Fallen Cinders ~~ A Halloween Poem


FOR HALLOWEEN

Fallen Cinders

Don’t know if there were other beings. So far no one I’ve queried has dyed-in-the-wool knowledge of their existence.

The Doors – People Are Strange

Measuring about 4’8” they had gray-green eyes and a snarled mess of teal blue hair that fell from their heads to their ankles.  A race of Cousin Its who had escaped from the Addams Family and mated with Smurfette.  Every so often there would be a great divide within these walking haystacks when tentacles would emerge, grasp the being nearest to them all the while emitting spores that enabled them to engage in a type of conjugal bliss harmonizing their universe and populating future cosmos.  Egg donors pushed out womb offerings for the spores’ consummation.

You must allow the bed to take you. It’s the only way. Pollination. Germination. Fruit.  Appendages.

Steles push up granite flowers. Stone Flowers. Stillborn. Alien stillborns cry out for vindication.

He’s just a middle-aged painted Lolita straining to call forth the waiting semen amidst a garden of extraterrestrial after-births.

The Beatles – The Fool On The Hill

Sulky gargoyles indulged in the meadow.

State bed

State bed

Date: ca. 1698

Culture: British

Medium: Wood, covered in blue silk damask

Dimensions: 12 ft. × 6 ft. 6 in. × 6 ft. (365.8 × 198.1 × 152.4 cm)

Sometimes I would watch as they chased and caught smaller humanoid beings decapitating them with a lassoed tentacle tug then planting their tiny heads as seeds with the promise of a shrunken head springtime crop during the moon’s 6th ellipses. Tasty. Delicious. Like brussel sprouts sauteed in olive oil.

Gathering at the ceremonial castle they marched in sync howling chanting:

Babbling Bitches have me in stitches.

The Babble of the rabble gives rise to bewitches.

On and on a series of feet stampeding through Wonderland. Wheelers keeping an uneven but steady tempo.

Aristocratic corpses shimmer in glee.

A dead Mariachi Band Member dances for filthy lucre.

The Cyclist body lay crumpled between sighing posts. Mangled beyond recognition. His bike wheels spinning waiting for its riders return. He was the color of repose.

Ahhh…. Look at All the Lonely People. Where do they come from? Where do they all belong?

Beatles- Eleanor Rigby

Somebody needs to check to see if Elvis is in the alligator. For there is an umbrella that will take you to the 13th floor.

We come from a long line of Firestarters, feeling nostalgic for another self but knowing that those above gather the fallen cinders.

The Old Castle

The Old Castle

Artist: Emanuel Murant (Dutch, Amsterdam 1622–1700 Leeuwarden)

Medium: Oil on wood

Marionettes


Vintage Pair of Black Marionettes-Entertainers (Puppets)
Vintage Pair of Black Marionettes-Entertainers (Puppets)

Marionettes

Are we Life’s marionettes? Controlled by an unseen master puppeteer?  Who actually dangles the strings of destiny? Us or an invisible mind forcing us to dance to an unwelcome tune. And at life’s who cuts the cord and meets out justice?

We merely at its pleasure jerked about from place to place never knowing where we may land. Then tiring from our unstable dance, the bored child man casts into outer darkness. Thrown in the land of misfits serving captivity and blame.

Shall I base my destiny on a fickle entity or wrest away the strings, slash & burn then take control of me.

I stand on the precipice ready to take flight or fall ignobly into the abyss.  I lost all sense of myself and gained only a hallucination of you.

No longer did my reflection appear in my vanity mirror, but instead a grizzled, gnarly stranger with hot breath and commanding tone invading my life like so unmanageable mutant alien beings taking over my body, my life, supplanting my dreams with your insane aspirations.

Then one day all the Muses and Goddesses convened, delivering me from subjugation SubSumation into an early manmade grave.  Yes…..He chased but my soul took flight leaving him earthbound gazing upwards at my Gossamer Wings.

Cloud Mists ~ For Lucy


https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fog/#like-245700

Fog

Foggy Misty Morn Central Park
Foggy Misty Morn Central Park

Misty Foggy Morn

Foggy Misty morn over Central Park in the ball field
Foggy Misty morn over Central Park in the ball field

 

Cloud Mists ~ For Lucy

Mists Cloud your face yet never your smile, laughter, your cheerfulness, your precious spirit.  Life moves on but there will always be an empty space where you once stood.  You were a sweet and gentle soul. All the world is passing by and I want to shout, Stop! Wait a minute! Don’t you know a melody has ceased playing? A familiar song is now silent?  Here I remain stoic yet crying inside wishing I could reach through this veil of tears and take your hand once again.

20130930_074209
Misty Day

Remembrance

Though we be in the Autumn of our lives we still beam the Girlish Dreams of Youth. When the cord is cut mid-stream will our dreams be cast into the raging seas…..ashes scattered to the prevailing winds blanketing the Earth like so many strips of confetti after the parade has ended?

Are our dreams lost forever or merely transferred to future generations. When death stills earthly dreams do they take wings and fly towards the Heavens.  Do our Ancestors dream of those yet to join them? Are we the living dreaming Lineages cut short who seek a bloodline vessel?

