voodooboo's Blog - page 3

And the weaver said, "Speak to us of Clothes."

And he answered:

Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful.

And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a chain.

Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment,

For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind.

Some of you say, "It is the north wind who has woven the clothes to wear."

But shame was his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread.

And when his work was done he laughed in the forest.

Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean.

And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind?

And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

(A poem I wrote a few years ago.)

I want to be that one lil ray of sunshine
Shooting through the black of the rainstorm
I want to be a full moon in all it's glory
Night playing dead with a glow in perfect form
I want to be the wind so persistent
Pushing the seasons , the dance of leaves falling
For the wind knows nothing but forward
Something so unseen but you can hear it calling
I want to be that one magic penny
A wish so deep tossed into such shallow water
I'd be the wishmaker letting it all come true
You're close...You're getting warm...warmer..hot!
I want to be a beautifully imperfect sunset
Smears and mixtures of every colored emotion
For the whole world to see ...so wide open
Before the dark it comes with such sweet devotion
I want to be that shooting star that never fades
It would serve as a reminder that I'm always here
I am playing blind and giving up all control
I am behind the wheel....but letting fate steer
I want to be everything that I am not
I want to be that flower in a sprawling field
Because then maybe you would see me
Through the thick of it, I stand tall to be shown
And until the sun stops shining....
Until wishes are something to not believe in
The day sunsets sprawl out in black and white
I'll pour my heart across it all and start all over again.

I want to be devoured
Like a bee to a pollen filled flower
I want to be taken
There is no mistaking
The desire comes from something tribal
My thighs can't deny a yearning so primal
I feel my inner thigh muscles tightening up
And I visualize me overflowing like a porcelain cup.
But here I am
Ready to be eaten
Like a rack of lamb
But for now, I'm a flower in waiting
Waiting for that hungry little bee
to follow his instincts.

TO SOME I HAVE TALKED WITH BY THE FIRE

by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

HILE I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,
My heart would brim with dreams about the times
When we bent down above the fading coals
And talked of the dark folk who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword-blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.

**nudiebare this one's for you being so welcoming**

In my olde dreams

I would fly

in the night sky.

The way my white feathers

looked even whiter

against the darkness of all

weathers.

I looked brand new in the dark.

Not seeing how feathers have been

ruffled.

By certain marks.

Markings of a time and a place.

Where love took a taste.

And frayed is now the case.

But frayed and

unafraid,

the light shows my flaws.

It takes balls, but,

now I want to cascade

through sun rays

every morning

of all my days.

To be a part of something

-bigger-

not being weighed down by

the bitter.

To show all of me is

to be

-free-

To feel is to

not have a heart

of steel.

To fly

is to never let your dream

die.

Beam and bask

in this warmth

at

last.

(I love poetry. I'll start to share my own, but for now this is one of my favorite poets)

And a poet said, “Speak to us of Beauty.”

Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?

And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

The aggrieved and the injured say, “Beauty is kind and gentle.

Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.”

And the passionate say, “Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread.

Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.”

The tired and the weary say, “beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit.

Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.”

But the restless say, “We have heard her shouting among the mountains,

And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.”

At night the watchmen of the city say, “Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.”

And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, “we have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.”

In winter say the snow-bound, “She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.”

And in the summer heat the reapers say, “We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.”

All these things have you said of beauty.

Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied,

And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy.

It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth,

But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted.

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,

But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.

It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,

But rather a garden forever in bloom and a flock of angels forever in flight.

People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.

But you are life and you are the veil.

Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.

But you are eternity and you are the mirror.