Tag Archives: Poetry

Angels surround me – by Unicorn

The Angels surround me
In you
In me
All around us
Benevolent spirits
We channel them
Are them

Came from them and will go back to them

We came here to meet again
In this special place
Sacred
To celebrate life
Ourselves
Sexuality

Heal each other with our stories from our hearts

Allowing our beautiful souls to shine through our past traumas

As they are erased
We are reborn
Like the earth is reborn each spring
Getting back into tune with nature
Such a beautiful thing

Sacred-fever, solstice eve by Octopus.

I’ve been waiting. Waiting for that warm glow on the fingertips.

An aural envelope that sings over the skin; a sign for writing.

Scribing the now-myth (legend?) of the paddington farm solstice, the weaving of a new albion potential – is daunting.

 

Should I talk about my tribe of warriors? Facing down a queer burden of shame with exhilarating, fierce-piercing love.

Like hot knives through a butter of bullshit, a searing arc through the rank curse of revolving closets – each witnessed to dissolve like charred flesh in the unwinding of fire.

Taken in by trees that know it no different, and which hold you all the same.

I watched ghosts walk on in bodies that day. I’ll never forget it.

 

Should I talk about my tribe of two-spirits? Walkers on tightropes of imperceptible wavelengths, each wing-tip dipped in the crimson of other-dawns and the fine-centring-focus of the minds that know – and played the solstice in.

How the fire burns and holds – so beautiful you want to fuck it. The surging within, reflected in flame. 

It licks at corners of the unseen unfolding of a boiling-spirit, that animates us each according to our own, but each according to its calling; cackling for its chaos, fucking for ecstasy, embracing in joyful-love – beating drums like a calling, the spirit is home.

 

Should I talk about my tribe of lovers? Fearless in their heart-space, bold in their sharing – an antidote to the plague of “not enough”.

Dancers on the margins, eros on the fringe; eyes like opals in greeting – even in the stillness, at rest, circles twist behind the eyelids and it plays.

Rendering possession meaningless with a fluid love, spontaneous.

A reciprocal gift, untapered, without boundary.

A weaving of tendrils so potent, so unshakeable – we were all touched. And continue to be.

 

Should I talk about the future? About how I saw it – each beat of that drum that I never played, at the intersection of each vibration, its poetic-geometry opening to me, opening like the simple gesture of a flower, opening to the sun.

Each beat, each snarl, each moan – each glide of skin, each pulse of cock; each and every moment in gaze of bewilderment – held in the bowl of its spectacular crown.

We played with it. It played through us. We were perfect. We will be more.

 

Faeries Fire Solstice in Avalon by Dido / Bowerbird.

Hard by Paddington Farm,

Stands Paddington Wood.

Where deep within Ananga and his Faery friends from far,

Blissfully danced, pranced and vaguely stood.

What sounds were heard!

What scenes appeared!

Oh those flames did bond and purge!

I kisses a god that night.

And hidden in their secret bower,

All in fragrant flower,

The Satyrs of Paddington Wood,

Crouched silently and watched in wonder struck.

And turning to his shaggy mate one did whisper in a hush:

“For never yet did I behold mortals like to these,

Neither man nor woman.

I am awed as I look upon them”.

The Summer Solstice by Qweaver / Rainbow Childe.

In the nut-brown green womb
emerald of the woods, in the splash
of the grass, the weave of the wind,
the drum flames

to its heart-born rhythm lambs,
wild flowers, clouds dance, water
sheds its gifts, moon shapes her wisdom

how our eager limbs grew golden,
fused, lusted, roared, self-given,
all-given joy rose that night,
swept back the black with a rainbow dawn

lip to lip, elementals, butterfly children,
swell the chant, voices layered as air or earth,
eyes now diamonds larger than stars,

bodies as steel, as fire, fire and water, breath-bright,
breath-flight, breath-height potency,
hand to hand a surge of angels,
united, perfect, unashamed

Summer Solstice by BrotherSun

Love is loving.
Drums are drumming.
Guitars are playing,
As the fires burning.

Time went timeless,
Our energies grew,
We shed our skins,
And were born a new.

Hands were touching.
Skin caressing.
Magic flowed,
And lips were guessing.

The sun is rising,
The magics growing,
The moons reflecting,
Our souls are glowing.

So here we stand,
In time and space,
A new found joy,
Written upon our face.

Joie de Folleterre by Queaver – 15th August 2013.

A time for joy.
Tears ripen.

Nothing in the trees’ gaze contradicts the flowers
that dare declare they love. All the colours of music,
all the music of the forest, bright with wonder’s blessing.

Think of it as a merry-go-round,
a subaqueous garden.

Bones blur, outlines loosen, a little like trees, indistinct
in summer’s haze, splinters smoothed away.
Hands unfold, steady on another’s touch.
Around the flames of laughter,
the glow of conversation,
kisses tickle, settle,
rest, depart, rainbow-winged.
Settle again and again.

There is something like music that eases each
separate note into one swelling melody.

Wildly beautiful shapes, colours, swirl
and swoon in this lava lamp.

Somewhere bees get busy with tomorrow’s fruiting.
As your fingers coax rope into baskets I drop
my doubts inside. Your offering eyes ignite
my soul that’s been singing
to itself these years, by the far lake.

Yes, eyes meet here, shadows
steepen their lustre
into jewel-light that
bursts beyond words.

Words are clumsy messengers. Here the language is pretty
wraps, wigs, dresses sexpressively excessive.
Fireworks fixed in half motion. Star-beams caught
between silk and skin,
skin and skin.

With the night they sprawl shifting abruptly to dodge
the fire’s frisky smoke.

The days would be roaring and hungry,
gone in a few gulps, just flakes
to record the feast.

A time for sadness.
Dreams ripen. You snuggle in my heart.