Friday, November 7, 2008

Libra Candles


A very straight and narrow
humming, running,
in elegant alacrity
The rest is fringe land
gloriously free
Jumble, tumble play
Exuberant celebration
Ungrounded rambling
Flights of fantastic splendor
Played to the limits of
melting in the center of
structured performance
Dancing outward for a spell
until drowsy and spent
gently crawling back to center
nesting in sensible routine
Touchstone, relay continuation
Stimulation and reflection and
their progeny
Here, on the vast open fringe
we don't stand on ceremony
We dance each to our own drum
Sweet interweaving rhythm

Just a vision
Cast out of stagnant time
translated by a mime
intent on derision
Yet entranced
by sights sublime
caught beyond expectation
outside rifts of generation
tasting of sea, earth and sky
Just a vision echoing by
cleansed through dye-clearing tears
glistens, then disappears
as they dry

In word work
the hard part
isn't the writing
It's the figuring out
what to say
out of the vast variety
of what could be said
Out of the ether, the ethos
(where invisible black holes
suck out time, space, memory)
words adhere to musings, to
blocks of conversation,
combining imagination with
voices externally real
Caught in the interstitial web
coherent sequences
vowels and consonants
subject, adjectives, verbs
cut from the endless stream
pasted on the printed page

(c) Laurie Corzett/libramoon 9/27/08

Raising Hell

Not true sacred magick.
Cynical sleight of hand
turns sweat and dreams,
lives of desperation
into neat bundles of greed.
But the pain burns through
not content to be twisted
into fast cars, high-stakes games,
brilliant careers in glad-handing.
It wants its payment.
False wizards of arrogant charm
play with chthonic forces
more angry and deadly than flame.
Unaware of the cursed seeds
they cultivate,
now strangling life force from below.
Unsupervised children
playing with matches,
grizzled and gray as some may appear,
laughing at the bright spectacle
as homes burn.
The balance is always paid.
Magick is never free.
Will the lesson ever sink in?
Be careful what you conjure.

(c) October 2, 2008 Laurie Corzett/libramoon


The question is of
the moment.
Playing out narrative
serial stories strung
fully in tune with the moment,
resonating with immediate energies
into a layered frame.
There is no future.
Past is but prologue.
We are spinning wheels and looms.
Each processing growing into
the next, never completed.
Within the sacred crystal
of the moment
question and answer merge,
synthesize eternity.

I hold a ball of fire
in my palm
behind my eyes
consuming me
engulfed in flaming pain
crackling frame-dissolving
into ember
into sparks
igniting hair and lashes
Yet out of ash
always renewed
ready to burn again
I can't sleep for the light
find respite from agony
I am consumed
atom by atom
then realigned to play again
at disintegration
Towers fall carrying
their servant's blood
and sinew stripped from angry life,
terror, torture.
Imagine burning stars
fire sprites twisting, evolving,
given form and awareness
low-wage jobs, small talk;
they woo and reproduce,
fall into regulated line.
Over millennia memories lose shape;
days lose their charm, become mundane.
Consumption means something different
from disease or connection.
Embers rearrange, form scary bits
of insight, inspiration,
pinpoint bright,
urgently burning.

Sorrow, numbing ice, inconsolate
pain too profound to acknowledge.
Vultures circle, maggots feast.
Blood-sucking parasites
imbibe sacrificial delight,
leering, sneering, snarling, slavering.
Your servants so eager for your favor
fatten themselves for slaughter.

(c) October 7, 2008 Laurie Corzett/libramoon


Let's talk about this.
Exactly what are we afraid of?
Different skins, different thoughts?
"These people are not like us."
Nor we like them.
Legends say we fear
and fight the barbarians.
A receding panorama
of battle upon battle.
Millennia of genocide
proudly proclaimed.
We must be strong warriors,
rough, sharp, explosive,
valiantly a barricade barrage
protecting Our valued and values
from Their predation.
Lines must be drawn clearly.
Womanly, childish fuzzy vulnerability
cast far behind, confined to
defended shelters
kept at bay with bitter laughter,
raucous play.
These patterns built up over
generations serve us well,
minimizing weakening contamination.

(c) October 10, 2008 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

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