Ghost Lodge

Out of the North I stumbled
Through forests of gold and green.
Mocassin shod and starving
Into a land I'd never seen.

Colours swam within these tired eyes.
Ravens called, their croaking tense.
Seeing through my step the loss of lies,
This mans' ending they could sense.

A strawberry lay beside a lake,
Beckoning my hunger and thirst.
Lured to this vision, I did partake,
Now to this path I'm cursed.

Oh, mother and father
Sisters and brothers
I may not return to our lodge-
Your fire and meat, the songs so sweet-
Gone like the waves on the sand.
My wife, dear love, I'm lost to you,
Children never to take in hand.

In ripples and pools of this brilliant rill
Misshipeshu lies writhing in glee for the kill
And soon in my ending He'll savour his fill
For this warriors heart is bent to his will.

To cross this dread stream I've found
A bridge on a foul crooked log-
(Kokoko hoots, Myeegun howls)
Too short for the shore I was bound.

that was really good. well versed, great flow
please continue... is this a series or is your poetry random?

It's not a series, worldwatcher...but I do tend to be seriously involved in certain subjects. The Native American legends are immensely interesting to me and I have written a bit about it.
So...I suppose you could say my poetry is random, but I tarry here and there to fully express my findings.

thanks for the thumbs up.

Last nights full moon
glowed directly above
before winters first evening
rings Solstice cold love.



Now looking forward
to winter fires' burning
a cool bright morning-
a seasons new turning.

sp edit

[edit on 18/10/09 by masqua]

With humble hobblings,
a congo line began
Ratcheting up to wild youthful circlings,
I'm a bird of prey upon the world
descending in maturity to
a snake dance confined
within a 13 foot circle
upon cleansed ground
with wisdoms groaning load
plodding, plotting
to kill the Minotaur
and save the maiden
at the end of unravelled string.

[edit on 29-7-2005 by masqua]

A rising sun revealed
impossibilities and miracles
as host to Hypatia and the tale of the clamshells.

[A coffeemaker volcano, Etna of redolant
Spaghetti-O's running in blood thick rivulets-
pasta shreds, deathly white,
float upon the sluggish stream.]

Hypatia wanted her tea,
absent in the cupboard clutter,
lost among the Pekoes and green leaf,
fluttering amid spices of a distant thyme
and the schemes of Peter the Clerk,
burning the library of Alexandria.

I see omens of flying tiles
and a rending of ancient wisdoms.

Impossible birds jewelled the roof
of the Caesarium at Lent,
strutting the rituals of mating. I see
carmine Bluejays turning round and round
while rooster tailed cock robins
courted bloody breasted girlfriends.

I ran from Hypatia then,
before the clamshells scraped her bones,
blue tighties wrapped beneath a greasy rag kilt-
an impoverished William Wallace
accepting the fate, the rack
of the Dark Ages. My impoverished soul
flapped about my knees,
tied and retied to cover naked truth.

Anxious in my unseemliness
and a paupacy of pockets
I turned in my shame, seeing her smoke
rising from the Cinaron.

Murmuring whispers
tugging me through,
my bodiless radiance
flashing gold hue
Loves' embrace true.

Ascending above
mortality's stain,
stinking corpse lying
below shall remain
discarding completely
an earthly domain
of discord and madness
and pitiless pain.

Minds' incarnate
freedom found
re-membered
for getting
knowing profound
the leavings
the findings

and the next go-around.

Where did it go?
...that spark, my caring?
Has it been buried by a continent?
The slow tectonics of rock smothering me-
pushing me under,
building mountains of resentment in
a cracking subduction zone.

I'm tired.
Tired of irrelevance.
Worn down by the weathering of experience,
glaciers scraping redstreaked stones.
Inevitable scalpels of mortality
peel identity from my skull.

My sword has risen against me,
keening in its' thirst, wicked in its' aim,
carving pomposities.
Assumptions of wisdom
fall plopping at my feet
upon the clay that made me.

