An abstract search

Crazed in disbelief of my own decisions
Made out of simple design:
An action to create reaction
Hands reach out blindly in abstract search
Any destination at all the desire
And companion for the misery of indecision
So seeks the blind explorer
A short relief for boredom,
A random source of experience
And with each experiment
Comes a result less fortunate
That in abstraction,
The only answer is confusion...

Why such a burden, fate

Wish for a simpler cause
To escape this painful clench
Tightened jaw, so unwilling
Too unfortunate to accept
Such a fate graciously.
The noise becomes enough
So that hands must interfere
To drown and throttle the gift
And all it threatens to give

Why such a burden, fate?
And with it such injury
As those who run through walls,
Ignoring open doors,
Regret time lost to disbelief,
The suffering of struggle,
And the foolish presumption
That one must climb a mountain backwards...
To appreciate the view.

No esteem but selfless

It’s a crisis
When a diamond looks to dirt for affection
When a genius seeks guidance from the stupid
For the blind to lead the visionary
Perfume gazing with love and longing
At a toilet.

Once a man held his arm out to me
In his hand, a penny
A statement of my worth
For I should be so grateful
As to have a man offer any sum of trash
To collect me.

No esteem held high enough
To silence the weeping heart of a neglected child
She, we each house inside ourselves, molested
But let her cry not
For safety is in strangers with nourishing candy
To make us all feel
So very much better.

Killing time...

Two lights that burn inside grown dim
My own gutters in its boredom
And one so uninspired
Sees the world as truly blank
The nothing spans farther than I could ever aspire
And so, my goal transforms
To reach the end of oblivion
It’s true, I know of no purpose
I have let go the romantic ideal of my solo plight
Through the big, big universe
It is not I versus anything
But I begging for scraps, and a warm place to rest
So befuddle me with minor preoccupations
And find me some place
To feel closer to sanctimony,
Not merely my atoms flying
Exhausted through the daily futile.
There must be a better way to
Kill time between now and forever.

Devotion

They, confused and broken,
Are sent to me in disrepair
To seek my accidental guidance
And though none for me, my hand opens
To lead and presage what's heard through touch

Questions cried by lost children
Under breathe of pretence and posture
He may stand before me tall and impressive
But in him, I see truth longing to express fealty

This pretence exhausts us both
As I must endure such an unskilled performance
And he, nervous that in the end, I will not applaud

My child, be comforted
That though I see you as you truly are,
So stands with me a man I truly love...

I am this battle

I am this battle
I am the tortured corporal
Fought behind a fettered front
Battered through, done no good
Shot in the head, in the temple
Wept and soaked like a goat on the altar
Salty red preservation, sordid on a past

I am to untie the knots, the spiller of seeds
Drive out those bats, for the vampires be crazy!
I will trap them in the salty red, suckered sweetly
Menu for those wicked passed on fire of a mortar
Throughout unbidden, with sorrels for their safety
Pickled and seasoned, queued up and waiting

I am the binder of undue
Tacked onto the back cavalry
Patched through, done no good
Height there on a wing left swaying
Fist waving on the right hand saying
Sky is not falling! It broods blue

Charged to the altar with grief to land
Of the sound forest falls, while one hand stands
Front dances forth and back like fire
Burning on, uncontained like theory
I am the cold, blue flame.

The Valkyries

I WILL NOT LIVE THIS LIFE IN DISGUISE
I WILL NOT SUFFER FILTERS AND APOLOGY
BRING YOUR BATTLES AND CHALLENGES
AND I WILL FIGHT WITH JOY FOR THIS FREEDOM
THE FREEDOM TO LOVE ABSOLUTELY…

The Valkyrie is, in the oldest strata of belief, a corpse goddess, represented by the carrion-eating raven. The name in Old Norse, valkyrja, means literally, "chooser of the slain." The Valkyrie is related to the Celtic warrior-goddess, the Morrigan, who likewise may assume the form of the raven. The Valkyries ("Choosers of the Slain") are beautiful young women, mounted upon winged horses and armed with helmets and spears. The Valkyries rode through the air in brilliant armour, directed battles, distributed death lots among the warriors, and conducted the souls of slain heroes to Valhalla, the great hall of Odinn.

