By Dennis P. Carey

 

Ode to Eve

  

Eve

sits laughing

telling

musical jokes

turns stern,

looks at me.

I am an infant.

Her teeth grow large,

skulls float

around us.

She grows larger, larger,

the universe

no longer smiling.

Oceans of blood-skull-flow each,

frightened to death, I am

and tickling my own tummy,

a smile chases my fear.

I tickle my own tummy

a smile chases my fear

I reach for her larger toe,

as great as Meru, itself.

As I suck, I visualize a poem,

my love for her.

I send it out through

the capillaries in her skin.

She shudders,

the great universe;

and I grow

as large as she

and

I am shooting arrows,

my poems

at the blood-flowing skulls

that circle us.

As the blood-pour descends to the horizon,

it turns sky-blue, electric and recreates

into millions of transparent, multi-sized

spheres. (My invisible bow is our phallus.)

We are equal in size, the universe together.

We are two-year-old children and the

skulls are speaking my poems in her voice.

She and I, yab-yum, in total blackness.

It is love at first sight.

We awake. Ourselves.

***

Oh yes

the wind

through bird's toes,

the whistling of events

scurry beside me.

In windows

the far sight

sees himself laughing at doors

that shut

winter's envelope.

I see

the colours of trees drip ice,

the twinkle of soon-to-come

reaches me from jarred noise.

The air sits

smiling frowns

across my sun-tan

I wander crevices.

I roam star-light

in quiet wonder.

Who is she?

* * *

Love, of course

a dirty rag

that wipes from scars,

invisible.

* * *

Hey, dark lotus one!

your scuffy scuttle.

The moon rising

The red tongue within

flutes a blue prank

and settles for the dawn,

like a claw.

crossing the river.

* * *

Your doorway

the scent of your touch,

melodies that recall our music.

A wet kiss,

the floor rug smiles up,

I sit next to you, to hear of you.

Your hair shines,

the space between colours.

We talk of merriments and sadness.

Wind nestles through cracks

in the wall.

wants to share us

or carry us with it.

Can we find each other

in the search of competing rush?

The snow will come, covering dormancy.

 

In Spring, I wish to bathe you.

The nut I save now

is to share with you.

* * *

Day's late

he sailed across earth's trespass.

A rested warrior gone home,

full lived, returned.

crying pigeons flutter,

the dark spot vanishes:

His name be done. Amen.

* * *

In the room,

no more than a doorknob,

entering.

* * *

Dreamlessawakening -

Thoughtfirst, where is the dream?

Could it be that

once I enter the dream, with memory,

all is invisible.

Yes.

This is the clue.

When you dream

you seek.

When dreams cease

you enter.

Becoming your dream, you are.

* * *

Death! You dolt, why tempt me?

I know who I am and what.

Who you are and what!

Death, I am spirit, and don't need you to live.

* * *

I have bought the spiritual pancake

and so I cruise along,

awaiting

the carrier of new seed ideas,

who walks into life;

myselving.

She, weak when I left her

is my new strength

or a symbol for its becoming,

Now.

A talker she, who takes me in

and forbids self-lies

A citizen of Song, wild-chasmed between her legs,

facing each day, a little worried.

She cooks our bread, new made wish

for each of us

together.

She, sweet oven of our desire.

* * *

Tears come

on waves of feminine memory.

My Ocean

fulls Touch, aching loss of her.

In mind we are divine.

In flesh we are a mess.

In Time, the kettle steams loud;

In Space, gaseous, our bodies touch.'

My Lord, thank you

for the gift of my little hearts' desire.

* * *

Do I write poetry like a blind lover to

his goddess?

Can the knowledge of this reality

touch all realities and enliven the

feelings of thought? Will she cry for

my absence and light candles to

my image? Or will her despairing

past throw rubble down upon our

seedling love-newness, drown in

clay, the spring of discovery,

crush with past's stones, now's

new bud? -- Will Mamon crush

our living death to dust?

* * *

I sing the Archetypal feminine

as she enters Maya,

as the soul's breath,

the songstress plucks chords of Love.

I kiss the flashing feet of Siva,

nestle in the water with the blue dancer,

coil snugly with the lotus sleeper.

* * *

I reluctantly bathed love's dry drench,

sat closed eyes

watching her mystery.

The darkness.

She, in me bathes sweet-soup pure memory,

gives unseen signs

sings so true melodies.

Periodically, we need each other.

* * *

In the twelfth house

blue room

doubt

sat idly

thinker's galore.

And the silence, listening

(listening, listening, listening)

* * *

The room is large

decorated with her memories

of conquest, of submission,

deaths, rebirths -

some toothpast stain.

an old manuscript, torn

by a change in circumstance

a poor decision.

Stop, continue, lose, gain. Finish.

She is the reaper of her own Present.

Consuming the inner ghost, she laughs

birthing wonder-song.

Minstrel skin, the woman flesh-eater.

(Devours anima projections pointed

her way)

She, ingredient of Self.

* * *

One of her voices, I fear.

The stern one,

the masculine eye.

She often is silent -

then, the male speaks:

I shudder,

repressing the instinctive

sword thrust response.

I would kill the male

who spoke

to me that way!

Often she marvels, "you're honest, really."

- endless mutterings, retreatless halts;

I cannot cease to lie to her.

Vast, moist darkness

her mouth.

She screams perfection is not!

 

  

IN MEMORIAM

 

 table of contents

Eve's Magazine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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