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[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


[poem] hunger


We found ourselves feeding love
to each others' hungry hearts,
and it was almost cruel
how quickly we were nourished
after starving for so long,
and with so much left to taste.

(c) Bethany Moore



“Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly;
In my own way, and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.

Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping
I will confess; but that's permitted me;
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.

If I had loved you less or played you slyly
I might have held you for a summer more,
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.

Should I outlive this anguish, and men do,
I shall have only good to say of you.”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Philosopher

“And what are you that, missing you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that’s a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women’s ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,—
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

“Guess I'll weep awhile. Guess I won't, I mean.”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

[Poem] Empty Alchemy

Empty Alchemy

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. 



[Poem] Silence



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
was the pounding
of my own heart.



[Poem] Cosmic Crash

Cosmic Crash

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.


The Poet, as defined by a Beatnik

POET - Noun.

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. 



[Poem] Cry like a Crow

Cry Like A Crow


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



beatnik betty
the beatnik pagan poet
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