Post Your Poetry
Witchvox Chapter: Local Poetry
||Chapter Page Views: 24,627,082
VxPoem ID: 5205
Posted: July 21st. 2004 1:32:53 PM
Lunatic Ravings! (VERY long)
Age Group: Adult
There is clarity in the darkness. As night descends, those who twist and turn, scurrying like mice, running without purpose in the bright fire of the sun, retire to their abodes, safe and secure from the darkness.
In that darkness arises those souls who are calmed, secure and confident, in the night. The tempest of confusion during the day gives way to the clearness of the night. They do not carry preconceptions, are less judgemental, more accepting, open minded...
...more in touch with themselves, with the dark aspects of the phases of the moon, with the dark, the Comforter, the Equalizer.
All things become equal in the dark. More on an even keel. The darkness surrounds us all like a blanket of warmth, enveloping us with its ability to see others and ourselves as we really are - without the blinding glare of the sameness of automatons, of a mindless collective, with no REAL direction.
The Night. Descending Darkness, prevents the blinding mask of Day from hiding the true nature of our souls, conceived in that darkness. The dark seeks its own. We are the dark from dusk 'till dawn.
There are those who feed off others in the dark, who suck dry the very soul and essence of their brethern in the night. They have not learned to seek those plagued by the day, to feed off of their blind, repetitive, mundane destructive sameness.
Sustenance should come from feeding the desire to drink from the well-spring of lives with no real purpose, with no direction, no real understanding of what it is to really LIVE. The ones with no real joy or understanding, no flame or passion within their souls, whether that passion is for the simplicity of the beat of a song, moving them to sway and gyrate, or if that passion is for the search for the eternal inner enlightment of the soul. Those without purpose, without passion, are the ones who truly suck dry the "joie de vivre" from us all.
Enlightenment is a misnomer - it is rather a clarity of understanding our true nature, brought by the dark.
I dream the darkness of the souls of mankind. I am the darkness and in the dark, I see leagues of souls, legion, in their own self-created, twisted, helpless, hopeless, desperateness that leads to senseless acts of abomination and destruction they have created for themselves. Yet those "sinners" are ever ready to cast the first stone in the name of the "light".
In the darkness is the seed of creation that germinates and grows to fruition, to rise up through drought and flood, to grow strong and beautiful.
Countless lifetimes I have lived and witnessed them in their mere mortal existance fanatically frantic trying to keep pace with their version of life in the hope of a better death. Yet I know that I am immortal, as it was ordained from ancient times. So short, so fleeting, so fragile and inconsequential, is THIS lifetime, that they either act as ants - constantly striving vainly, or do nothing and wither and die. Possibly it is the curse of the sameness, of not having gotten it right in their past lifetimes, or of trying to live others lives for them that has dulled their senses to the rapture, the enthralling passion of being alive.
I have learned so many things, in so many lifetimes that a longing has set in. A desire to evolve from this life, a chrysalis, from pupae to winged moth or butterfly, to ascend beyond the temporal, this temporary life that I now have. Drive a wooden stake through my heart and cut off my head - then burn me at the stake, and still this will not set me free.
I will never be set free from this longing, no matter what may befall me.
Even during the dreaded glaring daylight that I abhor, the night sways me - moves me - calls to me. Even in everyday mundane things. I drive the van 50 m.p.h. in a 25 zone - only to FEEL the radar of the cop ahead. I slow to the limit, unseen ahead of me he sits at the intersection. He already has someone pulled over. Yet I felt the radar of his thoughts, like a spider in a web.
Things like this, unknown reasoning, without logic, pure knowledge, these fill every waking hour and the dreams in the dark fortell the future or the present.
The tides of destiny and creation ebb and flow within me.
I can feel it.
I can hear it.
I sense their presence.
The birds and animals, even the very trees and stones
talk to me, tell me of things to come, tell me of things that are now. The clouds do especially. They paint pictures for me in the sky of that which is or will be. July 14th, a Sunday in 1991, the clouds showed pregnant women giving birth. My daughter was born the next morning as I knew she would be. I have never told her mother this. She would never understand. But I can tell that someday soon, my daughter will. I see it in her eyes, even now, so young. She has told me already of stories of her past lives, where she was her mother's mother. She has never mentioned our bond that brought us here and now, though I felt it from the first time I held her.
