Note: The "Memorial" poems have been moved to a new page. ~*~Indigo~*~ (Inspired by the artwork of Akiane Kramarik) Call me what color you wish. I'll watch you with curtainless eyes, patient while you stand shifting from one foot to the other as I raise my brush to undress my old soul and yours. Please ascend my shy spiral. Be not afraid to let your colors mix with mine: pomegranate, maize, carmine, cerulian, fuchsia, sienna, or aquamarine. Or scarlet. Or indigo. Stains are a fine sign. Your flag, your gods, your tears, your rags your songbooks, your bleeding, your children, your trophies, your name I'll post with gratitude and wonder and heal your hurts with your own secret heat through discovery and tact. Do not stand at the foot of my tower and think your hues cannot rise nor participate in my ongoing feast look for them in every stroke and shading in every dancer that snaps and bends each pyramid, each hungry eye each cloud and hammer and star and staircase and know there is no particle of yourself unfit for the scathing dimensions and eternal becoming and chaste adoring and unhidden lamps of my gentle definitions of your own indigenous color. ~*~My Body~*~ My soul gets tired of being momma to a body that won't quit. Can't attend to soulful matters without this whiny body always wanting something. I'm hungry! I'm thirsty! I'm tired! I'm sleepy! I'm hot! I'm cold! I'm sick! I need to go to the bathroom! I wanna go outside and play! My back hurts! My tummy hurts! My this hurts! My that hurts! Can't sit and contemplate the mysteries of the universe read and pray and think and meditate and grow inside get brainwork done write a story or poem play music or just sit and chat with a friend but this pesky body has gotta start up again sooner or later-- usually sooner. When it's up it wants down. When it's down it wants up. Up, down, down, up, never satisfied. Why was I given a body? Why can't I just be a soul? Life would be so much simpler not to mention cheaper without this needy brat of a body hung onto me. Sometimes I pamper it and sometimes I abuse it bad momma that I am. I wish it were slimmer, younger, taller, more limber; nothing is ever quite right with this body. Maybe I embarrass it in front of people complaining about it. Making smart cracks about it. Perhaps I should brag on it more. Talk about how cute it was when it was little. Or I could go all Walt Whitman and sing its praises in electrifying cadences. I suppose I should spend more time with it. Buy it more toys. Be there for it. After all, it's the only body I've got. And I doubt I'll ever have another. Surely I could do that much. It's God's temple or so I'm told. Hey..... I think it just smiled! ~*~Angels Happen~*~ Every so often you may be walking on shattered glass that punctures your bunnyslippers hearing evil songs on unstretched strings or sniffing the arse end of nothingness or tasting a leper's saliva. You may say, God is a foreigner friends an unknown quantity dereliction is all my days amount to the dream of a deserter." Your pity-pot won't flush and holds an alarming breath. Then sighing you go out to check your mail kicking at pinecones scowling at the rusty screech of the mailbox door not to mention the bills; then a package smiles up and you crack it open like a crusty geode to find stellar fragments winking within the bubblewrap. And angels happen like genies from a lamp sweet arms bear you up until your feet lose the floor and the curse of the trailerpark and for a time and a half you wear the proud drapery of fortune's sculpture minus the pigeondroppings and angels happen.... ~*~When I get to heaven....~*~ ...supposing there is one and supposing that I go, (you over there, stop snickering) there are many things I should love to try. Yes, I can already hear people sneering, "Who wants to fly around playing a harp?" Well....I would kinda like to learn to play the celtic harp come to think of it teasing silver arpeggios from cords of bronze orgasmic cadenzas poignant appoggiaturas and occasional jazzy riffs just to shake things up... but not every minute. I'd also like to allow my inner adventuress to do all the things she didn't dare, or couldn't afford in these terrestrial bonds. I'd like to try windsurfing on the celestial seas if I can be provided with crab-proof boarding shorts or be allowed to go clad only in that in which I was born... hanggliding also, (since the scoffers will sneer at the idea of being endowed with birdwings) and mountain climbing, and yes, scuba diving since I won't have to wear frogflippers and a silly snorkel to spoil my looks... waterskiing (never quite got the hang of that here) and of course, whale riding (surely they have at least one whale) and I'm hoping, very much hoping that they'll have fashionshows I should like to do a turn or two on the catwalk in the hautest of haute couture (you couldn't get any hauter than heaven after all!) I'd like a very Audrey Hepburnish widebrimmed black hat with a chic ensemble, coral and black..... maybe even polkadots. I'll take ballet lessons both modern and