Wildfire

Hi Everyone,

The lovely Anne – Marie read one of my poems and asked me if I would like to feature it on here on her blog to which I replied of course I will! It’s a bit funny to me because I actually wrote this piece as an emotional vomit. Yay for expressing rage! Anyway I hope you like it.

Lisa

 

wpid-woman_of_the_fire_by_music_guard-d6m6r53

 

Woman of the fire

She stands in the spotlight faint hearted
The saboteur waits in shadows
She sings of truth and beauty
She wants her silenced now
A voice gets reduced
The knife slides in
She stops all
Partners
None
Consumed
Hums alone
Inhales, exhales
Tests her feet in dance
Weds the heavenly choir
Raises the curtain to love
Remembers the assault of hate
Stays on hold patiently by the fire

“Some women are lost in the fire. Some women are built from it.”

Self-defeating

Annexed in a place where thoughts are reason,

Justifying all you see as real,

Stories oft repeated since the childhood,

Demonic, possessive, charlatan’s fairy tale.

 

Round and round on fairground’s junk attraction,

Addicted to the thrill, a do-again,

Dizzied, doltish, stubborn, self-defeating,

Spin the words, the thoughts, repeat refrain.

 

Creative truths or lies to self repeated,

Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, now believe,

Cost analysis negated, void or vapid,

Giving vent inside. Repeat. Receive.

 

Might the mind be mired in fault perception,

Spinning wheel of fortune for a prize,

Deflated, once again, at arrow’d misadventure,

Repeat, ‘my luck’, behind the wishing eyes.

 

Inducing vomit with the same old story,

Round and round and round, repeat once more.

Negativity, counter-clockwise, lost to present,

Dismount, alight, firm ground, fresh thoughts in store.

 

Tell yourself your story if you have to,

A rationale for what our lives reveal,

Tighten vice on regular rotes so writ there

Or change the record, let the spirit heal.

 

Don’t Pick It!

There’s a scab formed over the healing,

Crusted, dark red with an itch.

There’s a tendency to pick at the edges

Which makes it a bit of a bitch

To recover from injuries, the wounded

Temper their healing with pain,

Returning to hurts once inflicted,

Reliving the moments again.

There’s a process that bodies afflicted

Must go through, that’s just how it goes,

Time and salve make the difference

Though time definite nobody knows.

Some fester from constant exposure,

Scab picked for the whole world to see,

Supurating, rancid, unhealing,

A neglect of the way it should be.

Treat it with unguents specific

To purpose, then leave well alone

Healing is slowed by the scratching

And picking right down to the bone.

Soul Seekers

Yesterday the only blogger I’ve ever collaborated with…sounds rude, doesn’t it?!…reblogged our collaboration and inspired me to ask for more. Watch this space!

In the meantime, one of my other favourite people, Mark, wandered out from Australia’s bush territory, haggard and drought-ridden, in need of nurture by a Scottish handmaiden – ok, get with the programme, it’s not called poetry for nothing! – and has been settling in to a new way of life with the promise of his healing gifts being used for the benefit of many.

We got chatting…as you do.

And lo and behold, something he said triggered a response in me that led us to this collaboration in the comments section! I’m chuffed as f…anything. There’s a little magic in the moonlight and some wanderlust in souls that seek to find.

Soul seeker,

journey far in waxing, waning moon…

 Heart healer,

words of healing, life in tune…

 

Believe then, in magic,

writ by silver’d stars…

 And belief within,

Life open, without bars…

 

Hush, spirit, listen well,

heed that aching need…

 To find the truth,

the beginning of a seed…

 

Be still, in the knowing,

Let silence fill your mind…

 A gift from up above,

a wonder you will find…

 

No magic be cast here,

Mere souls in perfect tune…

 With love and a sharing,

Perfect harmony with the moon…

 

Be faithful to the aching…

The voice that cries within…

 For in that understanding,

is a love that’s always been.

 

We Became

You

saturated me,

poured scented unguents on oldest wounds,

rotated my mind

with fingertips

tracing

temples’ ragged edges,

breathing calm into my hair

from behind

where I could not see 

the belonging in your eyes

but felt it flow,

airborne and tactile,

as arms around my whole.


Your

healing 

wrapped round my relief,

touching

deep,

reiki

to soul’s silent

pain.


You

fed my thirst,

quenched my need for soothed release,

old child to new woman born, 

fast-forwarded time by touch and breath

and whisper’d nothings

unspoken.


Your

being

became as mine,

tendered lips

proferring union,

chosen in one single, breathless kiss

to flame a glowing taper.


You

became

me

as I flowed

into you.


You

left on a breath

with part of me,

two divided

but one.

We became.

Unicorn

Ubiquitous in heraldry,

Twice blessed upon Scots’ Arms,

Mythical and magical,

Succumbs to virgin charms.

Innocence and purity,

Horned to bless and heal,

Nurtured joy, virility,

Unto only one would kneel.

270px-Royal_Coat_of_Arms_of_the_Kingdom_of_Scotland.svg

An Angel’s Healing

Through clouds of dismal darkness

Hiding clustered starry sky,

Soft feathered wings beat fearlessly

To end the reason why

A heart once melted fears to face

The rising sun again

Till remoulded into human form

By healing drops of rain.

Winged wonder pierces cloud formations

And lets such raindrops fall

To heal poetically and beckon,

Arisen to the call,

A dreamer’s sleep so well disturbed,

In tune to mystic message,

Sighs softly in her mended heart,

Unites in heavenly passage.