Empty Alchemy
5.7.12
I gasped when I noticed the bed shake
with each pound of my chest exploding,
face and tears sunk into pillows,
palpitating earthquakes in my bones,
quivering veins, quickened breath
as the force of my own nature
took over me
and pulled the pain
right through me.
It was an eruption of faith,
it was a release of grief,
and it was a surrender of life.
Now the clock is ticking, ticking,
with each thrusting of my heart,
and I need you to complete this work
before it falls apart.
The alchemy seemed conducive,
and the chemistry brought it alive.
The potential hinted radiance,
but can such love survive?
I suddenly remembered how to breathe,
and sucked the salty tears between my teeth.
The hurricane stretched from
my heart to my head
and left a wreck of me
all over my bed sheets.
The waters were too salty,
un-distilled, unclean,
and we mixed them prematurely
so now the flaws of this Great Work are seen.
But if it's too late to start over,
if the stars did not align,
if the season and weather wasn't fine,
then the Rite cannot take place,
and the magic must be stopped,
the experiment brought to a halt.
This disaster, this quake
is not what we were meant to make.
No, there is a force more natural,
more divine, and pure,
and I will accept nothing less
when controlling such energetic forces.
It is spellwork worth withholding
if all the elements aren't in sync.
It is better to stay untransformed,
to remain an empty vessel,
to dissolve the once-sacred stone,
than to manifest poisonous pain.
.
Silence
5.11.2012
Not so much blind,
but love, in this case,
was deaf.
I did not,
would not listen
to those words
which hold your love back
from me.
All I heard
instead
was the pounding
of my own heart.
.
5.11.2012
Not so much blind,
but love, in this case,
was deaf.
I did not,
would not listen
to those words
which hold your love back
from me.
All I heard
instead
was the pounding
of my own heart.
.
We saw the cataclysm coming.
I was an alien planet,
traveling from the edge of the universe,
pulled forward by a magnetism unseen.
But I crashed violently into you,
drawn in by your heavy gravity,
expecting our atmospheres to blend
and swirl perfectly together, naturally.
No, the stars did not align.
Your core, made of hot iron and lead,
and mine, of water and soft moss;
I destroyed myself upon impact,
though you were still, intact,
leaving nothing left of me
but a nebula of longing.
.
1) One who writes verse and prose. A simple descriptive noun.
2) An emotionally sensitive and artistic individual.
3) One who translates the pain, tragedy, joy and love of the human existence using the written and spoken languages of the planet earth.
4) One who proclaims to the cosmos her most honest and primal thoughts and feelings sprung from her heart and soul, without apology, and without regret. This process can be described as similar to that of a rushing waterfall, an exploding star, or a thundering bolt of lightning.
5) A brave-hearted soul who has made peace with her gifts, as well as her curses, and thus journeys forth with pen and journal in hand, pouring out her soul through an exploration of words, sounds, and punctuation marks.
6) A character of humanity who serves as a vessel for evolutionary experiences and a prophet of awakening and healing through his or her servitude of the divine and martyrdom of the heart. Often attributed to an excess of suffering, broken hearts, and catalytic experiences, punctuated by flashes of brilliant inspiration and sensations of blissful connection with the universe.
.
Cry Like A Crow
5.2.11
Summoned by the crow,
black feathered omens
were offered and accepted,
then eaten and done.
Chewed up and choked down,
a low-hanging heart
was offered, rejected,
eaten, then alone.
Picked away at my own ribs,
tore a hole in my soul.
I cried like a crow
with nothing left to eat.
(c) Bethany Moore 2012
were offered and accepted,
then eaten and done.
Chewed up and choked down,
a low-hanging heart
was offered, rejected,
eaten, then alone.
Picked away at my own ribs,
tore a hole in my soul.
I cried like a crow
with nothing left to eat.
(c) Bethany Moore 2012
we make rhetoric;
out of the quarrel with ourselves
we make poetry.
~W.B. Yeats
I'm locked up, away,
and the entrance to reach me
is not easy to perceive.
There's a path that you must find
using only your sense of smell
as the scent of sandalwood sets the scene
to guide you
in this direction.
Then listen for the beat
as the percussion grows beneath your feet;
It is the sound of my heartbeat
leading your steps rhythmically
in this direction.
By then, you'll begin to taste it,
a savory sweetness,
bitter at first, as your tongue
starts to salivate,
and hunger pangs penetrate your skin,
pulling you, achingly,
in this direction.
At which point,
the hair on your neck will rise,
and a shiver will shoot down your spine,
and a fever will strike your brow,
as you sense just how close you are now.
By now, you'll feel
the pounding in your chest,
and your heart will know the rest,
as you make your way
to my doorstep, and find
you have the key.
-----
(c) Bethany Moore 2012
Yes, there is a sting
which comes and goes,
up and down,
a pleasure, a pain,
when the heart falls again.
The ache is awakening,
an etch within the walls
of the caverns in our chests,
and it evokes the highest of heavens,
though feels like the hallows of death.
The sensation is divine and animal all at once,
as it seems to want to claw its way out
from the center of the soul,
to be set free.
Yes, it tends to sting,
and sneaks upon us
like the Spring,
melting off the icy trees.
And ever does the fresh air intoxicate
as the flowers seduce the bees,
while spinning clouds
and thunder sounds
pull us up from our roots
so that we might look and see.
There's lightning crashing between my lungs,
and oh, how it rains and ravages in me,
and it may flood and drown me down,
and it may rip me apart at the seams,
and it could even bust through me,
leave me upside down and weak,
but I will endure, I will survive
these seasons of searching,
of planting sacred seeds,
and coping with the sting.
-----
(c) Bethany Moore 2012
It's my first time, too.
The weird cystic pimple on my face appears to be healing, however, there has been a hard ridge of swelling underneath the skin that leads all the way up my cheek toward my nose. It's been freaking me out all weekend. So, I went to the doctor yesterday.
The doctor examined my face and then said "Well, good news..."
I raised a curious eyebrow. "Eh?"
He did a couple more tests. Follow my pen with your eyes. Lift your eyebrows like this. Things like that.
"I was checking to make sure it didn't enter your nasal cavity. If it had, it could be leaking infection into a major artery located in the back of your sinuses, which leads to your spine at the base of your brain. It could have caused brain damage and you would have to be hospitalized. So, yes, good news."
OH MY GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS?
I can't make this shit up.
A friend's reaction to this was as such:
"Bethany, it's a good thing we live in modern times, because you would have died like 5 times by now with all the weird shit that's happened to you." She then called me "Rasputina".
Between killer MRSA spiders and, now, killer pimples, I think I deserve some superpowers or something.
Opt for simplicity, then add enhancements.
Follow the advice of Coco Chanel
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