deepundergroundpoetry.com
Light without Darkness...
What is light without darkness? Allies eternal they are a part of us all…
In the realm of enchantments,eternity is perpetual;
they live in the void between darkness and light
freed during 13th hour of every twilight,
a time when magic has no boundaries',
such matters are the stuff of legends,amoral,it just is.
Preternatural beings, do indubitably exist,
creatures whose heart beats fierce and free.
From a grove of junipers she dares come forth
cloaked in mist teasing the imagination of the unwary;
ethereal, something the sleeping mind conjures
yet tangible if she so chooses. In the times of old,
men believed in the magic and its mysteries.
But now in the time of modern man,
there is no room for imagination or slight of hand.
Gone are the enchantments of the unknown,
the glamour that was once, a wonder to behold.
How, say you, has this come to be?
We have forsaken our heritages of paganry,
when nature held sway and understood
was, human insignificance in the face of such power.
Charged with the care and protection of natures bounty,
wisely propagating the giver of life’s properties.
It was well understood that all living this had a spirit,
a life unto itself, one that must be respected
or the penalty would be, inconceivable.
She has come forth from the lands of long forgotten fantasies
escorted by the dreamwolves protective voracity.
Powerful mystical creatures, they are certainly;
The seek a reason not to release, final doom on humanity.
They home in on the dreamers of both day and night.
nightmare’ers and halucinators alike,a beacon,it calls to them.
They seek he who still believes in the magic,
One, if only one, who eats, breaths, lives as well as believes.
Then and only then will they know that all is not lost
fore believing is greater part of the battle.
Ahhh… what is this, one with old blood be it Celtic or Pict;
knower of druid knowledge and follower of natural order of things?
Mmm…the paganry is strong in him,
let us test his mettle and see…
From the shielding mists she appears to him, stopping,
he nods in acceptance for he knew something was amiss
the night crackled with magic’s mysteries
and being it the Samhein anything is possible.
How fare thee lady of what service can this humble servant be?
“why doth thee trespass in my domain,druidson?”
Fare lady: I gather herbs, plants, flowers and such
native to this land, for poultices and remedies
conscribing them to the pages of my journal mum.
“I see…why doth thee not scribe these in the daylight hours?”
Although it would easier indeed these plants lose their magical
properties if not picked when and where it is ascribed.
“who hath giveth such knowledge to one such as you?”
I follow the old ways mum, the modern
are fraught with poor results and lasting bad effects.
There is something pure in the practices of old
that cannot be duplicated by modern man.
We have been bad custodians of nature’s gifts
but some of us still adhere to the old wisdoms
and strive to keep them alive tho seemingly for naught.
“Young one that is not true,unbeknownst to you all,
you are felt by the very creatures you speak of in your fairytales.”
“We did and do still exist albeit not in this plane of existence,
we are the guardians of the magic that brings forth life,
the keepers of the wisdoms and crafts of old.”
“Tell me Druidson why must we care for the weak sensibilities,
soft and spiritless as porage, of humans?”
“Why should we allow such a plague, as is humanity,to continue?”
“What need have we,for emotions that grant nothing
but sadness to the world?”
“Such things are as unappealing as fetid water.”
“Answer these questions so humanity might be granted a reprieve.”
I will try: without arrogance,
I answer that so long as we live the magic lives,
for if it is not believed by us
then it shall not exist at all for it is contingent
on our belief that the magic gains strength and existence.
Our sensibilities is one of our greatest assets,
soft they may be at times, but they also help us
forge the courage to better ourselves
and find truth where it may be,
it is what makes me recoup and restore the old ways.
In our emotions lie our strength, they give us the passion
to sally forth fearlessly in pure faith when the evidence
of an end to the strife is not visible.
I do admit that we have been the authors of much sadness
in this world, but testimony to our faith and belief
in the magic and its possibilities is, you live…
“Ahh… druidson you are wise beyond your age
and a gem amongst the stones;
teach so that the knowledge is not lost,
practice so the craft is not forgotten;
for that would truly be
the greatest tragedy of humankind.”
“Should the magic die,
so too the spark of life will cease to exist,
creativity would be no more,
ingenuity would be nonexistent,
for there was a time, when this too,
was called magic.”
