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Iron Pentacle Poem Cycle: Self Point #3-5 January 2, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Poem-A-Day.
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#3

Sometimes the door to a bookstore becomes
the gates of hell.  To be sure, the buy-buy-buy demons
come a-romping, seducing me with their tensile tongues,
But every so often, a name crosses my line of sight
and the huge slime-green demon called Envy wells
up and engulfs me in a putrid seafoamy goo.
The airy breeze so teal and pretty flies elsewhere
wile I drown below this tsunami of bile.
Such nettle moments all over this God’s body bring
pain.  The dread questions:  Do I Count?  Will I Be
Remembered?  Is there 15-minute fame break for me?
For at the root of envy is a fearful forgetfulness.
And ego’s self-important unreasonable Reason
wins the game of compare and despair, as he does
every time he gets out that blasted football, and I
run at it, abandoning the Snoopy cool for dorkdom
yet again.  To pick myself up and find myself at Ada’s
selecting a red candle and tranquility oil, to seal
my intention of call forth this vibrant Frostwolf
divine spark, in Phoenix form from the covetous ashes.

#4

All right.  I don’t know.  Self Point Strength?
Que pasa?  Can I just play with myself?
Maybe I should just come back to this one? Later?
Dispersal.  Osmosis.  Amorphousness — can strength
even issue forth from these? Well, winds do cause
destruction sometimes, can force a nail file
into a bull’s skull, lift a tractor-trailer
and fling it across a county line.  Self point
Teal Breeze Left hand can terrify also.
We can wield Katrina from the sinister side
of our bodies, where a distributed potency,
blowing as it is from all directions, coalesces
into a focused form, or a set of instructions,
a vision or pathway to where some desire lies.
This non-dominant hand holds shadowy strength
formidable as the Rockies, but still so coyote.
A power such as this requires humble stud,
steady practice put to bear, just like a dancer
with his daily stretches and routines.  One
day the crystallization will come, at will.

#5

All the things that I’m not, I am. And all
the things I think I am only iotae, just little bits.
Vastness of space – perhaps that too is smallish?
Infinity, eternity, and yes a dense mortal coil
resilient and fragile at once. To tune in, music
of the atoms and smaller structures, in resonance
with quasars, nebulae, whole galaxies, and across
dimensions.  There is always more territory
to witness, more of myself to encounter.
Daunting? Of course!  It seizes up this mere human
brain, causes breathlessness, shudder makahu
holy terror, an awe, quaking, smiling, orgasmic.
Joyous embrace of all tat is as I hold left
hand point in highest esteem.  This teal breeze
self, pulling from Divine Twins both, Shaitan
red glow earth-fire, and Dian-y-Glas radiance
Blue air-water, come together to create
a mini-peacock, waving my painted fan
this way and that.  An immense and eternal beauty.
God-given and bestowed by universal, loving grace.

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