Revelations happen in the most unexpected of places and times. Often I have pondered my "raison d'etre", for being on this Earth, in this time. In the past I have experienced more and more strange and un-nerving psychic/supernatural phenomena and anomolies.
Dreaming of walking in a desert and talking to an anciently old Indian wearing a headband, only to wake up and find sand in my shoes. (I didn't take them off before I fell asleep)
Feeling/knowing that a physical Earth change had just happened or would happen hours or days prior. (like Mt. St. Helens or the L.A. earthquake or the tornado touchdown in my hometown in 1985)
Watching the rapid deterioration of Mother Earth, the air, the land, the water as we wantonly smother Her for our own personal selfish greed.
Realizing after I studied Lakota culture that I would have been a heyoka, not just because of my love of storms, and lightning, and thunder, but becaues of the lightning strike that came within 15 feet of me, that could have ended my life.
"Reviewing" all of my past dreams and "visions" from as far back as I could remember and realizing that there were recurring themes -
being chased by grizzly and black bears which taught me how to fly in my dreams.
traversing labyrinths in corn fields and wheat fields and the woods
nearly drowning in an ancient Egyptian tomb that had begun to flood with sea water
falling from bridges that had given way
And then there were the other experiences or precognitions.
an attack of deja vu that lasted, literally, for 15-20 continuous, non-stop, terrifying, wonderfully tortureous minutes that were so intense that I thought there was something wrong and that I was going to die.
seeing the faceless form of a man walking toward me at a guard shack only the closer he got the more you noticed that he had no facial features - until he was ten feet away and simply vanished...
the childhood playful predictions made while playing with a Kreskin's ESP game as to the death of members of my family, parents, aunts, uncles, siblings only to realize when the list and dates were found many years later that they had ALL, every single one, come true to the month and year, and mostly within 7 days of total accuracy...
sittting in a Pub with a friend who didn't believe about the "Gift", so I stared past him and saw a picture in my minds eye, and described a house (he used to live in) , and a young girl of about 6 or 7 years old (his neighbor and first crush) , so completely and in such exact detail that that he freaked out and would have nothing to do with me from that point on...
All of this bestowed upon me the nickname of Obi-Wan from friends and acquaintences alike.
I realized at age 11, that if I could concentrate hard enough and completely enough, that I could get the molecules in my hand to viabrate at the right frequency, and that I could make my hand, or even my whole body, to be able to pass through a wall.
I can see in my minds eye the area that I now live in and what it will look like in the near future. At the campus area of the university, the buildings are fallen, crumbling down, destroyed, some partially collapsed. The bridge across the main road at the parking deck to the campus core has fallen, broken midway and blocking the street below, the east pillar still standing. The earth is brown, no green grass, no shrubs, no trees. Smoke still drifts from the downtown area south of campus from fires that started from bursting gas mains as buildings gave way. The freeway north of campus is now a sludgy river of muck from the flood of water that came after and left silt and muck to dry in the heat of the sun. Cars are absent from the roads except for a few washed there by the flooding waters or stalled and abandoned by those unfortunate few caught inside them when the disasters hit. Further out to the west, everything is flattened, barren stumps of trees sticking out of brown earth or the sludge filled pits of houseless basements pockmarking the endlessly rolling flattened earth...
Ages parade slowly by as I watch from my own little corner of existance the dancing of ants scurrying helter skelter. So industrious.
I tell myself that being alone is adventageous for my survival, yet I have so much to give, so much knowledge, so much experience, so many experiences to share.
To the un-initiated who happen to cross my path it seems that I have fallen out of the mainstream and in a certain fashion I have.
No longer needing to participate, as an ant, I have done my toiling - enough to last several lifetimes. Rather I sit back and watch...
Ever vigilant for the one, or two, or three that can be taught, that will benefit from my experiences and knowledge, if they choose.
I cannot say wisdom for who amongst us can judge who is wise?... based on whose crieteria?...
So I continue night after night in solitude, to dream, parchance to revel in the moment even if it is quiet, and dark, and solitary.
It is a strength and a burden. Yet one chosen to be bourne. I have taken the name LaCroix and as the name implies in its translation, "the cross", that I bear willingly. Even as each has their own "crosses" to bear or albatrosses as the case may be, but only if it is burdensome.
From the time I was young, even when the confusion and chaos of the day fed my soul with debauchery unmatched by Caligula himself, the darkness whispered to me.
The Goddess had chosen me even then. At age eleven, those older than I by ten or twenty years would comment on how I thought and felt like I was fourty.