“Come my loves, we make haste to the grove
our time hath commeth to an end” “Remember Druidson:
woooe them… chaaarm them… set theeem freeee…
enchant and bewitch the feeble of heart…
till they too believeee…”
And with that, mist enveloped that creature
as if she never existed, the night crackeled
and then quieted to its normal cadence.
What say you reader, do you believe?...
Gypsy red
March 2012
In the realm of enchantments,eternity is perpetual;
they live in the void between darkness and light
freed during 13th hour of every twilight,
a time when magic has no boundaries',
such matters are the stuff of legends,amoral,it just is.
Preternatural beings, do indubitably exist,
creatures whose heart beats fierce and free.
From a grove of junipers she dares come forth
cloaked in mist teasing the imagination of the unwary;
ethereal, something the sleeping mind conjures
yet tangible if she so chooses. In the times of old,
men believed in the magic and its mysteries.
But now in the time of modern man,
there is no room for imagination or slight of hand.
Gone are the enchantments of the unknown,
the glamour that was once, a wonder to behold.
How, say you, has this come to be?
We have forsaken our heritages of paganry,
when nature held sway and understood
was, human insignificance in the face of such power.
Charged with the care and protection of natures bounty,
wisely propagating the giver of life’s properties.
It was well understood that all living this had a spirit,
a life unto itself, one that must be respected
or the penalty would be, inconceivable.
She has come forth from the lands of long forgotten fantasies
escorted by the dreamwolves protective voracity.
Powerful mystical creatures, they are certainly;
The seek a reason not to release, final doom on humanity.
They home in on the dreamers of both day and night.
nightmare’ers and halucinators alike,a beacon,it calls to them.
They seek he who still believes in the magic,
One, if only one, who eats, breaths, lives as well as believes.
Then and only then will they know that all is not lost
fore believing is greater part of the battle.
Ahhh… what is this, one with old blood be it Celtic or Pict;
knower of druid knowledge and follower of natural order of things?
Mmm…the paganry is strong in him,
let us test his mettle and see…
From the shielding mists she appears to him, stopping,
he nods in acceptance for he knew something was amiss
the night crackled with magic’s mysteries
and being it the Samhein anything is possible.
How fare thee lady of what service can this humble servant be?
“why doth thee trespass in my domain,druidson?”
Fare lady: I gather herbs, plants, flowers and such
native to this land, for poultices and remedies
conscribing them to the pages of my journal mum.
“I see…why doth thee not scribe these in the daylight hours?”
Although it would easier indeed these plants lose their magical
properties if not picked when and where it is ascribed.
“who hath giveth such knowledge to one such as you?”
I follow the old ways mum, the modern
are fraught with poor results and lasting bad effects.
There is something pure in the practices of old
that cannot be duplicated by modern man.
We have been bad custodians of nature’s gifts
but some of us still adhere to the old wisdoms
and strive to keep them alive tho seemingly for naught.
“Young one that is not true,unbeknownst to you all,
you are felt by the very creatures you speak of in your fairytales.”
“We did and do still exist albeit not in this plane of existence,
we are the guardians of the magic that brings forth life,
the keepers of the wisdoms and crafts of old.”
“Tell me Druidson why must we care for the weak sensibilities,
soft and spiritless as porage, of humans?”
“Why should we allow such a plague, as is humanity,to continue?”
“What need have we,for emotions that grant nothing
but sadness to the world?”
“Such things are as unappealing as fetid water.”
“Answer these questions so humanity might be granted a reprieve.”
I will try: without arrogance,
I answer that so long as we live the magic lives,
for if it is not believed by us
then it shall not exist at all for it is contingent
on our belief that the magic gains strength and existence.
Our sensibilities is one of our greatest assets,
soft they may be at times, but they also help us
forge the courage to better ourselves
and find truth where it may be,
it is what makes me recoup and restore the old ways.
In our emotions lie our strength, they give us the passion
to sally forth fearlessly in pure faith when the evidence
of an end to the strife is not visible.
I do admit that we have been the authors of much sadness
in this world, but testimony to our faith and belief
in the magic and its possibilities is, you live…
“Ahh… druidson you are wise beyond your age
and a gem amongst the stones;
teach so that the knowledge is not lost,
practice so the craft is not forgotten;
for that would truly be
the greatest tragedy of humankind.”
