Beltane Lust for Flesh – Napowrimo 27

Inspired by the ‘seven deadly sins’ prompt on the Napowrimo facebook page, I wanted more than seven lines to write about this one, so took them – because I can x

Lust for Flesh

Beltane is coming – I feel it in my skin,
The stirring in my body, that fire in my belly.
To dance with passion is no frivolous thing.
Where the pulsing pull of wildness sings,
Primal life-force coursing through young and old.
It sings in every cell, invigorates the very soul.

And there are those that would regulate this,
Priests who would put this body to the test,
Decide what is sacred and what is immoral.
And there are those who would quarrel;
It would be better if it were thinner;
More attractive if it were smoother.

What skin is fine skin and what skin is not?
Should we reject this skin we have got,
Transform it into permissible skin.
The kind of skin you’d be proud to be in.
We are blindly informed that the flesh is weak,
Does that mean you should cover up that fine physique?

Like May flowers, we bloom but a short time,
As brief and as sweet as the grape on the vine.
A blossoming body of colour and fragrance,
A warm impulse, a treasure trove of sensations.
Lusty flesh, it wreaks havoc on the mind,
And they say only god should be glorified.

What a world it would be if flesh was not thought evil,
What a world where we could celebrate our embodiment,
And worship the body as something holy, worthy of respect.
And we would bring offerings and sensations of happiness,
Of colour, of sound and taste. Bring pleasure and passion,
To this fleeting yet meaningful temple of temporal flesh.

Original Sin

Man falls from grace embracing pride’s tower,
Building too high, a confusion of tongues,
Bow down your head, burdened by power,
Lucifer’s pride too much to carry alone,
Self important need – to be king of everything,
In gluttony, wrath, sloth, avarice, envy, lust,
Hubris at the heart of every sin.

Mind That Gender Gap – Napowrimo 25

Prompt Day 25; write a poem that uses anaphora. Anaphora is a literary term for the practice of repeating certain words or phrases at the beginning of multiple clauses or, in the case of a poem, multiple lines.

Men are from Mars,

Women are from Venus.

Women are home makers,

Men the bread winners.

Men are made of slugs and snails,

Women of sugar and spice.

Women have perfect nails,

Men can never cry

Men get fatter,
Women get thinner.
Men are the heroes,
Women the sinners.

But some men are from Venus
All feminine sweetness.
And some women are from Mars,
All masculine and hard.

The archetypal paradox,
Of this verses that,
Duality directing us,
To mind that gender gap.

The predetermined archetypes,
Conditioned we inherit,
Our idealistic stereotypes,
and we’ve got to get over it;

Women and men both connect,
To the root of our true birth.
As each in the other is perfect,
Remember, we all come from Earth

Napowrimo 24 – Raising a Temple of Words

Napowrimo24 challenges us to write a poem that features walls, bricks, stones, arches, or the like.

Like the real life sanctuary it refers to, ‘The White Spring, Glastonbury’ It is still in the process of manifestation.

To be continued. This is only the foundation.

Raising a Temple of Stories

Such stories are formed of stone,
Stories of love and of life.
Tales of death and blood and bone.
Substance of peace and strife.

Bestowed by those alive.
Mixed in with the mortar,
Even before the stones rise.
Flowing in the water.

For order and disorder,
Pulses within the land,
The elemental quarters.
Sing in every grain of sand.

In the heart of every man,
And every drop of sweat,
A sonnet in the builder’s hand.
Begotten to beget.

The mason meets the architect.
Cracks are in the quarry,
Building hasn’t started yet,
Already there’s a story.

Unintended oratory,
To lay down with each rock,
Create this place of glory.
Built over beauty – A box.

Many local folk were shocked.
Brutal behaviour.
Chain the waters of chalk.
To be sickness’ saviour.

Corporation reservoir,
For good folk of Glaston,
To rise up from cholera.
Clean water; a bastion.

A building full of contention,
Flowing with water as well,
A dubious intention.
Rising in the white spring swell.

Ancient tales won’t be dispelled.
By architecture’s intellect,
Beauty won’t remain felled;
Divine magic won’t be wrecked.

100 years of neglect,
Won’t lay it all to waste.
Ev’n respect in retrospect,
Will honour sacred place.

Lisa Goodwin – April 2014

 

Two poems – Lies – Napowrimo Day 16

Hello again

I’m learning so much about by taking part in this daily challenge. I feel exposed just posting them up right away, but I want to post these raw poems so that people see that writing can be fun. Hopefully some will feel inspired to pick up a pen and write. Poems can be silly or serious and they don’t need to be literary masterpieces to be of worth.  The right words can come in a flood of inspiration or you may need to work it, the point is to keep writing and learning the craft. It takes practice to be a master. Anyone can write a poem. It takes a master to write poetry. 

The Prompt for today’s poem is to write ten lines with each line being a lie. I had two takes on this prompt. Which do you prefer?

Political Prevarications

We are all in this together.
We have the same storms to weather.
Oh, don’t you worry about rising prices.
It’s natural, as the economy stabilises,
I’ll look after the old, frailest and poorest.
I will cut the deficit, protect the NHS.
I really do want to reassure the masses.
Read my lips. I have no plans for new taxes.
We will empower local people and communities.
Together we will build a land of opportunity.

The above statements are taken from quotes from David Cameron whilst talking about his Big Society. And from a very different angles, the paradox of lies. Again, ten lines, each one a lie…. or is it?

 

 

White Lies, Black Truth 

Oh, I’m fine.
I am raging inside.
Thank you, I love it.
I hate you, it’s hideous.
That makes sense.
Really I’m clueless.
It really doesn’t matter.
It matters more than you know.
He truly loves me.
He has no-where better to go.

#Napowrimo 14 – Ato’s Probing Questions.

