Elemental


 

Paige Bradley, Sculptor

Paige Bradley-spring

Woman… fire in chains walking through mans’ ice storm.

There is barely anywhere for us to rest on pliable earth, caressed by dew-kissed grass and flowers and visited by genial insects and creatures.

Man is a covetous, territorial beast, contemplating a meal, food for his belly, something to drink, and metal coins, hardware and paper and food from the earth; animals and fruit. They come from her blistering fires too from which he creates.

He craves the warmth of her fire that never dulls and memory of the Sun before the ice came to steal human souls.

Suspicious of her, he does not understand nor can he control her unless…he loves. Her fire can melt or burn and he only steals some warmth for a short time.

A man who loves is a magnificent animal, one that knows no limits and has unbounded strength. He has the strength of the earth, turned from ice and the sun combined because he is the seed willing to lose its cover in order to allow Life.

He willingly takes her to him, feasts, shares, adores and provides a safe place for her fertile ground to grow the eternal seeds she holds from before the time of The Dragon. She holds them still.

But he cannot stay next to her for long or he will melt.

He tries and survival beckons his traverse, summoned by a great dirge of possible conquest and the illusions of mind and heart that he believes are real because his core does not yet burn with equable insight.

Frozen, halcyon outsight of a gelid wasteland is still his birthright.

The feracious earth was given to her as a prolific garden and she waits yet for his icy heart to warm the arable soil for her so she can grow the fruit of breakable man in virile beauty, not in frozen, acrid death and blood.

He is…breakable because he is mortal! The seed must be broken in the soil to become eternal!

She is still in unyielding chains, unloved, unprotected, terribly alone in her vital fire that cannot be momentarily extinguished.

The Sun gave birth to the earth, to ice, to Time and its incessant movement will not cease.

The erudite Magician has given him the wand with which to channel her calescent magic because her heat increases.

Time must move forward but the dextrous tools of man can only thrive if they are forged with the luminosity of her body, to tend the garden of the Earth.

It may lie fallow and untended unless the fire that man discovered can be born in him by tending to her heat. Then he will remain.

Until then he will die, just as he was born.

Lisa Townsend-written on February 17, 2018

 

 

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Stretched


Wanting more, doing with less,

My mind is stretched past the sun into an abysmal, contorted, apperception too fractured and repetitive to mean what it used to mean.

Meaning is obfuscated because every day I’m in this…protoplasm of lust, whose hands and heartbeats with loving passion, not appetite.

And where am I to go in this quiescent swamp to be fed, nourished, and watered when my mouth can barely open with lips so cracked from the sun that they are silent with the sound that says nothing.

No one really knows me. Only my fingers stretch on the keys to refract a sliver of my pneuma that is groping to be relevant in a world that just needs to…

Ball up, contract, relax and breathe instead of stretching to be noticed by people who don’t even notice the miracle of their own respiring.

shaman-hands-over-sun

I Make My Bed


I make my bed as though someone other than me might want to lay on it to relax…

Doubtful.

Fans, fanatics, stalkers, jealous husbands, jealous siblings, errant preachers, starry-eyed parents, and students all seeking some higher bedding more like a cloud…nothing low to ground where I am.

Doubtful.
It’s so…fake.

“THIS is who you are”. “THIS is who you are”…”This is who you are” rings the cacophony.

I am not going to spend my last breath, defying all of you because you are surface dwellers; American Idol, Desperate Housewives watchers. Fantasy. I hate TV.

I’m glad my son can cry and be tired. It means he’s human. That’s all there is.

I’m glad I can kick my ex out of the house for insulting my talent. It means I’m human.
All I have is myself and time…

Let me divorce all that is not calm and in balance.
Ring out the true madness that jumps up…to lightness.
Jumps up…to levity
Jumps up…to where gravity is turned upside down.
My feet are my head. Who cares? Must we always walk?

