Echo Muses

Majestic Moon

Supermoon, supermoon
The deity within
Your full radiance,
A bell pusher,
To summon me from bed
Dragging out my hidden afflictions,
All my ancient artifacts
With my waxing girl eyes,
You’re supernatural calescent white,
My heart moon-struck in euphoric flight
With my waning aged eyes,
A silver statue, as my thousand loves gone by

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Mine Na Poems

Heaviness (A Birthday Poem)

How does she begin to feel lighter again?
In this age of heaviness,
Everything weighing her down,
Try to hide the decay,
With excessive makeup.
Trim the fat.
But her eyelids still shut
from afternoon pains,
And the heartaches
still weighs the same.

Hypnotic regression…
A sweet girl of seven.
Unaware, that all her life will be to crave forth what seems lovable and gratifying.
That maturity ceases the climbing of trees and chasing of cats.
To the ascending of worldly success and the approval of at least one man’s glowing eyes.

And at the age of seventy
what reflections will she see?
Lady Plath’s
terrible fish?
Sacks of hefty flesh…
Enlarged pores to pour out life’s toxic gunk of addictions?
Crippling disease…
A memory like a swiss cheese parade?
Or the censored truths?
That the second we are born the body is slipping away.
Just a house for our souls to seek warmth,
To accumulate energies from karmic delays.

What about the here and now?
That carefree is not only a state of mind for a seven year old,
But also for this woman of thirty-four. Until her mental branches
begin to grow into a ruckus,
And she must trim it all back again.
Will she smile with thankfulness at everything that has accumulated
And seize the truth?
That acceptance of impermanence
is a state of grace.

Poem/Photo: Naomi Ruth ย  ย  ย  ย  ย  ย ย Art: Ivan Albright

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Mine Na 13.

A blanket of camouflage

Don’t you wanna touch?
Her soul’s intricate web of lace.
Her crushed velvet skin.
She’s been on fire for centuries.
Every birth, born with cinder eyes.
Past deaths so violent;
Left violet raised marks
In the next skin,
Every sin a tender shame.
Provoked to pinch and pull at her flesh.
A pattern maimed.
A timid frame.
Before, behind closed doors,
Leaped in camera’s eye.
Until out the window,
She layed in crimson snow.
Now in this life, her 22nd urgency,
Has faded in a winter’s remorse.
And she floats on into the age of 34.
In zenith, no more.

Poem & Art: Naomi Ruth Waldschmidt

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