By this later time, the Valkyries, as demigoddesses of death, had their legend conflated with the folklore motif of the swan maiden (young girls who are able to take on the form of a swan, sometimes as the result of a curse). If one could capture and hold a swan maiden, or her feathered cloak, one could extract a wish from her. This is why valkyries were sometimes known as swan maidens or wish maidens. They are prone to leaving their husbands and seeking out battle again, which is their old homes.

Although the sources consulted are not clear on this, the chief of the Valkyries seems to have been the goddess Freyja. She is the Norse goddess of love, fertility, and beauty, sometimes identified as the goddess of battle and death. Blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful, Freyja travels on a golden-bristled boar or in a chariot drawn by cats. She resides in the celestial realm of Folkvang. Like Odinn, she received half of those slain in battle, but since ladies go first she was allowed first choice! Freyja possessed a magical cloak of falcon feathers that allowed her to take the shape of a falcon if she wished, making the swan maidens similar to the goddess by having "feather coats" or cloaks that enable their shape-shifting abilities and the power of flight.

The Valkyries carry out the will of Odinn in determining the victors of the battle, and the course of the war. Their primary duty is to choose the bravest of those who have been slain, gathering the souls of dying heroes or warriors found deserving of afterlife in Valhalla. They scout the battle ground in search of mortals worthy of the grand hall. If you are deemed by the Valkyries as un-worthy of the hall of Valhalla you will be received after death by the goddess Hel in a cheerless underground world.

They apportion victory in battle according to Odinn's commands, and scour the battlefields for those who are particularly brave, or show particular skill in the arts of combat. The bravest warrior was he who ran head and heart first into the violence, seeking to conquer an opponent not in fearful self-preservation, but so that another challenge may be faced. He fought with full expectation of being slain, but fought with every atom of his being, for there is no greater joy for the brave than giving everything for what he believes. And if any adversity can conquer the heart and strength of such a powerful force, one who has nothing to lose and everything to gain by exposing his weakness and inviting pain, he will know that he has died gloriously in his love and conviction, and without regret. In truth, he was not conquered at all, for nothing can defeat a fearless heart. When such warriors die, the valkyries then carry them over Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, and to Valhalla. Once in Valhalla they also serve the slain warriors meat and drink. (This should not at all be seen as a servile role, rather just the opposite. Sometimes in Viking society a queen would serve a particularly honoured guest herself, as a sign of great respect, and it is in this sense that the valkyries serve the Einherjar who feast there.)

The descriptions of Odinn's hall describe the Valkyries as foster-daughters, just as the einherjar (the chosen warriors of Odinn) are foster sons Freyja is said to be the first of the Valkyries, called Valfreyja, "Mistress of the Slain," she pours ale at the feasts of the Aesir . The Valkyries also have duties in the great hall. There, having exchanged their armour for pure white robes, they will serve the warriors they have chosen. Another function the valkyries serve in Valhalla is to guide the warriors in their battle-training, and to heal and/or reanimate them after a day of battle-practice. They also give warnings of battle via dreams and visions, and also of impending death.
Sometimes, the Valkyrie guides and protects her chosen human, and may become his lover. She teaches him the ways of Odinn, and brings him wisdom and inspiration from the god, and when the time comes she kills him and brings him home. So that he may celebrate true love in his own skin.

Valhalla, the great hall of slain warriors is located in Asguard, the realm of Odinn. It contains 540 doors each of which leads to a room which can accommodate 800 warriors. The roof is made of warrior's shields. There the warriors spend their days fighting and their nights feasting, until Ragnarok, the day of the final world battle, in which the old gods will perish and a new reign of peace and love will be instituted.

The Valkyries are connected with the legend of the Raven Banner. This banner was woven of the cleanest and whitest silk and no picture of any figure was found upon it except in the case of war, at which time a raven always appeared upon it, as if woven into it. If the Danes were going to win the upcoming battle, the raven appeared with his beak wide open, flapping its wings and restless on its feet. If they were going to be defeated, the raven did not stir at all, and its limbs hung motionless. Sometimes the blood-covered Valkyrie-prophetesses are seen themselves as weavers, to prophesy the outcome of the next day's battle.

The Valkyries are also Odinn's messengers and when they ride forth on their errands, their armour causes the strange flickering light that is called the "Aurora Borealis" (Northern Lights). When the Northern Lights were in the sky, ancestors said that it was caused by the light reflected from the shields the Valkyries were beating their swords against.