Just an old man now...
shuffling in the dusts of memories,
mumbling about mysteries
and untested faith.

Since this is a collaborative fiction board, I'd like to invite others to post their work on this thread as well.

The theme is as the thread title suggests; within the Ghost Lodge put your dark poetry of death and rebirth, malevolent Gods and Goddesses or anything which aspires to portray mortality / immortality.

Rule #1
Rhyme is optional
Rule #2
Entries must contain a minimum of 13 lines

Velvet night covers me.
The moon, a glistening orb,
lights my way
as I glide along the boulevards.

Hunting

Insatiable hunger spurs me,
gnawing at my sinews,
keening in the cold dead husk
of a desolated soul shell.

Tasting the scent

Quickening, I swoop
to the musky scent of hot blood.
My aching jaws creak
stretching in rapt anticipation.

Hearing the pulse

Roaring in the veins;
a lush symphony,
the ebb and flow
I cannot resist.

The Kill

Lightning bolt fangs
pierce the soft throat.
I inhale the hot gush
engorging me-
sucking-
filling me!
sucking it dry-
dry as a desert-
as a well wrung rag-
dry as a paper bag.

Conquering Ganymede in barques of gold,
emboldened adventurers return to the fold.
Resplendent in finery from far distant stars,
laden with jewels, they landed on Mars.

Azimov lay waiting, domed city on the plain,
as starships wafted slowly from clear ochre skies.
Ten thousand vessels falling like a fine golden rain,
landing ever so softly onto red sands with sighs.

When the last ark had settled, after a moment of drama,
the ramps extended down on the Admirals decision.
The vast spaceport shimmered in dreamy panorama
while soldiers disembearked with military precision.

Lockstep they marched, flowing to the city,
one hundred per ship, one million men striding.
Triumphant and proud, these victors of calamity,
entered through crystal gates, eternallly abiding.

Into an echoing emptiness they stumbled,
aghast at the ragged corpses they found.
The city was dead, their treasures they fumbled,
like sparkling rain, jewels fell to the ground.

The proud Admiral muttered a curse to his greed,
for he knew their families were carried away.
No-one remained to carry the seed,
mankind was done, finished, and have had their day.

It's a done deal;
stamped, sealed and delivered-
no deal nor appeal.

The Priory de Sion
and Bilderbergers agree;
The New World Order established
unalterably.

In3500BC
Thoth figured it moot
to begin this long process
and see it bear fruit.

AKA as Hermes
messenger thrice great,
he plotted the course to set mankind straight.

Ancient hermetics
plotted the ages,
while veined crystal globes
informed mystic sages.

All of our trials...
the wars and the fates,
the famines and foibles
on portentious dates;
foreknown completely!
no deviance allowed,
all arrow straight!
Leaving us only
to prevaricate.

History's a cycle
without beginning nor end,
like the serpent of legend
biting its' tail is its' bent.

Today some individuals,
be they ever so rare,
carry such notions
to people who care.

Hancock digs Egypt
and pulls from the sands
a plethora of hints
of outworlder hands.

Sitchin reads Sumeria
with an eye to the same,
the marks of the Nefelim
and Elohims' game.

The rise and fall of empires
is all in the cards.
The stones of the Norse,
the songs of the bards
are clues to our future
on a pre-ordained course.

So I care not for fear
nor cometary clash,
nor vengeful false Gods
our poor bones to gnash.

I care only for living
as long as I do.
To soak in the sunshine
and sit beside you.

Golden glints sparkle warmly
through hair the hue of coal.
Red lips carve words silently
meant only for the soul to hear.

Book of Shadows
open in her lap.

Incense, votive candle
illume her tattooed arms.
Salt and bowl and wand
laid out in perfect harmony
upon the altar.

Pentagram etched
upon its polished top.

She calls upon her Goddess
familiar as her friend
to help her in this working:
mending shattered ego,
her lifestyle to defend.