classical and meet some famous people; surely there will be at least a few interesting ones that made it through the gates... maybe I'll be one of them; who knows? No danger I'll run out of things to do nor time to do them in... and oh yeah, there's always that singing around the throne thing.... I think I could manage to get into that. Maybe. ~*~Hang Gliding~*~ Someday I'll go riding in a hangglider swooping sunward till I reach heaven where I'll play mahjongg with the angels and beat their socks off then I'll soar back and visit my best friend in germany and give her the angelsocks saying "wear these when you feel sad the bluedevils will run from them." then remembering I need to feed my cats I'll drift kitewise home and Jesus will call me on my cellphone saying, "well done, Sister come back and visit any time." and I'll say "maybe I will I really dug those chocolate strawberries." A romantic piece, somewhat influenced by Neruda.... ~*~Tryst~*~ Where white roses climb out of the night where comets strew new scarves of slow brave lace when fresh stars dangle phials of perfumed truth and slippered moths are free with their strange notes I'll stray out of the blue paths of the day and wend my way to where your lips unlock and catch each pearl and opal that drops forth into the hungry funnel of my soul dissolving to a frenzied whispering juice spiraling in precious upward mists into the waiting open robes of dusk until enthralled, we are both drowned once and for all time, my Beloved in caves of melted velvet. Click on picture to see full sized. A piece I wrote a few years ago, inspired by...well, what the title says..... ~*~The Sky~*~ Dawn, dreaming and naked as love, I scatter my crystal on grateful grass. Skylarks hymn my advent as I tug at the sun like a hungry child shaking her mother into hazy wakefulness. Midday, bluest of blue domes, twice blessed, bliss of all mountains I am watched and beloved of patient drenched gardens and confident eagles beneath my bold and deathless lamp. Dusk, I drag my florid skirts over a worshipful horizon a whippoorwill heralds my slow westward going as I pour crimson wine in a random and tireless libation. Night, the dance of my diamonds shames thieves and queens as lovers seek my temple on paths of killing want. Infinity is my bank and resort space my port of call. Click on picture to see full sized. Photo by iloan. This is from the story "Light from the West" in Armariel's Enchanted Realm". I've decided it works out of context.:) ~*~Leaving~*~ Spring was not made for leaving. Too many things quicken and happen and burst and birth we should linger and wonder and watch new eyes open one step ahead of each fresh quivering limb each blossom and suckling each villainous weed each overwhelming shower. It is no time to depart. Shy love climbs a crystal stair seeking the sky's blessing. One should not turn one's back on so soft a beginning. And summer was not made for leaving. Too many things ripen and swell and sing and rejoice we should linger and dance and watch young eyes glisten following after young feet that trace pathways of growth and discovery of mischief and heat of overwhelming cloudbursts. It is no time to depart. Warm love stretches arms of longing seeking the moon's singing. One should not turn one's back on so wild a becoming. And autumn was not made for leaving. Too many things demanding the sweat and fever of harvest we should linger and feast and watch warm eyes misting keeping in step with strong legs that stand in pride and warm knowledge of passion and stories and overwhelming winds. It is no time to depart. Quick love sings of victory and drama seeking the sun's delight. One should not turn one's back on so rich a fulfillment. And winter was not made for leaving. Too many things needing the carols and sleighs and blankets we should linger and sigh and watch bright eyes closing resting beside all things that sleep and wriggle in joyous anticipation of snowflakes and playthings of mysteries and candles of overwhelming ice. It is no time to depart. Wise love turns a glow of contentment thanking the stars in peace. One should not turn one's back on so comfortable an end. This was inspired by the little figurine that graces the title of this site...... ~*~Slave Dancer~*~ Little ivory lady with bracelets of bronze and turquoise curtains that's no auctionblock on which you stand except inasmuch as I won you on ebay. Art-deco trinket unmindful of dust no lustful eyes stalk your inert curves no expectant foot taps in time to bamboo-fluted stylings that follow your quick limbs and winding hips and finger cymbals and pagan purity to the inevitable grasp that dooms your pale maidenhood. No, you stand with eyes downcast on the curio shelf with a blownglass peacock an iron mexican candleholder and a winged teak pussycat ungrasped and unfollowed until the featherduster ruffles once more your ivory calm. Index More poetry by Armariel can be read here: Armariel's Enchanted Realm The Antonio Banderas Garden of Dreams Delorita's Songbook c2008 by RoZita Bartok. All rights reserved.