Lady Ghost Beauty

I am a ghost-
I dwell in my tombs,
she is the spirit
who quiets the winds,

A pearl have I grown- untouched and silver,
she is the lady who changes like seasons,

All wisdom incarnate
Cannot speak my reason,
Forbidden to breath
or to now lament,

Have I a chance against such weathers?
Or should pearls remain
All kept in tight shells?

I know not the answers- yet in them she dwells;
The sacred unfoldment
Of heavens and hells:

The last lady of air
Who swells by the seas,
I’ll tell her I hear her
All kept by her breeze;

I am the lonely soul
Unkempt by the idols of ages,

I have forgotten the old gods,
I have forgiven the new-

For the glory of sunrise
And moonlight, is you.

I will watch you lady- like the evening,

I will wait on you love, all the stars,

It seems that by daybreak your nothing-

I wish only to know
what we are.

All weeping stormclouds tangled at her brow,
All birthplace has gathered
Beneath her silver wings,

Thunder breath, eyes of white fire- pupils wreath gold
All incarnate memories
Within her do fold,

Yet spirit, oh spirit- could I grasp at one form?
Or must I abandon
This idol I’ve born.

Temple tempest lady
How sure I have been
Of the latent lightning
You speak in between,

Gathering parishioner, of pagan and light-
Can you see true form
Together unite?

Tapestry hollow, of winter and bone,
Spring hair ocean
Summers lips known,

But to naked autumn
I’m afraid you will fade,
into the seasons of gods
we have made-

Prismatic lover, could you but want,
a single sun of your moon, or will you still haunt-

Tombstones of lovers
and graves you still frame,
I wait in the pyre
and sing in my flame,

Can you bold claim now
Just the glow of my sands?
I’ll show you bright showers
Lithe tears in God-hands.

Keen keeper of life
I watch through jade eyes
I am an Earth Idol
A man- none too wise.


About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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