Lunar forces
drawn down.

To banish one who mocked her,
this spell has an intent.
With the aid of Spirit Guardians
she calls forth her offence.
Cozy in her familiar wisdom.

Earths energies
pulled up.

To banish those who fault her
(mocking mindless jerks!)
and keep her safe and happy
in her coven keep
so far above the rest.

Gilgamesh, where in Hell have you got?
You were supposed to get eternal life...so...what happened?
Did you and Enkidu get tangled up in some pretty lasses' hair?
Geez, peeps, we need you here!

We humble mortals are at it again...no doubt you've heard the news.
Fighting over who's God is greater and all that...the usual political crap.
We haven't learned a thing since the Hittites and the Egyptians got squirrely.
Damned if we don't need some direction. So come on down off that Smoking Mountain!

Next thing we know, the Druids and the Wiccans are gonna start up.
Old Stonehenge could be the next place of massacre.
I can see it now, huge wickermen full of Wiccans, going up in smoke
while the Druids wave their golden scythes in the air.

Multifaceted sects of Christians scrapping over the bones of Jesus
while fractuous sects of Muslims look on with glee.
The legions of Satanists gloat over the destruction of order and civility
and Gnostics mutter on about life being meaningless anyway.

I wonder, Gilgamesh, at what point did it all go so wrong?
In the days of the Old Gods it all seemed so clear-
This One did this, Another did that
and They all fought with each Other,
had jealousy, knew heartache.

Those Gods were so...erm...human!
I can identify with that.
Perhaps it was that Pharoah, the rebel Akhnaten
who started this mess by replacing Them All with the One.

And we all know how that ended up...(heh)
Again we're in the same conundrum
and the pagans are among the Romans again.
Does history ever have to repeat itself?

Maybe Enki and Enlil will come back in the spring
and bring You along for the ride.
You could set us all straight on the path to the truth
and stem the high mark of this tide.

Bring along the Father of Light if you will,
we'd get the Word straight from the One
There's guys down here who want children to kill,
and I'd like to cook those perps 'done'.

So, Gilgamesh, you traveller of yore,
get Thee down off Niburu's Throne,
Tend to your flock, ignore us no more
and throw this poor dog a bone.

Moonrider on a Harley,
pagan glyphs her strong arms adorn,
tattoos, symbols of her divinity,
exposing the glorious truth
two millenia had hidden.
She rides.
Resplendant
in skull and crossbones,
quick in mortality and weathered leathers.
Starlit eyes, black with mysteries,
revealed,
glowing with inner light,
defiant in the darkness.
The roar of dragpipes
echo amid forests,
amplifying her presence.
Dark Goddess daring death
in the trembling lamplight, probing
the earth beneath her wheels,
connecting the deep mantle
with the settling moon and the
promised new sun rising
through windblown hair
into her wild soul.
Riding for the circled cross
into the waxing moon
and a promise of renewal.
Singing with the ancients,
in harmony with Truth to
an old wooden cross
and a mythical Horus, a lamb
splayed for her salvation,
through pain of death,
to rebirth.

Primal Atom, omnisexual oneness
of instability did carnality feel,
shook its quarky loins, splitting asunder
with flashing light and begat.

Unsatiated, these two did quake
and blue streaks split the darkness.
Now four quivering atoms shake,
hard put to make four others.

This did not stop those randy balls
'til the night was sparkling blue
and some did bump while others grind,
and some would stick like glue.

And so was born this lively place
where we all think we're smart,
but Primal Atom knows the trace
and mankinds' bitsy part.

A bauble in the neutron flux,
an abberation in the glow,
the Milky Way's a streak of snot
and mysterious winds still blow.

Simply actors on a stage
between the earth and sky,
we live our lives in scenes
so ordinairy and sublime.

Cast between our egos,
flowing with the tides
of war and peace
and times like these
which cannot be defined.

