Find the Magic
FIND the MAGIC
Find the MagicAs you release old bondage Come out of hidingAnd see the stars
Find the MagicAs you expose the painLet the tears flowAnd find beauty in your body
Find the MagicAs you scream from the beatingRun from the threatsAnd feel the warmth of a hug
Find the MagicAs the little girl is silencedTold she is too smart for her own goodAnd she finds her place of honor as she speaks her mind
Find the MagicAs the ghosts creep into dreamHaunt your daily lifeAnd you meet them at the crossroads and move on
Find the MagicAs you drift out of your body, avoiding the angerObserve the separationAnd you join the body temple once again to rejoice in this unique wonder
Find the MagicAs you listen to the conflicts andWatch in horrorAnd emerge from the water whole and beautiful in a rainbow of colors
Find the Magic, For you are whole once again
© 2004 Susan Bacon
Susan Bacon is an researcher, teacher and author. Contact her through her web site http://www.ecoentrepreneur.org
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: A Discussion of How Do I Love Thee?
"How Do I Love Thee?" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning was written in 1845 while she was being courted by the English poet, Robert Browning. The poem is also titled Sonnet XLIII from Sonnets From the Portuguese.
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [a Poem]
Daybreak at Pikes Creek[Summer of 2005]Daybreak by Lake SuperiorRising out of the woods like:A swamp mistI'm waiting for breakfast(at the B&B)I pace the groundsThe scent of green shrubbery:Trees, flora, flowers-rain Intoxicates me-Branches like big brown armsDescend?The embankment, to the rightBlue eyed, like mine-reflect From the creek beneath me(my wife says 'be careful'she went to get the camera)The greens and blues touchMy face and blue jeans-Reflections mirrored like Musical notes of a symphony(I'll see them later in pictures)For now, it's daybreakIn Minnesota.#813 8/26/2005Note: the author, Dennis Siluk, took his wife Rosa [me: on my birthday] to Lake Superior, this summer, and I adored the biggest lake in the world.
Like a cat I slumber, blissfully unencumbered,Through eighty per cent of my allotted span,Occasionally awoken, when dissent is spoken,And I invent another cunning five year plan,Lately it was pensions, that were being mentioned,So I borrowed from the French and Robespierre,Scrap all that went before, saved by tooth and claw,And let my all equal Citizens appear,Currently it is time, for me to be in my prime,For there is another election looming,I have to appear sincere, for part of this coming year,And assure everyone that everything is booming,Never mind strict quotas, Ive imported multitudes of voters,And told them which party let them stay,Though Ive rigged the postal vote, and defamed everyone of note,You never know what might happen on the day.So to be on the safe side, I swallow all my pride,And allow my people to hear my hallowed voice,And roll out the charade, put on the facade,And even make believe they have a choice,Next time around the crown, will be trampled underground,House of Lords and Lord Chancellor history,With the other Chancellor gone, I alone will soldier on,Yes, then there will only ever be me,Ill hold elections for you, as all dictators do,And fill positions with those that grease my palm,As for civil unrest, there is always house arrest,Or secret imprisonment for those that mean me harm.
Contract of Death [Now: in SPANISH and English]
Contract of DeathI heard today, the preacher say:"Daniel has warned us long ago,Of the trials and tribulations weAre now facing, with our foes?"He says the 'Antichrist' was nowIn Europe crying: 'peace,' and the'Axis of Evil,' had already placedHidden Atomic Russian weaponsUnder our feet, here in the goodOle heart of the United States; 'Palestine's cry for peace,' he adds,Is a loaded Gun for Revelation 3:10;America. A 'Contract for Death,'Is what he called it.
Breathing-in, Minnesota [a poem: now in Spanish and English]
In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets-: dropsLikened to music from its many streams-landOf ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravelEverywhere?Grandpa sits on the porch-daydreaming of, ofSomething, perhaps winter around the corner-;As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes?Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come earlyMaybe he's thinking about summer: miles and milesAnd miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood nowLong gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at theMetal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on theEmbankment, leading up the steps to the porch;It's worn-out like him.The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from allThe foliage, there's a lot of it.
Wars, Air of Ambiguity [for: Lt. Laura Walker] in SPANISH and English
Wars, air of AmbiguityDedicated to 1st. Lt.
