posted March 05, 2005 04:44 PM         

Be the thorn in my side
Be the cross that I bear
The pain is more precious
Than pleasures celestial

As my unholy misery
clears the gauzy allure
I lay persecuted
Splattered across the pedestal

My sinning presence
draws garbs anew
the wench of the west
the saint of yore

And through the throes of my demise
rose your phoenixian charisma
and the cosmos applauds
your robes fresh and pure

posted March 06, 2005 11:29 AM         

(So, is that your Venus/Mars opposition to Pluto, your own phoenixian charisma, talking ((to me)) again, or what?)

But, maya, I don't believe you meant to say that misery was unholy. I think you know, at least as well as I do, that all joy is born in out of misery; and the greatest joys are born of the greatest miseries. Isn't that the story of the phoenix; the one your poem ultimately conveys?

"Where there is suffering, there's holy ground." - Oscar Wilde

posted March 08, 2005 04:26 PM         

Most of my stuff is pretty tame, or has been, till now. Is passionate but not so graphic. This one kinda scared me a little bit.

Thanks for seeing past the words and getting the meaning

posted March 09, 2005 11:03 AM         

Broken shards of a million rainbows
Lacerating the tender soles of my baby steps
Squinting eyes look out at the desolate landscape
Faintly marking the outline of broken hopes

Why does it have to work at all
If some day it is meant to be broken
Why does the fresh, playful dew kiss the rose's cheeks
If it is going to disappear by the light of the day

And the echoes ringing deafeningly
Through the cold, drafty hallways of my soul
And the thunder of memories drowns my pitiful screams
As my heart falls into the forever despair pit

posted March 09, 2005 01:36 PM         

I cannot dispute the darkness, but to say that there is also light. Your poem speaks to the truth of a moment in time, a moment of true inspiration. But time is never static. "The sun also rises." Yes, and hastens to the place of its demise. And, of all things, nothing is as complete, or as dead, as a work of art founded on conviction; all answers and no questions. We must transcend the work if we are to see what lies beyond it. What comes next?

Nothing real is ever finished, and what can be said? Only this: That one must learn to breath the air of the moment; for that is always the freshest.

When the soul breathes out its last breath, then there is room for the spirit to enter in. "It is always darkest just before the dawn."

posted March 12, 2005 11:41 AM         

Like snow I fell to earth
Like snow to earth I sink

Oh ephemeral passing light
What springtimes you pursue