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

The King is Dead! Long Live the King!

The Wild Winter King has finally yielded,
His frozen breath left the forest for dead,
The goddess stirred when the cold had receded.
Awakened to seek a summer consort instead.
A young bright prince has arrived in the story,
And he’s set to rule in the Winter King’s stead.
The Queen passes by; oak, ash and thorny,
As she enters the forest in search of her mate,
Her touch reveals blossoming nature’s glory.
Nature intensifies and wild venerates,
Unity, sacred and coming to being,
May Queen and Summer King enter the chase.
Who’s doing the chasing and who is fleeing?
Sovereignty comes and chooses her kin,
Dances a mandala of new life to being.

The King is Dead! Long Live the King!

Lisa Goodwin – #Napowrimo Day 14 – April 2014

In the Name of Brighde

Today we honour Dagda’s daughter,
She thrice blessed by fire and water.
As we crave the light and stir the seeds;
We shape our world in the name of Brighde.

The poet’s art, a fire in the head,
Words to inspire, craft prayers unsaid.
Hark to the sound of the bard, and heed;
We shape our world in the name of Brighde.

The healers touch, a fire in the hearth.
The midwife’s blush at every new birth.
Til death’s cold touch, and the spirit freed;
We shape our world in the name of Brighde.

The blacksmith’s craft, the fire of the forge.
The flame of creation to temper the sword,
Empowers the warrior in word and deed;
We shape our world in the name of Brighde.

Yes, today we honour Dagda’s daughter,
She thrice blessed by fire and water.
Her triple flame brings all that we need,
To shape our world in the name of Brighde.

So poets, healers, blacksmiths all,
Feel the impulse, heed the call,
Strong as oak, supple as reed,
Shape your world in the name of Brighde.

The White Spring – Glastonbury poem

 

On the threshold into blackness,
Hear the waters, smell incense on the air,
Darkness beckons – dare,
To enter.

Vast cavern, embracing chamber,
Candlelight ripples, pools consciousness,
Pathways to providence,
To enter.

Deep in the well, stare into water,
where mystery dwells, follow the track,
Flips under, over and back
To enter

Into the gateway, otherworld bidding,
Time shifting altar, Seasons of day to day,
The King of the Realm of Fae,
To enter.

Wildwood Lord, strength of stag,
Graceful yielding to treasure within,
The heartbeat of Nature,
To enter.

Upstream, a salmon’s step, calls deeper, deeper,
Living hazel bower, holding Brigit’s Fire
To incite, inflame, desire,
To enter.

Peace of rushing water, Memory remains,
hidden in veins, quickening blood,
A fervent flood,
To enter.

The waters pull, impassioned call,
Deep cold cauldron, The Lady of Avalon,
Waters of purification,
To enter.

The depth of spirit, breath leaves body,
Sensation, creation, embody.
Dark, then embark into the sun,
Brand new day begun.
To Enter

In the courtyard, Ground red, Sky blue,
No thing to say, nothing to do
Just to be,
At peace in sanctuary.

Kids in chaos, a common disorder

The Educational Psychologist puts it in context,
To a room full of teachers, he defines the complex,
Of all those children, disordered and unruly,
I raise my hand, ‘Please Sir – would you have judged me so shrewdly?’

What would you have seen in that kooky, choosy,
screwy, fruity, moody, loony teen?
What would I be if you put me in a box,
To unlock the paradox of this disruptive chatterbox?

A genius with Aspergers, or ADHD,
Oppositional defiant, with a conduct disability,
I had generalised anxiety and grandoise delusions,
A factitious discord with fregoli illusions,

Mildly catatonic,anti-social, occasional
bipolar, borderline intellectual,
A strong willed drama diva,
with ‘how to behave’ amnesia.

Each day I went home,
With a general adaptation syndrome,
And a touch of hyper-mania,
It gets even more insania.

Little impulse control,
Malingering manic episodes.
Post traumatic embitterment, Rationally belligerent,
Seasonal adjustment, rebellion deliberate.