I want to live in a dimension where upon meeting someone I like, I kiss them with ridiculous abandon.

©Lisa Townsend-2011


	

Elemental Woman


Fire and Ice

Woman… fire in chains walking through mans’ ice storm.

There is barely anywhere for us to rest on pliable earth, caressed by dew-kissed grass and flowers and visited by genial insects and creatures.

Man is a covetous, territorial beast, contemplating a meal, food for his belly, something to drink, and metal coins, hardware and paper and food from the earth; animals and fruit. They come from her blistering fires too from which he creates.

He craves the warmth of her fire that never dulls and memory of the Sun before the ice came to steal human souls.

Suspicious of her, he does not understand nor can he control her unless…he loves. Her fire can melt or burn and he only steals some warmth for a short time.

A man who loves is a magnificent animal, one that knows no limits and has unbounded strength. He has the strength of the earth, turned from ice and the sun combined because he is the seed willing to lose its cover in order to allow Life.

He willingly takes her to him, feasts, shares, adores and provides a safe place for her fertile ground to grow the eternal seeds she holds from before the time of The Dragon. She holds them still.

But he cannot stay next to her for long or he will melt.

He tries and survival beckons his traverse, summoned by a great dirge of possible conquest and the illusions of mind and heart that he believes are real because his core does not yet burn with equable insight.

Frozen, halcyon outsight of a gelid wasteland is still his birthright.

The feracious earth was given to her as a prolific garden and she waits yet for his icy heart to warm the arable soil for her so she can grow the fruit of breakable man in virile beauty, not in frozen, acrid death and blood.

He is…breakable because he is mortal! The seed must be broken in the soil to become eternal!

She is still in unyielding chains, unloved, unprotected, terribly alone in her vital fire that cannot be momentarily extinguished.

The Sun gave birth to the earth, to ice, to Time and its incessant movement will not cease.

The erudite Magician has given him the wand with which to channel her calescent magic because her heat increases.

Time must move forward but the dextrous tools of man can only thrive if they are forged with the luminosity of her body, to tend the garden of the Earth.

It may lie fallow and untended unless the fire that man discovered can be born in him by tending to her heat. Then he will remain.

Until then he will die, just as he was born.

Lisa Townsend-written on February 17, 2018

Antarctica

 

Shadow


 

I obscure my darkness to walk through life content, shadow feelings under the bed.

Convoluted darkness just below my navel only,

My prescient dreams adumbrate what my

body holds in, refusing to release its undulating grasp

like a cranky child crying, needing attention and touch.

Male proginator, emotional vampire and…ironically,

my ally as a bridge to freedom in the face of neglectful, unfeeling, autocratic child bearer.

Tremulous adolescence, when the course succor so needed is vacuous at best,

Cynical vexation felt so keenly in their insensitivity to my easily affected, young, psychic heart.

They didn’t even know what the fuck psychic was if it wasn’t in the bible.

 

What could I have been?

What happy life could I have had if their crispy, mucous eyes had been open a crack?

That shadow feeling could spiral me down so quickly if I focused on it, so I only do it here

for release…because it’s bullshit, and my life is not bullshit, so I’m not filling it with that.

What is more helical bullshit that parental ignorance with an innocent, lovely child born in light and returning to light?

How twisted and contorted can adults get following societies rules, books, beliefs and materialistic hysteria when they have in front of them a free soul, their child, needing only love by degrees, free roam by yards, food by weight and expression without limit?

The shadow of light is a contrast as lesson

I’m using it to soar to the heights,

To rip asunder familial right to the soul of a child.

 

No more,

Whether in love or delusion

each child belongs to themselves only.

Just as roots do not dictate how far, wide and what direction a tree will grow,

so too, shadow roots deep below the ground only hold it in place while the wind, sky, and sun call us ever higher to dance with all of life above ground, storm and calm, for as long as we wish to live.

I hail from you but I am not you.

beautiful tree