“Should the magic die,
so too the spark of life will cease to exist,
creativity would be no more,
ingenuity would be nonexistent,
for there was a time, when this too,
was called magic.”
“Come my loves, we make haste to the grove
our time hath commeth to an end” “Remember Druidson:
woooe them… chaaarm them… set theeem freeee…
enchant and bewitch the feeble of heart…
till they too believeee…”
And with that, mist enveloped that creature
as if she never existed, the night crackeled
and then quieted to its normal cadence.
What say you reader, do you believe?...
Gypsy red
March 2012
Published 3rd Mar 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 3
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comments 7
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The author encourages honest critique.
3rd Mar 2012 7:19pm
'Gone are the enchantments of the unknown,
the glamour that was once, a wonder to behold'- this is my attempt at picking a favourite part lol, it's all stunning!!!!!!!!!!!
the glamour that was once, a wonder to behold'- this is my attempt at picking a favourite part lol, it's all stunning!!!!!!!!!!!
3rd Mar 2012 7:29pm
Ohhh I am soo pleased that you liked it, I thought it might be too long.Thanks for stopping by.
Gypsy red
Gypsy red
3rd Mar 2012 8:29pm
Goodness me you have been busy … such an epic write from the fine red pen on a most fascinating subject. Always such rich images for the imagination to conjure with ... great entertainment
3rd Mar 2012 9:23pm
It is part of the enchantment, is it not? shall I continue to dazzle, mystify and intrigue with myriad of imaginings I can conceive? A dear friend once said: my imagination is a wicked, perpetually pregnant thing .lol Thank you for reading my "epic" hope you enjoyed it as much as i did writing it.
Gypsy red
P.S. topic of this piece is one of my favorite subjects.
Gypsy red
P.S. topic of this piece is one of my favorite subjects.
3rd Mar 2012 10:19pm
One should continue to write and express whenever the mood strikes & if I may borrow a phrase or three from one of the truly great wordsmiths ~ Powys
"Though books, as Milton says, may be the embalming of mighty spirits, they are also the resurrection of rebellious, reactionary, fantastical, and wicked spirits, in books dwell all the demons and all the angels of the human mind. An arsenal of explosives, an armory of revolutions, the repository of all the redemptions and damnations, all the sanities and insanities, of the divine anarchy of the soul.
Books are the horns of the altar where all the outlawed thoughts of humanity can take refuge! Here, like desperate bandits, hide all the reckless progeny of our wild, dark, self-lacerating hearts. A bookshop is powder-magazine, a dynamite-shed, a drugstore of poisons, a bar of intoxicants, a den of opiates, an island of sirens” .... and the writing mind would have it no other way?
"Though books, as Milton says, may be the embalming of mighty spirits, they are also the resurrection of rebellious, reactionary, fantastical, and wicked spirits, in books dwell all the demons and all the angels of the human mind. An arsenal of explosives, an armory of revolutions, the repository of all the redemptions and damnations, all the sanities and insanities, of the divine anarchy of the soul.
Books are the horns of the altar where all the outlawed thoughts of humanity can take refuge! Here, like desperate bandits, hide all the reckless progeny of our wild, dark, self-lacerating hearts. A bookshop is powder-magazine, a dynamite-shed, a drugstore of poisons, a bar of intoxicants, a den of opiates, an island of sirens” .... and the writing mind would have it no other way?
6th Mar 2012 7:52pm
In this writing you can find everything from philosophy to magic to myth.
You can read quickly, because it is smooth.
Leave without words, because it's very original. He began as a poem and ends like a tale.
Beautiful and disconcerting.
Eres sorprendente Sonya! Pruebo una grande amiracción por tu sabiduría e inteligencia.
You can read quickly, because it is smooth.
Leave without words, because it's very original. He began as a poem and ends like a tale.
Beautiful and disconcerting.
Eres sorprendente Sonya! Pruebo una grande amiracción por tu sabiduría e inteligencia.
6th Mar 2012 8:52pm
yes my dear friend it is a little of all those things you listed and then some. I humbly accept the wonderful complement.
Thank you mio amore
caro bello
Gypsy red
Thank you mio amore
caro bello
Gypsy red