 

Do you know what you are here for?
Did you fill out the form?
How do you feel about coming here?
How did you travel, do you live near?
Did you take a bus or did you drive?
In what type of house do you live?
Is there a bathroom, upstairs or down?
Do you sleep well and sound?
What time do you get up?
Can you drink from a cup?
Do you cook, does the food taste good?
Can you follow instructions on microwaveable food?
Can you use a normal washing machine?
How do you feel about changes to routine?
How many days a week do you get washed and dressed?
Do you have bladder control; do you wet the bed?
What happens if an unexpected visitor comes?
Have you ever hurt yourself, or tried to run?
Do you have a finger and a thumb?
Can you press a button, lift your arm?
Fit for Work – Ato’s assessed.
Congratulations, you passed the test;
Now get to work before you drop down dead.

 

Loving Well – Napowrimo# Day 7

Napowrimo 7 – Yesterday’s Prompt; A love poem about any inanimate object. I cheated a little since the White Spring is so very animated and alive. Still, on one level it’s just an old reservoir – It is the ancient archetypes, the water and the love and dedication of the keepers and companions of the White Spring who help keep it alive. I was once told by a good friend that if we make the world more beautiful then we have served a worthy purpose. I have endeavoured to create beauty and have the honour to do that right under Glastonbury Tor. And yes, I love it.

Loving Well

A heart is held enthralled by stone and water,
It’s beating pulse is fed by constant flow,
In face of threat or danger, it won’t falter
And even when disaster bucks the bow.

Once, twice, thrice, by strife, a love is tested,
This love requires utter sacrifice,
Lay down my self, my life, at once invested,
Embraced and held by otherworldly sighs.

Defying definition, Oh my love,
To make of me the novice, and the brave.
Release all inhibition, not enough!
To walk into the darkness of the cave.

Living on the edge of a cold chasm,
Allowed to put the grapes upon the vine,
I’m driven by an archetypal passion,
Swallowed by the taste of love divine.

And hidden in the shadow cast by candles,
My heart trips on the strings of pure delight,
And bidden by the hallows of the deep well,
I bring your loving presence to the light.

Lisa Goodwin, Bard of Ynys Witrin April 2014

Seeking Taliesin – #NaPoWriMo Day 2

Nature applauds us with cheers of thunder,
And cascades of rain. Every moment under,
Her grasp, so tenacious threatens to take me.
To devour and love me, yet forsake me.
Gwion am I who took from her cauldron,
The three blessed drops of pure inspiration.

Oh, she is not happy, she’s making a fuss.
She will tear me apart, I know that I must,
Flee the Enchantress, so crooked, yet fair.
There beats in my chest, the heart of a hare.
I dart over the earth with a bitch on my heel.
The start of a quest to discover what’s real.
And so I embark on my fateful folly;
Seeking to find I am not my body!

Rain claps the river and cold water beckons,
My sense of self just another obsession,
I dive in the water, my heart skips a beat,
As my salmon body leaps into the deep.
Transformed into otter, she threatens to eat me,
Still, I am determined she won’t defeat me,
So I sweep through the rivers and scale the oceans;
Seeking to find I am not my emotions!

Now cold blue lightning lashes the water,
And I know that the otter bitch will not falter.
So fins turn to wings and I take to the air,
Hearing the birds sing of freedom up there,
Her hawk eye is on me. She’s still on my back,
Clipping my feathers and poised to attack!
I look to the wind, ask how I’m defined.
Only seeking to find I am not my mind!

And now as my body descends from the flight,
The clouds reveal a crescendo of light,
And riding it’s rays, I blaze into the corn,
I await the goddess, I will be reborn.
Surrendered, devoured, I am not beaten,
As by the holy Ceridwen I am eaten.
I look to my mother to ask what I got,
Only seeking to find, I am not, I am not, I am not.

I grow in her belly, a year and a day,
I am birthed and re-birthed, and then cast away.
Swaddled in crane skin, thrown in the sea,
There I come to All knowing, or it comes to me.
And there stops my seeking and wishing to be,
For what I am seeking is resting in me.
And as you can tell by the fire in my head,
I am the Bard Taliesin; He Thrice blessed.

Lisa Goodwin – Chaired Bard of Ynys Witrin – April 2014

Boston Bomb, Something’s Wrong! #napowrimo17

A day ahead of myself in light of the news x Poem 17 – I can have a day off tomorrow 😉

 False flag terrorist,

MI6 playing tricks

FBI sends a spy,

accusation never sticks

pseudo gangs created,

by governement.

Infiltrated

mirrors and smoke

for angry folk

and the media is fixated

An agent provocateur

with motives not too pure,

blames insurgent,

or innocent gent,

while bloody scenes endure.

To those wishing for better days;

the brave ones who won’t turn away –

Boston Bomb,

something’s wrong,

NOW, I got something to say.

And it’s getting pretty urgent,

despite our common divergence,

this is a stitch up confusion of which,

man or operative was insurgent!

False flaggers get a slapped wrist,

and everyone else is a terrorist,

9.11, 7.7 – a common obsession,

turns me into conspiracy theorist.

.

Free Energy #napowrimo16

He keeps his invention locked in cellar gallery;
Scientific convention imposed impossibility,
He never does his work for dollar, fame or salary
and he only pays attention to energy that’s free.

His springs and pendulum, defying contravention,
perpetual momentum, his whole intention
he doesn’t mention, the purpose of his invention
to free orgone; under detached home, he develops it alone.

So genius stays hidden, and he is set free by and by;
Not always utterly smitten by the monumental lie,
Mess with corporation’s science, then you die!
So he looked for an alliance and he died

They burnt the notes he left when they took the story teller
Public-ally, gone, dereft, left us with liberation in the cellar