Girlish dreams beckon faded broken bodies. Minds kindled by the flames of youth —- yet the structure could not hold.  BOOM!!  And ever so slowly and softly one million photographs gently wafted to earth to be gathered by the Memory Gleaners and placed in the gallery of Lost Souls.

Minnie Riperton: “Memory Lane”

http://youtu.be/2-Z2z5a4mQ4

 

Do Heavenly dwellers have earthly memories?  Can Memories transpose the veil?  And we, if we be close enough or strong enough then death will hold no obstacle.  Essence travels freely no longer bound by fleshly concerns.

Foggy Misty Morn
Foggy Misty Morn

The Workers Leave No Footprints


Dreams Never Die

Misty Foggy Morn

Youth said “Dreams Never Die.” Twenty years passed then Recession kicked in. New Realities were born. Twelve hour workdays became the norm.

Like a drowning man Dreams surfaced again and again only to plummet down to the watery deep. All the while knocking at 1% door watching them through one-sided window laugh, play, drink and party with no thought for the ‘Morrow’. We the unseen only imagining free time for our dreams.

Dreams that must wait until Social Security beckons if death does not reach us first. Fore bread, water, warm clothes and a place to live cry louder. Goodnight Sweet Dreams. May you one day resurrect to a New Dawn.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

The Working Poor Leave No Footprints

Surrounded by a plethora of people who seemed to surface like bloated corpses after spring thaw.  Worker bees we are all meaningless specks of dust being recklessly scattered by blustery winds.  Modern day Robber Barons throw battle weary soldiers back into the battle while they sit sipping tea in Ivory Towers.  Thirty-seven years a professional, now placating rot breath Sabbath suits long in tooth, visions of Mammy dancing in their heads.  Limestone Liver spotted wrinkled bone bags befoul the air with endless demands.  Dontcha know Miz Daisy learned to drive herself and the Help all went to the French Rivera.

Foggy Misty Morn

I am Hagar cast out of my prosperous household, denied by the Master and Mistress I once served.  Thrown out of my protectors’ house my Dream-child and I await Our Avenging Angel of Salvation.

My Dreams now dead buried under work obligations, mountains of rules and regulations that I seem to constantly violate just by being. No miracles exist for me. Only years of mindless drudgery ahead.  Millennial Overseers govern my every move with their remote control mind games.  Freedom lies dormant within my imagination.  My brain has been put out to pasture because intelligence is not needed or wanted and creativity has become a sin.  Automaton Me clad in nondescript dull uniform easily replaceable by the next set of hungry hands yearning for the pence dispensed from the rich mans table.  Hey!! Who’s next up on the Auction Block?!!  Come lock step into the Plantation Mausoleum filled with objects which are valued more than drones who guard them.  We be Aliens in our own Land.  Serfs never reaping a hard earned Harvest.

Yet soon a New Day will Dawn, Dreams will bear fruit and Visions be reborn.

Evolution of Childhood InterPlanetary Dreams


https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/planet/

 

Evolution of Childhood InterPlanetary Dreams

Underground Railroad

Grandmas Reign Quilt

Eva Sophronia Gordon Palmer -- Grandmother
Eva Sophronia Gordon Palmer — Grandmother

Epoch Heydays beat rhythm time Tempo bringing Glory Days and Golden Age into Earth, Space, time Continuum alignment around my being. Spiritual Discernment begins the convergence of planets, Moon-Womben Star-gazers endlessly birthing heavenly bodies and floating orbs.

Underground Railroad_2

Mother Africa as Creator Goddess singing Reign Blessings upon her children.

My World, the ones I saw in my Grandmother’s Quilt and the ever expanding Galaxies beyond Earth, Sky, Sun and Moon-Daughter Wishes, Hopes and Desires.

Ancient hand stretching finger Ancestor Dimensions reaching forward into time and eternity bringing revelation knowledge of history long past yet made fresh daily.

Troubles beating bloody fists upon my pate.

Belladonna into Nightshades.

Tethered by an unholy umbilical cord to a dead albatross. Dreams deluge.  Green metal Frigidaire Fan blowing air opposite it’s promised heat relief. Stub toe late shift Dad curses Castro and his Convertible. Bucolic heat wave summer in the city. 25 cent Ice Cream salvation dispensed by Mr. Softee. Martha Reeves and her Vandellas gyrating to Dancing in the Streets while kids follow her Piped Pipers.

Kool-Aid libation sugar screams ensue while transistor talking heads Ralph Kiner and Lindsey Nelson called Shea play by plays. Bygone days of Tri-Corn braids.  Fletcher’s Castoria Beef Iron Wine cocktails.   Childhood freedom beckons signalling release from adulthood chain gangs. Teeter-totter bring unbalanced superimposed idealized memories to double-doubted times past. It’s 1964 and my Dixie Peach anointed head snuggles with Panda pillow transcending time once again in the loving arms of Grandma Eva’s patchwork quilt.