The older I became, the more ancient my thoughts
and the more youthful my passions and desires became.
But even then I knew that mine was to be a solitary life, yet filled with many children, if not by blood...
I have lost count over the years, and lost touch with most of my children, lost contact with lives I have touched in some inexplicable manner, for better or worse.
(Sans mortal love
Sans mortal desires.)
As a child, I used to pray to the Gods night after night, crying myself to sleep, begging for the lives of my parents, "Pleeease, don't let Mommy die!... Pleeease, don't let Daddy die!"
My grandfather died when I was four. And I had loved him with all of my innocent heart. As was the custom in ancient times, I was led to his cold, still body, and was told to "kiss Grandpa goodbye, " and that he was in "Heaven" now. Words cannot express my gratitude,
as his leaving this realm started my journey, my quest for immortality. I myself was terrified
(Pleeease, I don't want to DIE! I WANT TO LIVE!!)
The finality, the solitude of it.
Each persons death, as well as their birth, is solely their own.
As I grew older, I was melancholy as this realization - that each of us ARE an island unto ourselves.
True, we can sympathize with another, based on our OWN experiences.
Yes, we can empathize with another and understand to a degree what they may feel based on our OWN experiences.
But we can never totally share anothers thoughts, or feelings, or dreams, or perspective.
We do not see with their eyes or feel with their heart.
We do not think with their mind or perceive with their soul.
That is until we transcend this life?!?
and can we even then?!?
The creative fantasy of science fiction has given us the collective mind, but can we ever truly experience a/the "collective" or "grok" another person entirely?
Or is it that we DO live in "the Matrix"?
The yearning to share -
my whole being with another,
and the realization that in this realm it should, would, could never occur,
created the melancholy within me.
The realization that I should, would, could never be satisfied with mere "mortal" love,
and so the Goddess chose me for her own,
for Her apprentice,
as Her lover,
as Her pupil,
to dispell my sadness and the loneliness and the solitude,
as I can see Her manifestations in ALL things, at ALL times.
(As above, so below)
I may pass from this realm perhaps tonight,
or a thousand years from now,
and I can say I will be comforted when I arrive in Caer Arianhod.
And there will be rejoicing at my return to my lovers embrace, greeting me, dispelling my tears and longing,
What is eternity to a mortal?
A mortal dies their inevitable death.
If they were "Christian", is their eternity a blissful slice of "Heaven",
or a blistering brimstone pit?
How do you truly KNOW you are going to "Heaven", or is your Deceiver deceiving you once again?
Can you honestly say without equivocation that you KNOW where you are going?
Liar, liar, Brimstone fire.
You're damned either way.
To say yes, is an outright lie
no matter how much FAITH you possess.
You cannot tell me that you know the heart and soul of your God (and you believe your God will really forgive you for all the sins you have committed?)
and that your God has given you immortality!?
He that hath ears, let him hear the truth, and the truth is that you do not know what lies beyond. Your faith has blinded you (that is why it is called "blind" faith) and that Faith has closed your hearts and minds and stopped up your ears to TRUTH.
TRUTH STANDS ALONE and needs no faith. But there cannot be Faith without Truth.
Once you "listen" to Truth, you will see the hypocracy of your "Faith".
Do you look or do you "see"?
Do you hear or do you "listen"?
And what a pity that there are so many who cannot tell the difference.
You condemn the gays, and the pagans, and the Catholics, and the hustlers, pimps, prostitutes, seers, shamans, and all others who do not "believe" the same as you. Yet you cannot see for the log that is impaled in your own eyes.
Judge ye not, that ye be not judged, or so the saying goes.
But may I remind you, that according to your "Good Book", man was made in God's image, not in "your" image.
You must stop trying to mold mankind into YOUR image,
the image that you see,
that you want us to be.
Here, you are damned yet again for idolatry and covetousness,
trying to mold us into your own graven images,
our souls to become a clone
of your own making, in your own image.
Alas, you have sinned again for trying to steal our individuality and freedom of choice
by threat and force and violence if necessary.
Murdering reason and thought and minds and masses.
How many thousands, how many millions,
have been put to death under your intolerance,
in the name of your God,
because they are not like you,
in your image?
Their blood cries out from the Earth
Let's see now, so far you've put yourself before your God
trying to create your fellow man
in your own sick, twisted, bigotted, judgemental, perverted, intolerant image,
setting yourself up as God,
judging the weak, the different, those unlike you. (a big no-no with him)
(breaks the first commandment)
In His name,
with His name on your lips,
you confess and profess to love.
and to Believe.
