Awaken dreamer
And begin to live
The life you were
Meant to live
Awaken dreamer,
Look within to find
that person you
truly are
Awaken dreamer
And walk your own path
Leaving behind
Your sorrows
Awaken dreamer
And rejoice for love
from the Divine
And your friends
Awaken dreamer
For the time of dreams
Is done, it is
Time to live
In the Grove
of ancient Oak,
there is a clearing
where the goddess, to me, spoke.
Where the tall emerald grasses sway,
as the winds whistle and play.
The wide shallow brook babbles,
as over precious stones it travels.
Rusalki with wet green hair,
In a circle dance.
I do stare
as in a trance.
Sitting on my chair of stone,
I know in my heart I am not alone.
On a stone chair across the table from me,
She calls my name and ask what I see.
Goddess, Mother,
I say to her.
This grove of oaks is within me,
My personal sanctuary.
She smiles and moves a chess piece,
My turn now, and move I must.
For in here I am at perfect peace,
And give to her,
perfect love, and perfect trust.
In the garden my brothers, sisters and I planted,
In the garden where we play,
In the garden where we laugh and pray,
In the garden there a memorial stands,
In the garden a memorial to Wiccans,
In the garden a memorial for those whom have gone to the Summerlands,
In the garden where you stood by my side,
In the garden I break down and cry,
In the garden, in front of the memorial, I say my goodbyes.
They say the end is near,
Doing their best to instill fear,
Preaching their beliefs
And trying to convert others.
They look at natural events,
See them as portents,
Pull out their holy books
And point at prophecies.
They look at the fighting goin on,
Say we’re getting close to Armageddon,
But when you talk that way, you see,
You are setting up self-fulfilling prophecy.
So leave me in peace I ask,
Shouldn’t be that hard a task,
And I’ll follow my Pagan ways
To the end of (my) days.
Time keeps tick ticking, Slipping away from me. Minutes slip into hours, Hours to days, days to weeks Weeks to months, months to years Preying upon my fears Death is coming I know it, I feel his cold breath in the air, I feel his footsteps tremble the earth, I taste him in the staleness of water, I see him in the fading embers of fire, My spirit quakes and trembles at his approach. Sickness makes my body weak, Robbing me of the will to eat And drink, to get up and live. And yet he stands there, Not looking at me but at his watch Telling me it is not time yet.
On the ground
I found fifty-two cents.
I picked it up,
It must have been heaven-sent.
Thanks given to my mother from Brooklyn,
Whom tried to teach me
to be open minded and use common sense.
Fifty-two cents worth
She gave me, two cents never enough.
She discussed with me
Life, religion, and love.
From her I learned
to follow my own path,
and what it means to trust.
My best friend’s Nana from Brooklyn
Gave her fifty-two cents.
Fifty-two cents worth
She was given through witty comments
On men, sexuality, love,
Living, and the mind, all well-meant.
Sexuality without sensuality
isn’t worth two cents.
Nor sensuality without the mind,
Her Nana explained with confidence.
Mind without the spirit is worthless, and spirit
Worthless unless you choose to live, love,
Explore, and learn, this wisdom she did dispense.
Oh these ladies from Brooklyn
Whom gave us fifty-two cents.
Tried to give us wisdom,
Knowledge and self-confidence.
But we had to follow our
Own paths, bumpy as they might be,
And suffer through life’s bad events.
Fifty-two cents
I found, its meaning now clear.
Fifty-two cents
Of wisdom my best friend
received from her Nana dear.
We live and love, explore and learn,
And try to move on with our lives without fear.
Under a willow
or on a beach
by the sea,
This is where sacred spaces be
In a closet
or a gazebo
built for thee,
This is where sacred spaces be
In the bathroom
or a woods’ clearing
owned by your family,
This is where sacred spaces be
In the kitchen
or spare room,
In the city or the countryside,
This is where sacred spaces be
In a garden of flowers,
herbs, vegetables or fruit,
planted lovingly,
This is where sacred spaces be
In minds
and hearts
of you and me,
This is where sacred spaces be
I went to the barrel
And reached down in,
To pull out an apple
To liven my grin
But the apple was bitter,
Turning my grin to a frown,
And this bitterness I shared
with everyone I met in town
Soon the bitterness flowed
Across rivers and seas,
Causing strife and discord
Spreading like a disease
Almost too late
I realized what I’d done,
By sharing my bitterness
I clouded the sun
But clouds having silver linings,
This is how we learn,
By taking responsibility
For our actions, wisdom we earn
So I reached into the barrel,
For an apple so sweet,
From this day forward with lightness
And smile people I will greet
I should care less about clocks
and their artificial division of days
into hours, minutes, and seconds
And daylight saving time,
how nature must laugh at humanity’s
attempt to manipulate the day
For, in truth, nature
is the best time keeper
and we but amateurs
The moon waxes to full
And wanes to new,
While the sun rises and sets each day
Spring gives way to Summer which
gives way to Autumn, in turn, giving
way to Winter and then Spring again
Best it would be
If I focus on learning,
And the beauty around me
Best if I smile, and bring joy to
myself and others in our short time here,
and I should care less about clocks
Darkest night of the soul, The teenage years take their toll. Constantly trying to fit in, Am I too fat or am I too thin. Social groups and clics abound, But within the loneliness can still be found. Hormones and emotions do rage, Yet some feel trapped in a cage. Suicides happen and mayhem sometimes does reign, All in an attempt to escape the pain. Ridicule and taunting without a thought, Retaliation and death are often wrought. Looking back it seems so far, But nothing can erase the internal scars. And though we survived to see days light, Others are just beginning their darkest night.
therenegadepoet 