’m screaming on the High Street,
Cos some nutter’s pissed me off and I couldn’t give a hundred monkey’s
What anybody thinks!

I got to move to Glastonbury and so started the gnosis.
I got to have a soiree and a dance with my psychosis.

Now everyone but me can see where the bogey on my nose is
while I get lost in the process of process, process, process!

Process, surrender, fucking process,
Process, process – what the fuck, process. Surrender to the process.
I got to move to goldfish bowl where I couldn’t stub my toe,
Wipe my arse or blow my nose without everybody knowing.

In the open air asylum, the cracks, they started showing,

Like embracing the siren,
There was no escape, no going.
And before I knew what I was hiding
I discovered what I’m showing.
And thus began the process of growing.

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