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Iron Pentacle Poem Cycle: Passion Point #1-#5 January 17, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Poem-A-Day.
Tags: , ,


The young, maverick playwright, me, at work
in a back room on a crappy computer (Zenith
bought on credit at Sears), typing from pages
handwritten in my “koobeton,” characters in dialogue
interacting, being catalyzed and catalyzing, I,
a creator of theatrical delivery systems
of ideas, relationships, ideals, dreams – oh that black
innocent  zone of possibility glows, spirals
out a joy, orange and magenta light cycling up,
down, rotating north-south, east-west all
possibilities.  This is when a christed moment appears
when I lose the ego inside a creation emergent.
Such a place is not shared generally; for that
there is a different passion flavor.  One as sunburst,
but one that adjoins, connects, enraptures
souls in on another’s glorious divinities.  The fat
boy wolf who adored the incongruous football
player, and fantasized a loving embrace, the teen
spirits! Sniffing at each other to suss out love from dreams…


It’s all about opera, magnificacion grotesca
Everyday Don Giovannis betraying Daddy.
Run-of-the-mill Toscas holding emotional hostages.
Mundane Carmens, targets of hopelessly deluded lovers
outside the girls’ romantic purview, toyed with,
discarded.  Tabloid, soapy, passion gets whored
out, trashed in the degraded talk show format.
Fingerpointing, wholesale judgments, themselves
deprived flowers and zeal, perverted through egoic
envies.  To be certain, passion’s exaggerated color
can overrun right use of will.  Elemental nutrient
of soul and spirit, one can binge on the stuff.
Even the essential heart, the source of wisdom,
can be drowned out by the din of  throbbing blood beat
compelling us toward a knife, a trigger, a roof’s
edge.  But broadcasts lurid and tarted up,
photoshopped for distorted bolding, make so-called
common sense suspect.  The hosts and anchors
must wear the makeup to hide their Dorian
Gray shells, rotting in their corrosive greedy bile.


Keep it new, keep it fresh, keep it growing.
Ah, there are times when the bloom falls away,
the petals disintegrate in moments too early
to maintain a work’s energy.  The fuchsia
pool stagnates, or sours because some essence
has vacated the scene, some elixir’s potency
fell past the expiration date.  Or a noxious
toxin wheedles in, say a lackthought remark
spoken at a fragile instant, or awareness
the idea circulates passim in Mouskekulture.
The issue is one of keeping the fire burning,
making sure the fragrance stays strong,
ensuring the waters hold their constant renewal.
To live in passion flows me through perpetual
baptism, a waterfall of mana generating dynamic
curiosity, attention, heart and soul engagement.
In this way, the left foot dancing a twirlsome
frolic feeds right hand power aspect, the fecund
prelude to action ripe with sumptuousness.
Passion is where the arrow shoots, releases its payload.


The words keep coming on the beach, Grand Cayman.
(As do the pretty men in their bathing suits
it would seem.)  The raspberry sea inside me
sometimes seems to shrink to nothing, but oceans
are oceans, and the inexhaustible supply births
new ideas and concepts, poems and essays in waves
of their own.  Sometimes these announcements roar
a raucous “I’m here!”  Most often they’re just another
ripple rushing to the shore, inevitable contact with sand
made, perhaps a relief, then receding back
into foam and deeper color.  My passion tastes of salt
a connection of this left foot into the sandy fluff
traversed by unwitting muses spilling their qi
in clueless anonymity, mid all the other prana
generated by Yemaya’s simple rhythm, ebb,
flow.  Passion’s relentless attention triggers arousal
and I can’t help the groin stirring up Alder
ardor while I venture into the sea and pull out
the occasional nautilus, hardened fractal, or best,
a shell expressing a mother-of-pearl variety sheen.


Water, huh.  Really?  This passion becomes stir
of dihydrogen oxide source?  Why does it make
me so hot then?  A magenta blaze electrifying
this body, tapping in from left foot earth contact,
spiraling like the helix at the root of all life
osmotically through this whole enchanted corpus.
Oh, the invigoration, the magic fingers manipulating
creation, flow, sparks and dance in rhythm’s ferocious
and languorous by turns.  Passion for poems, ardor
for the sweet sweet dumpling squash, the glorious zeal
to paint a tropical mass of papers clips – wherever
the sensations of this God may rest – oh, the elixir!
Delicious on every level – wild, genius, divine.  Love
to be caught up in this multicolored tiger’s growl
stalking the triple alignment outpouring of process
and product in perpetual conversation.  Godsome
words spill out of inspired characters’ mouths.
The markers and glitter glue enliven my lover’s image.
The patient and maternal stirring and baking of root
vegetable goodness on a winter’s night.  Drink. In. The. Yes!

Cross-posted to ordinarysacred/livejournal.



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