Any maiden who becomes a valkyrie will remain immortal and invulnerable as long as they obey the gods and remain virginal. It is often said that if you see a Valkyrie before a battle, you will die in that battlle.

The Martyr’s Promise

Believe me, I am innocent,
Under fire of mistaken persecution
Engage my heart not in anger,
But sorrow for the blind,
Agony for confusion,
And longing for the fulfilment
Of our true intentions
Though I stand here in skin
Suffering the wounds of my punishment,
My heart sings to you in joy
And in its vision, I feel comforted
While outside, I must endure
As punishment demands
Standing still upon my own colour,
With limbs torn and flesh burned
A small sacrifice to prove
My resolve to help you
As your beloved Queen and loyal servant

Without a word or complaint
So shall I reign into my grave…

We, two

Two, as we are, collected in embrace
Both bent softly at the knees,
Unstable and leaning,
Asking of the other's strength

Two, as we are, children, hurt and guarded
With spiked hands
One on the throat, one on the mouth
So desperate to be loved on our terms

Each master and servant to heart and head,
To the dirty will of man and the
Perfection of God
Each a saint in hope,
And a felon in practice

So flawed, we, to pretend this trust in such tragic misdirection
The frayed, holey map drawn left-handed in darkness
Laid out is our clumsy path, slow, blurred and useless
Sought on foot, on hand, backwards, sideways, without a plan

In the maunder, we listen to the words manifest
Though our blessed hearts cry...
So ironical.
So dense with weight, and so empty of wisdom
So longing for a sovereign guide

To feign assignment, surely a joke
To elect the other as its leader
To silently empower and not employ
Two stupid to release the door,
Two proud to invite inside

But ha! we, bereft of fallacy
We know it all! to be sure,
Only in translation do we hear
The tabloid nature of our truths,
Our maxims, our sturdy philosophies

These are violent gaps in us,
Where the darkness rules into madness,
Where our blessed hearts are forever crying
As we laugh out loud in celebration
Of how very right we must be!

For what other way can we be but right?
Without "right," we are left naked,
Exposed in our embarrassment
Ashamed that our hands grip no strength,
Disappointed that when the fingers close,
The truth escapes ethereal

And yet we, bereft of humility, fighting for ignorance,
The everlasting, hard fight for the same.

But this is we as we are... as you and me.

I contemplate this wish:
That I may open my arms to you
Even with such mystery out there, and so dark
Is the mystery a terror, should be simply unexplored?

And will your hands open to meet mine?

I cannot will you to join me here,
Deep in the unknown real
I can only offer my hand to hold,
My body to protect, my heart to love
My strength to keep you standing.

So then, may I, too, need to lean?
In my newness, I am unstable in my strength
And so strong, yet bending.

Yet this is the eternal truth ...

Together we are sound in embrace
Both bent softly at the knees,
Imperfect and learning,
For each is the other's strength.

Sleepless Replay in My Soul

Last night I opened up my mind
And saw the photos of long ago.
Memories of love and joy
Mixed with the pain and sorrow
Thumbed through the pages with my mind
Remembering what I wanted to hold
And this is what happens to me
When I replay my life in my soul

Saw again the first day I met you
Saw again the first day I made you cry
Felt the shame for my selfish actions
And saw again the day we said goodbye
I also saw the moments of happiness
Saw the moments worth more than gold
And felt your hand touch my face
In the replay in my soul.

There's a lot to be said that never came out
A lot to be done that wasn't done.
But we still managed to stay together
Still managed to have a lot of fun
I wonder now what happened
What destroyed the relationship so old
And now I see the tears and rain falling
As part of the replay in my soul

It's been ages since I saw you last
Ages since our last good-bye
The memory lasts forever though
And I get to wonder why
I hear you've got a family now
And you're happy you've achieved your goal
Though I said goodbye, and I would never cry
I weep…in the sleepless replay in my soul.

I’ll Wait for You

I’ll sit and wait

As long as I can wait for you

I am content

What more can I do?

Just to hear your voice

Just to see your smile

I will be patient

I will wait a little more while

When your eyes glisten

Your hand raises to wave

I know it is worth it

I am your patient mate

Forever at your command

Happy to entertain

I will wait forever

If your attention I will gain

If only a glance

A soft spoken hello

My patience is rewarded

Before you must go...

