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[Poetry] Inert Eruption

Inert Eruption

I remember the springtime of chaos and change,
and nature was abuzz and thrilling but yet
too wild for even me.

By summer, the ground began to rumble and the air
became thinner, the pressure and noise
crept up steadily through my veins and nerves,
the sound of cracking and breaking
rang back and forth, burning in my ears.

And then came the wave of searing heat;
it struck with salty lightning and insult
that smacked me down, heart to ground,
fist crashing, face bashing,
and if you had heard the sound
I released from my mouth that hour,
that was the volcano erupting,
in the walls of my heart,
contained behind closed doors,
pouring a black hole of lava on the floor,
that could finally consume me whole,
and I did dive in.

Bethany Moore, 2014


[prose] cleaning house

Cleaning House

It's not that the trash
hasn't been taken out.
It's just that I
can still smell it.



[poem] a good cry

A Good Cry
July 25th, 2014

A good cry
can taste like medicine,
salty bitterness
and quivered digestive spin,
plexus flip,
a strong exhale,
and then breathe in.

(c) Bethany Moore 2014


[poem] Rude Awakening

Rude Awakening
July 26, 2014

It wasn't how I imagined it would be,
my being set on fire,
my heart of bursting flames,
the heat of the fury and heartache
consuming all I was,
what I thought I had been.

I had hardened to ice by sunrise
though I'd simmered all the way through
the lonely emptiness that night.

It was a rude awakening to discover,
to have grown all new skin
and replaced everything within
but it was better to die and be reborn
than to remain who I had been.

(c) Bethany Moore 2014


[prose] feelings in this moment


It just doesn't feel like my feelings
are important enough
to write anything about anymore.

Though the feelings
become more complex
and even deeper than ever before,

and though the years of healing
from abuse and abandonment
are still in play,

it just doesn't seem to matter,
these common complaints and

Words are trite and insufficient.

My function as a poet
feels oversimplified. 


[poem] Prose for Existential Plight

June 9, 2014

Prose for Existential Plight

If this Goddess is ripped right out of me,
then what could possibly
be left of me, when being human
is simply not enough?

2014 (c) Bethany Moore


[poem] no poem for you

no poem for you
Feb 2014

oh, you? you.
for a year, i suffered you.
no, i have no words for you.
no poetry, no songs,
for you sucked the life straight from my lungs
and filled it with your empty hot air,
and now that i am rid of you,
i hardly remember, i hardly care.

(C) B.Moore 2014


[poem] Unfinished Business

Unfinished Business
February 2014

barely acquainted before departing,
you couldn't seem to discern
between saint or succubus.

I rejected you thrice at first,
like an old rabbi would a new convert,
you knocked and knocked again at my door,
and I turned you away, giving you
my word to the wise that you were not ready
or perhaps it wasn't worth your time,
but you persisted through my warnings
of cosmic teachings and poetry,
though blind and deaf as you were to it
at first.

at first
I did not take you seriously
but you persisted through my defenses
and you watched as I fell for you,
even before my own senses could keep up
to warn my heart
that you would never be ready
though I yearned to rationalize
and raised my altar

so I faltered, I failed myself,
and I gave in, to you,
and I weighed your soul against the moon
and then the sun and stars
then I piled up all the world's holy books,
and sung the finest of prose and song
and measured then the pitch, depth, and sound
for you.
but remember
I did not look your way at first,
yet your soul begged you forward,
pulled you by your belt
as you were drawn in my direction
into my ritual space.

but then,
when I lifted you up there
in the fire, against the stars,
your senses were so unaware,
it seemed
that you punctured my breath
with your fears,
though you knew full well
that I would release a reservoir
but yet you screeched at the sight
of tears.

at first
you came for the sermon
but in the end
you wanted the sacrifice

the martyr that I am gave you
all the answers you required

but you shut your eyes and ears too soon,
spilled my blood and cursed my name
and blasphemed my heart with shame
in the hours that dripped before my death,
before you could bear witness to
the secrets that my soul forever guard,
will now forever keep.

this unfinished business you leave
weighs now on you,
not me.

this goddess;
you no longer see.


(C) Bethany Moore 2014


[poem] Mandrake Walking

Mandrake Walking

I embody the sacred root of Mandragora in the ways
which I navigate the earth's underworld,
being and feeling with eyes closed,
safe in darkness, fed by sacred soil.

Now I send my mandrake walking
to awaken ancient roots and vines,
to stir up rocks and sand and
to shift those faulty tectonics underground;
they lie in wait for revival.

I invoke my mystical mandrake man
and send him forth to relieve and restore.
Arms and legs growing, reaching,
with the intent to expand and explore.

And soon enough, I pray,
I will find the right words
to send my mandrake talking.

(c) Bethany Moore


[poem] Sense Deprivation

Sense Deprivation
Dec 30, 2013

Both hands grasping at my chest, holding tight,
in an act of disbelief at my heart
that the damn thing will stay in place
while pounding and stomping around so hard,
and crying tears so acid,
dripping down into my guts
to double me over, in muted agony.

My love has turned to migraine,
when I cannot listen to any sounds,
not the lonely wind, or loud cars,
and now even the saddest of songs,
without being sick for you instead
and I cannot look at any light,
not daylight nor moonlight,
not the future to behold,
without my eyes stinging wide shut.

This is how denial
works its way along my veins
saturating, suffocating,
and turning me to stone.

(c)  Bethany Moore



beatnik betty
the beatnik pagan poet
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