And transient global amnesia to boot,
When I was fifteen I wasn’t that cute.
Would you have had the time or inclination to define,
The child who wouldn’t conform to societal conditioning norm,

Would you make a box to put me in?
Chuck me in the water to sink or swim?
Would you write my statistics down
whilst I drown or clown around?

Would I get a bitter pill to still the stress,
Of not being what you expect;
the kind of child selected, To be the perfect prefect,
Too numb to be anything but an invisible defect.

Sitting still in class – ification,
Hiding my irrepressible rebellion,
Just in case you try to kill,
My spirit with a regularly taken pill.

And would your pill find me
somewhere to be real,
Someone to see beneath the skin,
would it keep the pain in?

So it don’t spill in the halls,
and run down the walls,
soaking my playground fears in tears
of public rain.
Can a pill kill that pain?
Please, assess and test me again.

Would I think you were wise
as the spark leaves my eyes,
And my genius dies,
while you sit in your suit and itemise.

My disorder that’s leaving
every cell in my being
screaming ‘Im sorry!’ I’m me.
I felt free! I thought I could be who I wanted to be.

I was too unconventional; did things unmentionable,
I was too objectionable, and not at all ‘ sit on that bench!’ able,
Would you make me broken and cordon me in,
take the credit for fixing me and boxing me in with Ritalin?

Kids too fast, kids too slow,
those who don’t know where to go,
Kids too cheeky, kids too sneaky,
those too challenging, or just a bit peaky.
Kids too truthful, kids too rue-full,
those too ‘won’t follow what you do!’ full
Kids too contentious, kids too rebellious,
those opting out of the prospectus of correctness

Is it right to dull the zealous and impetuous,
The marvellous and rebellious,
Miscontented, disaffected, and connected?
How do you decide who’s respected or rejected?

Kids in chaos. A common disorder,
Not being what society thinks they oughta
Have we nothing to learn from them at all?
Children empowered, feeling ten feet tall!
Really? Should we drug them all?

Meretricious Madame Mouley – #napowrimo22

Sometimes I find a story in history that is begging to be told – this is one of them –

I was researching an ancestor General Poeymiru, and found this gruesome tale. It was going to be a short story but since it is national poetry month I thought I would try writing a poem – It may have been wise to stay as a story x

I  would appreciate any feedback on how I can improve – Thanks for reading!

A woman lived in a wall in Fez,
her treachery you would never guess,
the press called her the Fez Ogress,
and her slaves lay down at her bequest.

When a Muslim garrison mutinied,
they abandoned their officers brutally,
but the Frenchmen found their sanctuary,
in the Chez of Madame Mouley.

Mouley, Mouley cheated the grave because of the officers that she saved.

Before the officers could be oppressed,
the girls with razors and great finesse,
Shaved them and put them into a dress;
In a strange harem they made their nest.

Funny how pretty a man can be,
with a bit of make up and a veil or three,
When the mob turned up they couldn’t see,
the frenchmen in Madame Mouley’s.

Mouley, Mouley cheated the grave because of the Frenchmen that she shaved.

Poeymiru and a thousand men,
were given a warning from the fatal femme,
Intelligence that they didn’t ken,
that a plot was hatching to murder them.

But when they came to give her a prize,
The women of Fez raised up their cry,
That the French men shouldn’t Idolise,
Meretricious  Madame Mouley.

Mouley, Mouley cheated the grave because the garrison was unscathed.

For in her home in the wall in Fez,
important men would come for sex,
Her slaves were really put to the test,
never found any peaceful rest.

They danced all day and danced all night,
they had to stay and face their plight,
No feasible way to take their flight,
from the house of Madam Mouley.

Mouley, Mouley cheated the grave because she kept such pretty slaves.

One dancing lady held her ground,
she was told to dance and whirl around,
with a scalding goblet on her crown,
when she burnt she never made a sound.

To dance with danger, boiling tea,
can not be done very easily,
she couldn’t fight she couldn’t flee,
dance naked poor Cherrifa.