Then again I shall wait

As long as my breath betrays me

Until you again return to me

What more can I do?
I’ll wait some more…

Patience

I am waiting
Though not in stillness as I wait
I am hoping
Though not in despair as I hope
I am dreaming
Though not in darkness as I dream
I am longing
Though not in emptiness as I long
I am trying
Though not in futility as I try
I am learning
Though not in ignorance as I learn
I am becoming
Though not in nothing as I become
I am being
While eternity teaches me patience

Wasn’t it while waiting…?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to profoundly admire even the most infinitesimal droplet of rain that cascaded from the sky; eventually absorbing into deep recesses of parched soil?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to notice the streaks of latent agony lingering in the afforested land; where the truant man played the most ruthlessly barbarous devil of his kind?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to untiringly appreciate the most orphaned first rays of the evanescent golden dawn; which filtered a fresh chapter of beginning through cold-bloodedly damned blackness?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to blend even the most intangibly dying ingredient of your blood; with each vivaciously exuberant stripe of the enthralling rainbow in enigmatic sky?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to feast every pore of your miserably emaciated nostrils; on the ecstatically unfettered scent of the freshly rain soaked mud?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to be an integral element of every stillness of the atmosphere; the perpetual silence enshrouding -which unveiled a countless mysteries untold of wandering man?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to conceive a boundless step towards eternal success in your mind; before you could even align the first physical step on veritable soil?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to be tolerant to every fraternity; caste; creed that existed in the human race; inseparably coalesce with all—to spawn into an unassailable singular mass of living kind?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to treat each anecdote of the severest failure with a smile in your stride; and yet optimistically treating each sunset as the messiah to the next sunrise?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to talk to your very own self; miraculously soothe your traumatically frazzled nerves with the unflinchingly fearless baritone that wafted from your throat?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to distinctly distinguish even the tiniest bird in the flapping in blue sky; just by the inimitable ebullience in its wondrous chirp?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to feel the astoundingly unparalleled goodness of creation; even amidst the most bizarrely slipping particles of hapless quick sand?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to make friendships with the most alien; sharing each estrangement of your heart like being the greatest pals of all times?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to grant a philosophical expression to even the most mundane thought of your mind; delve into the more inscrutably tantalizing version of vibrant life?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to capture even the most intricately vacillating shades of mother nature in the whites of your eye; to spurn enamouring poetry in each tear drop of untamed joy that dribbled down your cheeks?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to caress the obscurest contours of your silhouette in the ripples of the placid lake; loving each aspect of your persona so that you could then shower the same bountifully upon countless more of your living kind?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt to read someone else’s mind—intransigently concentrating upon each bead of sweat that culminated upon the terse creases of the forehead?

Wasn’t it while waiting for something—that you inevitably learnt the art of love to its unabashed fullest; stretching the fathomless boundaries of your heart to beyond the definitions of monotonous convention—and into a heaven of impregnable beauty?

Pilgrimage

My soul craves for travel…
A long pilgrimage for peace
Far far beyond the borders;
Into the laps of hills,
Into the womb of forests,
To plunge itself
Into the train of winds,
Hop over caravans of clouds.
To quench its pining thirst
For silence glimmering
Over the plush horizon.

And to escape
Forever
From the grotesque colonies
Of naked emotions
And irksome realities

It dreams
For a journey
To the land…

Where the whole world
Of living beings fly on wings
Scattering sweet syllables in the air;
Where even a leaf before it falls
To the ground
Plays around sailing
In a boat of song.

Where the sun
Comes into the drawing room of the sky,
As hills wake up,
Woods arouse,
To wander about
Like a wistful nomad.
Where rows and rows
Of tall trees
Take out long processions of silences;
Where the marriage of earth and sky
Is solemnized in the cathedral of blue hills;

Where a nameless bird
Merely sitting on the branch
Turns the surroundings into a tune,
Where red-gum and sandalwood trees
Bath in puddles of evening,
And arrive with drops of red flowers
Hanging from tips of leaves,
Where the moon like a child crawls
Over the roof of the house and
Tempts everyone to embrace.

To the valleys of that dream
My soul longs to go
Beyond the reach
Of those haunting naked impassive faces;

This would be my pilgrimage to peace…