In heady wines immersed,
we love, inebriated by the lust.
Flesh and joyous spirits reclining
to taste the sweet tang of desire,
sweat on a neck, given feely
to thirsty lips, gorging ourselves
on such nectars. The sighs and moans
a pleasant release.

But then, in the swirling Sufi dance,
a counterspin to madness,
the acid drippings of revenge
and feral bloodlust
bear us to grim gore,
berserkers lost in passion
keening in the mind,
shrill as cicadas.

Rattling lungs burn
in ragged breaths,
heaving with each stroke
of knife, each blast of .50 cal.,
'til the hate is spent
in steaming piles of death.

And then we turn,
like children,
and weep.

Oh, how fast it fades; the battles' din,
muffled in the sweet breast of love.
Held fast in the heart of love,
fading slowly in the warmth,
the silence...

shhhhh...

Sapphire lake,
calm in the stillness
of October's sun
echoes to the call of geese.

Lonely cries of summers' farewell.

Trees, adorned by dying jewels;
a ruddy necklace of ambers,
compliment cloudless skies
of perfect turquoise.

Not a ripple stirs the surface.

You are Saturn
floating in a blue universe,
a singularity
on the event horizon.

You hold your breath.

The cry of an unseen loon,
far away,
resonates deep
within your soul.

Dipping the paddle quietly in the water,
the canoe responds.
Small eddies make sweet sucking sounds
beside you, awakening you.

-and the world comes back in a flood.

We we lo lo

Each day dawns the light.
Monthly renewal the moon.
Cycles of hope in the night
coming to death by noon.

Beating the rushes, dear Isis
in the hope of regeneration?
From the manly part of Osiris
to rebuild a spiritual nation.

We we lo lo

In the chapel of the Green Knight
once again we take the girdle.
Tainting our future less bright,
accepting temptation's hurdle.

The birth and death of Venus,
Lord of the Dawn is smitten.
Precession within the Great cycle
Upon the Sunstone is written.

Blue Star Kachina, takes down the mask-
a flute before children is played,
ending the fourth world his task,
to Parrot Clan, hope is relayed.

We we lo lo

Kitche Manitou
Guy-an-way
Solomon Grundy
The art of Carl Ray.

Quatzalcoatl saw the track
in squares on a rattlers back.
Velikofsky said there'd be days like this,
when mountains rolled in their sleep,
ice caps travelling to warmer climes,
waters washing our high meadows deep.

We we lo lo
Earth reborn to new times


[edit on 12-8-2005 by masqua]

The KOSMA observatory had been emptied
and the twin telescopes idled amid banks of blank monitors.
Students, like me, had scattered, unable to work.
Professor Stutzki, greedy for time, flew to Cali,
staunchly in denial, to coddle his brainchild, OSIRIS.

Trading the Alpine peaks for the city,
I retreated home to the university.
Finding cold comfort in Albert-Magnus-Platz.
I walked down upon the ancient cobbled ways.

Passersby, their resignation worn in tired faces,
as if they too were aware of what I knew.

Stopping into Saturn, I saw a hundred adherants
flipping through ten thousand titles,
focussed upon the body and soul of rock,
sublime in their wonderful normalcy.

To drown my secret, I bought a Rammstein
and emerged once more under the bleak German sky.
Drawn towards the great river, my steps counting
upon the labyrinth of streets a passing of time,
so imminent in my lonely knowledge.

Finally I stood alone, facing the cold north wind
and slipped the CD in the player.
'Sehnlicht' pummeled my senses
while whitecaps marched, like Agrippas' ghostly legions,
towards me, upon the muddied grey waters.

History, a cold Roman blade,
twisted in my guts.
At each side, above me, bridges span the Rhine,
bleak symbols of a lost hope
to be dashed by the descending hammer.

The opening notes of 'Engel"
evoke images of Fox and Dana
as a brilliant flash deletes the west,
exposing eastern Cologne in an impossible white.
Speaking aloud I say; "the truth is here!"
and the earth moved under my feet.