Death, Lunar Poems

Blue Bees will not sting

Unless…
Roses in the park,
Shimmer as a string of red pearls slipping down her throat

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In a steel room he held her midst of mercy
Autumn’s arrival at last, the violet petals collapse
He’ll pass through cosmic tunnels
And wear her voice as he nears the moon

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What of it now?
The failure of nerve
We all stand a chance
To be a queen in his eyes
When the suntory claimed the roses as blue

Poem by: NaRa

Art: Blue Bee Image Pinterest, Mark Rothko & Freydoon Rassouli

 

 

 

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Imprints

“Evening Song” by Gottfried Keller

Eyes my dear little windows,
Give me a little longer the fairest glows of vision
Be kind, let the images in,
For someday you shall grow dim!

No sooner shall the light have ceased
And the tired lids close than the soul shall have peace;
She will fumbling take off her walking shoes
And lay her down in the coffin’s gloom.

Still, she will see two glimmering sparks,
Like two little stars in the inner dark,
‘ Till they, too, waver and finally die,
As though by the wing of a butterfly

And still will I roam in the evening fields,
With only the sinking star for a friend;
Drink in, oh eyes, all your lashes can hold
Of the golden abundance of the world!

For Hermann Rorchach, a light dimmed out to soon.

Art Gustva Klimt

 

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Jay Poem 15.

In December, I felt a cooling doom

15, 16, stops at 17,
that icebox presence
came through the threshold,
in that corner room
Wednesday night, empty stomach,
was nothing new
at my feet that must of been you
hovering cold and vibrating
in tones of blues
I sobbed in my pillow, but had no excuse
as the blankets of snow, drifted outside,
in ambient whiteout
my heart grew empty,
abandoned it before,
I felt the wounds bloom

In June, my emotional circumference,
the regression rest at 15
in kitchen nightmares
the trash full of squirming opalescence
paint a peeling, chrome pegasus
I felt the specter, go in and out of my head

Urgently, trying to grasp at the middle, 16
my hands with silky knots,
smiling back at you,
with silver rings,
building an anchor for you

Emulsion scratched,
at the age of 22, in fact
Who were you? Who was I?
like flashes in the camera eye
use to drive all the way up top
of parking garages
to see how far gravity would reach me
aching joy
shoe gazing

Jason, your phantom steps,
move me down a spiral timeline
to the depths of one echoing point, and
bends back to what was aching

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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             Art: Ivan Albright

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Ceramics + Writing, dreams

Sleeping With Malachite (Part 2)

His mind softly touches my,
Exuberant ladder of dreams.

He is wrapped in a blanket
Of my layered terra.

Like a destined sleepwalker
He came right through.
But with care,
For my scared
Velvety ivory dog.
He even brushes
My bronzy beauties.

He gathers all
My thought patterns around.
Even one of my owl friends
Joins the funeral circle.

Who died?
Wait. What?
That’s me, wrapped
Like an egyptian mummy,
With malachite.

How could I have died?
A woeful projection
Hears me and explains,
“Drown in a lake of cadmium red.”

He shakes me awake
“Just another nightmare.”, I say
“But you were laughing
Not crying.”
He says.

I reply,
“Oh my unconscious lost my life.”
But with a more serious tone,
“I was under my fate.”

 

img_6503Poem & Art: Naomi Ruth W. Photograph : Erwin Blumefeld

 

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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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Echo Muses 9.

Rattle of Tongues

I know these words are somewhere
down inside me.
Some I held as a child.
Sisters spoke in endless streams
to flood a river.
No room to pour out, no echo to rattle in their ears.
Locked up for years.
My mouth felt like the arroya split.
Until we met near the December pines.
You pushed me out into that frozen lake.
My mouth filled up in frost.
When I spoke, my words emerged slowly, like icy swirling ghosts.
You were the miracles in those days.
The founder of my blue heart.
The day you left Vincent,
was the day I lost my voice again.
I long for my rattle,
To speak endlessly, while you smile back at me.

Photograph: Talking to Vince, Francesca Woodman

Poem: Nara

 

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Earthly voids & Spiritual quest

Gate Rei

You weave me into your mouth.
Unfold your mountain, to record my memories.
Hardwire my pain to your ears.
Stream into me, if you try, you will find;
I’m a thunder-cry.
I’m psychic in colours.
Flowing like coral, that roots to bone-ash truths, that carry skull eyed wide at rest.
For longevity is not a metal.
As skin is made from clay;
The soul, made before space-age.
And inner eye, they tried to calcify,
Wants to spin out on chakras.
To be uncaged, crowned in the higher.
Take my hand, to soar into attunement.

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