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Iron Pentacle Poem Cycle: Pride Point #2-5 December 28, 2009

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Poem-A-Day.
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#2

We drape shame like an easy threadbare blanket,
makes all things ugly, lets heat escape.
Yet to pull it off seems unthinkable,
somehow indecent.  Too often the word becomes
confused with its surfeit:  Arrogance, that sin
of excessive goldenrod fire, gets off scot
free while poor pride gets pilloried into shame.
So many of us forget our steps in the dance,
and oh, the resentment!  When someone dares
to own their abilities?  “Who do you think
you are, mister?” say the fearclackers, terrified
of their own magnificence.  In a healthy
world, all this would be run-of-the-mill.
Mundane.  We would find the natural
levels, the recognition fortifying our souls
for the store of gifts we  alone are fit to bestow.
This poem and all my writings would circulate
amidst all the others, a gentle and fierce interplay
and it wouldn’t stop there.  But the swiss cheese
wrap seeps its cold into us, urging us in forget-mist.

#3

Words seem to be intimate with the core of this God.
But they knock me around a lot, in pursuit
of my rightful place, often wondering what I’m
all for anyow.  So many avenues have become
closed – but are they really?  Fears loom afore
me, righteously shooing me away from hearts’
desires.  (And what is the point, pray tell
of having faith in the feckless and the fickle?
I need an affirmation every ONCE
in awhile, beyond the supportive friends
who understand the artistic skin’s breathing
requirements.  After years of wounding, a saturation
point is reached, and watching others receive
accolades gets to be too much to bear.  POW!
an unguarded exposure spurs tidal wave envy
and lays me low beneath the noxious wave.  Bill
W., Dr. Bob talk of wanitng what we have,
in order to stay inside our daily abstinence.
At such green moments, I findI’m outside this place.
And death’s intoxicating charms tend to beckon.

#4

The job well-done.  When I osteo-know,
when the sclera and the marrow sing assonant
and radiate mystic tune to the viscera
and musculature attendant, that is pride
shouting a vibrant homecome-blessing.
The fellow journeyman can see it, report
back “I did good work!”  Just ties the bow
on a gift personally administered
to this world through these hands, this heart,
this mind. The poem emerges, a grand potency.
The characters speak fluent, gripping words
with crackle-crackle conflicts holding rapt
attentive audience.  The spells achieve results
and the debts vanish – poof!  Tabula rasa.
And too when I don’t know why it works not
and someone observes true, then great Aha!-burst
spoken to the receptive soul, the artist ever at work.
Somehow I find myself harmonizing with cosmic
laws when the sunset gold flame pours forth
its fierce and life-affirming pulsations.

#5

Humble thing, pride, actually.  Quiet
forays into one’s talents and skills yields awe.
Potency in the right foot walks without
causing attention undue.  Simple facts collect
and reverberate outward.  I have strength, yes.
And there are those areas not particularly wanted –
excellent typist, good message-taker, sometime
organizer of others’ affairs.  Some strengths go
unheralded – writing, singing.  I still uncover
new grounds for awe-inspiration and continue
on a path of good eating, mostly good rest, exercise.
Odd power-awareness emerges – its ease glorious
to speak forth my pride’s reserves confident
in their ability, but humble enough to realize
more muscle can rise from the exertions
that will be required.  This saffron flame possesses
resilience and suppleness in ability to surrender–
one power that others frequently skirt past
mistaking it for weakness.  But the Godsome know
will without surender fizzles in moments’ heat.

Cross-posted to livejournal/ordinarysacred

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