Yet when your time comes,
and come it must,
will you really believe?
Can you say at the hour of your death
when the terror of the finality of it sinks in,
that he will save you even with all of the
real as well as imagined sins you have committed?
That you believe?
So, now you've taken his name in vain, too...
And tell me, how many of you "celebrate"
the Sabbat... (Sabbath) and keep it "holy"?
Or do you go there to chat with your neighbors and friends
or about your neighbors and friends,
talking about this one and that
wearing your jewels and pearls and finery?
Gossiping about who's "backsliding"
(behind their back no less)
or do you go as a beggar, a pauper, a homeless person,
who truly rejoices and revels on the Sabbat (h) ,
because that is all they have to sustain them?
To nurture them, to maintain and uplift them.
(tsk, tsk, tsk...there's three)
..... (more to come here mon enfants et mes amis....)
It's 5 a.m.
Do you know where your children are?
Do you know who your children are
and what mischief they have created this night?
Does the scourge hurt you mes enfants?
It hurts you worse than it hurts me, but I only punish you because I love you.
So sadistic, isn't it?
But, art thou willing to suffer for thy art?
Give it some thought before you answer.
The Goddess will hold you to it
and the choice is irrevokable.
There is always sadness with the joy, pain with the pleasure, suffering with the elation.
Can it be otherwise?
The saying goes that you learn or you don't live very long.
We learn through pain.
The fire burns you and you flinch.
The thorn pricks you and you bleed.
The sun sears you and you seek shelter.
Like the thorn of a rose, even the most beautiful of objects and desires can please or hurt,
gratify or wound you, sometimes to the depths of your very soul.
But we each learn from that pain. About life, and ourselves, and others.
We transcend, we overcome, we conquer, and thrive.
Bleeding, a little,
or a lot.
Except, somehow we each manage to staunch the gush of blood, stitch up the cut, mend the affliction.
And much wiser for it.
Do not think that I am a martyr, or even wish to play that role
merely because I choose to suffer.
And, yes, I have chosen my path.
Mine is a dark road to travel and few follow willingly.
But are any of you jazz afficianatos out there familiar with Charles Mingus' "The Chill of Death"?
Well, it seems that there were two paths to choose from for this poor soul who chose the path that appeared to be the most pleasant.
Only it wasn't.
Wasn't what it seemed.
It seemed to be heaven...
So I ask again mes enfants, art though willing to suffer for thy art?
Author's Location: Meadville, Pennsylvania
More Poems: Beoluth has posted 30 additional poems- View them?
Author's Profile: To learn more about Beoluth - Click HERE
Contact Me Via Email...
Email Invites Note: Yes! I have opted to receive invites to Pagan events, groups, and commercial sales
Disclaimer: The Witches' Voice inc does not verify the accuracy of the details stated in this listing, nor do we vouch for the value of the goods or services presented here... As with all contacts and financial dealings in cyberspace, we encourage you to use caution and wisdom in your dealings with strangers.
Political Statements: Any and all personal political opinions expressed in the public listing sections (including, but not restricted to, personals, events, groups, shops, Wren's Nest, etc.) are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect the opinion of The Witches' Voice, Inc. TWV is a non-profit, non-partisan educational organization.
State/Country flags created by 3dflags.com and are used with permission
Web Site Content (including: text - graphics - html - look & feel)
Copyright 1997-2016 The Witches' Voice Inc. All rights reserved
Note: Authors & Artists retain the copyright for their work(s) on this website.
Unauthorized reproduction without prior permission is a violation of copyright laws.
Website structure, evolution and php coding by Fritz Jung on a Macintosh G5.
Any and all personal political opinions expressed in the public listing sections (including, but not restricted to, personals, events, groups, shops, Wren’s Nest, etc.) are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect the opinion of The Witches’ Voice, Inc. TWV is a nonprofit, nonpartisan educational organization.
Sponsorship: Visit the Witches' Voice Sponsor Page for info on how you
can help support this Community Resource. Donations ARE Tax Deductible.
The Witches' Voice carries a 501(c)(3) certificate and a Federal Tax ID.
Mail Us: The Witches' Voice Inc., P.O. Box 341018, Tampa, Florida 33694-1018 U.S.A.
Top 13 Poems|
New Past 7 Days