Uamaks Aquatic [suspense: now in Spanish and English]
Delicately, my mind was selecting a muffled tune, out of the dead dark empty space surrounding me?I saw a shape on a rock, not sure who it was; I had a sensitivity though, a feeling call it, or second-sight; I've heard that before, not sure if I want to put a lot of credence into it, but so be it, the sensitivity and numbness was there. I didn't' sense any danger in the moment, in the moonlit figure, sitting on the rocks, lurking, looking out into the deep.
Hindu Poet - Kamalakanta
Kamalakanta was born in Burdwan India in the late 18th Century. From an early age he expressed an interest in spirituality and later in life Kamalakanta received initiation into Tantric Yoga from a Tantric yogi named Kenaram Bhattacharya.
Two Poems and a Short Story
1)dying in the bar[sluggishly]yet,I would crawl tooupto the bar,it was everything, the dampnessthe carved woodthe zoned-out-ness in my headdreaming; it was better than death?then I took another drink?so manyI never moved much, like dead fish.my head split like an assit was numb and, nothing else numbness was my homeacross the street, dancingon the patiothe moon was out.
The Treasure of Catalina Huanca (In English and Spanish)
Note: written after seeing the little adobe 16th century church San Sebastian, in San Jeronimo, by the mountains of Huancayo, Peru, after being taken there by the Wandering Quechua guide, Enrique (4-13-2005).The Treasure of Catalina HuancaWritten by Dennis L.
Mother, I Dont Mind The Pain
I am among those who know that one never recovers from the loss of one deeply loved. We come to accept the death and adjust our lives - rather begrudingly, but we do not recover, we survive.
The Plane from Iquitos [1959-Part One]
Iquitos & the AmazonPart OneIt was December 2, l959, I was sitting on a small prop-plane leaving Iquitos, Peru for a trip down the Amazon toward the opening, the mouth of the mighty Amazon,--to Manaus. As we flew low one could see the waters of the Amazon, the city always impressed me, but more from this birds-eye view, you could see the mighty river in its squid like form, with all it tentacles [contributories: waters linking to the river].
Our home was warm in the shade of the trees or when the sun was not upon it.It was built on the side of a hill, near a lake where spirits could be free.
Burning Autumn Leaves [a poem in Spanish and English]
Burning Autumn Leaves[1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota]My long steel pointed rake punctured And twisted through tons of autumn leaves(back in the '50s);And there's a hill yet, I didn't rake, I seeBehind it, two embankmentsLeaves I didn't rake a day ago;The essence of fall sleeps on the ground.
Little Girl from Huancayo [a poem/in English and Spanish]
Little girl from HuancayoDo you really, really know?Just how fast those feet will grow,On the streets of Huancayo.Little girl with jumping jacksOn the street, looking back;Back to see whose watching her,A little boy with a bird.
Way of Life: Rhymes of the Inca [four poems: see in Spanish and English NOW!]
Way of Life: Rhymes of the IncaPizarro(Spanish conquistador ((1525))The blind follow the blindThe dumb follow the foolBut the cleaver, like 'Pizarro,'(who could not read or write)Followed human-nature?And ruled the Inca world!Thus, Atahualpa was Beheaded out of pride and Indolence-: one might say,And ignorance ruled? .Note: don Francisco Pizarro #689 5/27/05Cepeda the Sly[Lima, Perú-l546 AD]Cepeda the Sly-, judge With two sides; one false,One pride-both mixed with lies.
Mechanical Poetry; Part Two
What do you do when you want to write poetry? I hope your answer is "I start writing." Even writing a bad poem is better than waiting for the "right words.
Antidotes for an Alibi
Amy King's first full-length collection, Antidotes for an Alibi, insists that we examine the deceptive clarity of our actions and the goals that motivate us. How does one actually get from "A" to "B"-and is there ever really a "B"? What color is the white space between "A" and "B"? Upon closer inspection, surface realities reveal themselves to be porous and fragile, layered with textures and grains that lead the eye on varying pathways.
Three Poems and Paradise Lost [One for Hell, One for Heaven one for an Inca King]
The Torrents of HellHell's furnace-Likened to a chimneyVomits her torrentsOf flames-Into the airThrough earths crustAnd the earth's trembles-!Agitated, she projectsA thick curtain of smokeTo heat the feet of thoseWho provoke her every wish.Like molten ironShe waits for the soul(the moment)Then molds, into her enclosureHuman serpents?Out of savage flesh!No storm, no struggleNo eruption, no typhoon,Just a terrible phenomenon,Hell is capable of producing;And upon death,Back into the AbyssThey melt!.
Because of You
You are to me my lifelinemy security.That scares me.