This is my new dimension.
There are clues.
This time I see straight ahead to the sculpture at City Park.
Before, it was not visible from the hill.
My reality has shifted again.
Something happened – something profound
Yet all is nebulous,
A dream not quite remembered.
I died again –
In another reality there was my funeral.
The details escape me on this plane of existence.
The people with me now made it through
To my new dimension.
The others did not, but
I’ll never know who they are.
Come with me now – please.
I want to share this present world
And believe it is real.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Our deaths are too much for the psyche –
How can we be happy in an afterlife
Knowing others grieve for us?
How can we meet with people in an afterlife
Knowing they have died?
Even as a child I knew no solution to the concept of heaven.
The only bliss is not knowing we have died.
The only way.
Who would I be with in a linear heaven?
My first husband or last boyfriend –
Or no one?
I don’t know earthly death.
I carry on.
There are only clues of my new existence,
Everlasting life.
---------------------------------------------------------
There are clues.
This time I see straight ahead to the sculpture at City Park.
Before, it was not visible from the hill.
My reality has shifted again.
Something happened – something profound
Yet all is nebulous,
A dream not quite remembered.
I died again –
In another reality there was my funeral.
The details escape me on this plane of existence.
The people with me now made it through
To my new dimension.
The others did not, but
I’ll never know who they are.
Come with me now – please.
I want to share this present world
And believe it is real.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Our deaths are too much for the psyche –
How can we be happy in an afterlife
Knowing others grieve for us?
How can we meet with people in an afterlife
Knowing they have died?
Even as a child I knew no solution to the concept of heaven.
The only bliss is not knowing we have died.
The only way.
Who would I be with in a linear heaven?
My first husband or last boyfriend –
Or no one?
I don’t know earthly death.
I carry on.
There are only clues of my new existence,
Everlasting life.
---------------------------------------------------------
Omens are in nature. Nature is perfection.
Knowledge is nature –
Truth is natural and beautiful.
My home is here, in the stars.
My place, the 8th house of Death, Sex, and Business –
That’s my ‘hood’.
All part of a star pattern.
Words are remnants of icons to me –
Words are ancient pictures grouped together.
The tribe communicates to survive.
Say the word to make it real – or write it.
The pattern starts there.
What is my pattern?
That is the quest.
Careful what I say –
I weave my expression,
I want to look like Nature.
I want to be natural –
It’s the only way. Careful.
Nature is strong with only one truth.
I search the omens.
------------------------------------------------------------------
A poem has died.
Poetry was not just an art form.
It was essential.
Nature’s picture rhythms, incantations.
‘Spells’
Spell the picture to change reality.
Believe in the picture and walk in that world
Of word creation.
Yes, the fabled ‘spells’.
From MacBeth’s cauldrons to tabloid headlines
Repeated rhythmic ‘spells’ changing the picture.
Spell it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Knowledge is nature –
Truth is natural and beautiful.
My home is here, in the stars.
My place, the 8th house of Death, Sex, and Business –
That’s my ‘hood’.
All part of a star pattern.
Words are remnants of icons to me –
Words are ancient pictures grouped together.
The tribe communicates to survive.
Say the word to make it real – or write it.
The pattern starts there.
What is my pattern?
That is the quest.
Careful what I say –
I weave my expression,
I want to look like Nature.
I want to be natural –
It’s the only way. Careful.
Nature is strong with only one truth.
I search the omens.
------------------------------------------------------------------
A poem has died.
Poetry was not just an art form.
It was essential.
Nature’s picture rhythms, incantations.
‘Spells’
Spell the picture to change reality.
Believe in the picture and walk in that world
Of word creation.
Yes, the fabled ‘spells’.
From MacBeth’s cauldrons to tabloid headlines
Repeated rhythmic ‘spells’ changing the picture.
Spell it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
