Ophelia's Nun

It was a bloke. But yes, as I escaped the library I considered there were further horrors alive and ready to leap out of his tupperware box....

Dang-dang-DAAAAAANGGG!!!!!!!!!!

:D:D

He had a brick head, it was bald, it was dented.
He dared you to hit it, you even consented.
His forehead was furrowed, not by indecision
But by a big boot from a warden, in prison.

His nose spread flat out, like a steak in the butchers.
His cheek was knife-scarred; it had never had stiches.
His neck was all scrawny, tattooed with a spider.
His unknuckled hands gripped a can of warm cider.

He sat on the bench by the bridge on the river.
He liked to get students with lobs of saliva.
He'd stay, shouting out at the thick riverflow, or
grey- dappling rainclouds. "Whaddoo I know, uh?"

He looked like Montaigne in that funny old painting.
Sometimes, if you heard past the raving and ranting
He'd roar from his bench with his can or his bottle,
He was that philosopher, going full throttle.

There's cider unbought in the store's frosty cooler.
The bench has been claimed by a lesser old drooler.
The students aren't gobbed on, the river runs faster
Perhaps there's some spirit there, giving it lustre.

Originally posted by dyaogirl

I drink my Merlot
with a shot of Tequila
Telescopic visions of guardian angels
Paint pictures of stars
Their Distortions of light
Shine on dimly lit paths

Hey, another shot perhaps
I strain and grope for the bridge to heaven
Oh, but for those dimly lit stars
The heavens unfold into wordless nothings

Knowingly I knock the scope to the ground

Yet, here it is

It’s not them never was

It’s me

I’m reflected in those countless the grains of sand
Illuminating perfection on this beautiful beach
My tangerine toes buried in its warmth
I radiate sun and shape the stars
Death is not the bridge to heaven
As I tune in and drink my Merlot
with a shot of Tequila

Forever in Blue Agave Dreams

:):)

These days, my heart is wintered and my memory is bare
and twisted as the dark and windworn boughs
The store for spring's deserting me - there's nothing for my ear
But echoes from the fleeing raingull's cries
The hands that gave are stripped and torn, my eyes let in the chill
The path to me is taken by the ice
And i will die like this, to let the stormwind have its will
If time has ceased to lend to me your voice

Before the ferns were red and still, before the river froze
you lay by me and sang, to match my bloom
and all the skies were stretched to light the one unbriared rose
Beneath my young and heavy blossom's gleam
There, the sunning meadows tossed their curls and kept us free
to whisper our wild love inside the breeze
Until an old wind swooped to tear life's flame away from me
The day the first bird rose out for the seas

Tonight will have the cries of wolves come sail through me again:
I'll amplify each near and hunting call.
If my dead frame can sound, to warn the deer that roams alone
to run, then I'll be pleased my heart is still.
If there's so sun returning here, the ravens are my stars
and on these mountain fields, no rose will grow:
the river will not thaw my love, unless you lend your voice -
Return the song that only my ear knew.


That's an older lyric that I used to sing. Strange to read it now. It almost seems to belong to another lifetime. Now, I'll write some new ones for today.

Here's one I just wrote a few minutes ago. It's about a homeless woman who sleeps in the reference section of my local public library.

Black woollen hat. Black bomber jacket. Gloves,
fingerless. Socks. Shoes, off. Skin, death grey.
Lips, blanched, vice tight. Eyes shut. She rarely moves,
Slouched at that 'private study' desk all day
(The one she comes to sleep at, from the street).
It's nearly June. She wants the window shut
that might let out the stench or ease the heat.
She's cold. Someone shouts out, "Kick out that mutt."
She snores. A man and woman enter now,
Their stagey whispers hissing in their ears
As they stand right above her. "God! I know
It's her!", this woman splutters, wiping jetted tears
from both her cheeks. "There's nothing we can do",
That man says, making distance. "Come, let's go."

A pier-glass, a Circle of Friends statue,
Merlot bought from Eddie's market,
A bottle of glittering red,
and candlelight thriving on living room walls:
I travelled to you that first night.
I touched your goldenhair in rolling flow
And wept when you told of your love for me.
Under the dancing tongues of blazing wonder
I kissed your lips, lovebalmed for me.
Over oceans, but knowing the pulse of earth,
Sensing love's path of energy
between dimensions of stillness
I'll come tonight and hold you in my arms,
as I have every night since our first touch.
Oh, my love, my love,
Blissweaver ,
Jewelstar,
Earthpulse,
Heaven,
Home.

Those black plugs in the bog, glutting up
the throats of holes in earth, they're not
stagnant mud, there. That's water.
Go up with your wellies.
Sink a boot down. Deeper! See now?
Well, Archimedes, look at the spawn rising,
brimming, spilling life. There's a flow!
Feel it lapping on the rubber, there.
A spring, nearby. This is water
from the ground, not just bucketed from above,
spat down from Slievemore's chin of
Desperate Dan quartzjaw blue,
And left to fester.
This is where you get your images of dull,
choking earth and strangled weeds,
But you don't even go up to the mud
and feel it!

Look there!
Feel! Hear! Here!
It's alive,
adance,
in play ....

See, see now, see
the greenness of the reeds?
Do, do now,
touch a posy,
Shining, hidden
on heatherpurpled headland;
Now, plod
Where otters plod,
Rustle onward
To love,
Where loving rustles are abundant

And know the rhythm of the pulse of mud
Harbouring small life.
Know the shimmerings of forms in rushing grass
And know the life of bogland.
Know of love.