Cherrifa slave girl danced in vain; if she spilt the tea it was her to blame.

Then a fat old Pasha wanted pins,
to be stuck into Cherrifa’s skin,
he heated the bit that didn’t go in,
but instead the fire welled up within.

She’d had enough of being a slut,
so she hit in him in his greedy gut,
and he came back with an uppercut,
split the lip of sweet Cherrifa.

Cherrifa slave girl, danced in vain; it nearly made her go insane.

Madame Moulet screamed and spat,
when Cherrifa hit the aristocrat,
they kicked and beat her with a brutal bat,
and feed her flesh to Mouley’s cat.

And under the fig tree by the wall in Fez,
lay the bones of poor Cheriffa, dead,
yet Mouley never lost her head,
when she murdered bold Cherrifa.

Cherrifa slave girl danced in vain; endured a torture most profane.

The children watched her cold demise,
they couldn’t tell, they couldn’t cry,
they couldn’t find the answer why,
cos they knew that they would also die.

They couldn’t run they couldn’t hide,
or contemplate their suicide,
they couldn’t even get outside,
to pray for poor Cherrifa.

Cherrifa slave girl danced in vain; death her only freedom’s gain.

The children couldn’t flee from harm,
but the fig tree fell and raised alarm,
so this time the French Gendarme,
were forced to ignore old Mouley’s charm.

All she had to say to them,
was I saved the lives of 1000 men,
they couldn’t see, they couldn’t ken.
Behind the wall in Madame Mouley’s.

Africa’s stolen sons and daughters, in the wall starved and tortured.

‘Answer in the name of the law!
Is there anyone behind that wall? ‘
All they heard was a trapped cat’s call,
bumps and scratches, that was all.

‘Would you walk into my private chamber?
Would you question my behaviour?
Would you insult Poeymirau’s saviour?
Said formidable Madame Mouley

Africa’s stolen sons and daughters, were buried in the bricks and mortar.

As the Gendarme turned to leave,
and Moulet thought she’d won reprieve,
the wall did sigh, the wall did heave,
and the Frenchmen wouldn’t be deceived.

Since one small boy did give the shout,
we are dying here please get us out,
now the Gendarme had the proof to doubt.
The terrible Madame Moulet.

Africa’s stolen sons and daughters, four days without food or water.

They smashed and took down all the plaster,
Mouley got in a dreadful fluster,
She knew that this could spell disaster,
When the news got to the general master.

Madam Mouley couldn’t flee
Emaciated children finally free,
they told the police the whole story,
Of evil Madam Mouley

Africa’s stolen sons and daughters, barely escaped a brutal slaughter.

The gendarme had to apprehend,
French colonials couldn’t defend,
they had no choice but to condemn,
and plan for Madam Mouley’s end.

They told her they would have her head,
then instead she hid in a prison bed,
and the people assumed that she was dead.
Grave cheating Madame Mouley

Madame Mouley cheated the grave, despite the children she enslaved.

Mouley dodged the guillotine blade,
She already had her rescue laid,
by the men she saved and the men she played,
The cost of freedom was pre-paid.

A year and a day and she was free
the twist of justice was for-seen,
but one thing she could never flee,
was the ghost of sweet Cheriffa.

Now Cheriffa dances in Mouley’s head, and she wishes she had lost it instead.

Poets, bards, lyricists … #napowrimo19

Poets bards lyricists,
please tell me this …
or is there something
I have missed ?
Is it normal for
words and inspiration,
that arrive by invitation,
to speak out in a rush,
of furious dedication?
Lost backlog of words
clamour for attention,
give them intention,
Then a flurry and a flood
at the edge of perception.
They come,
hands hardly keep up
with the writing
and the typing
editing and getting
them done,
and words going
round and round
not even knowing
if I like the sound,
of my own voice,
the rhythm,
the timbre choice,
and tracing beats
as I walk the street
and counting
syllables in songs …
judging right or wrong.

Is it normal or
too informal to ask?

Is this really what makes
words that will last?

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