take my hand and climb with me…

one hundred and fifteen degrees: ‘giant little animals…’

Monsters ~ Band Of Horses

one hundred and fifteen

Love affair, short lived. Venus takes, her leave. A mournful, moon. Turns, clear skies. Thick, with despair. Pulls, lace like clouds. To hide, his face. A ring, frozen fire. Circles the aching, stone silver. Lunar, blood drum. Breaking. Darkness, deepens. Shadows, grow. Creatures crawl, out from. His pain.

If I am lost it’s only for a little while…

7 comments on “one hundred and fifteen degrees: ‘giant little animals…’

  1. seanbidd
    January 26, 2013

    Love the sense of departure, arrival, pain, and of darkness’s loss to the shadows, while life (creatures, etc) seems to have an ambivalent sense about itself.

    Ice, water, crystals, brush gently. Dull luminous existence, to be thrust forth, Out from, distant drifts of darkness. Listen as the air calls release, open to sanity below. Upon old earth, each to shade, from touch upon. The snare, of scared light’s illusion. Graft of bright, fake upon eyes, Surface of affliction, travel fast. Escape hence, flee to, darkness transient, nomad of the evening.

    When the moon meets with the clouds like above, it feels like walking beneath a sheet of lace and watered silk, caught upon a traveller’s breeze. A little eerie some times when passing through a forest on foot.

    • circulartree
      January 28, 2013

      Love those lines: ‘graft of bright’ and ‘a sheet of lace and watered silk’ …you have such a beautiful way of weaving your words, I’m truly grateful for your comments as they add a new dimension to every degree. Thank you Sean, it’s an honour to have you climbing with me… Lots of love, Bx

      ps hope the weather has settled somewhat on the Capricorn coats – sounds like you’ve been hosting The Tempest. At least you’ve managed to turn it into poetry.

      • seanbidd
        January 31, 2013

        Climbing is such fun, no mater the direction.

        Well the wild weather has gone, but not forgotten
        The weather is what I call swamp humid, and with the river still rising, it’ll remain this way for a while. But this is the tropic, got to expect it to get this way in summer.

        Poetry is such a good way to turn many thoughts, ideas, and feelings in any direction.

      • circulartree
        January 31, 2013

        SO true: poetry as alchemy! Certainly been a tool of healing and transformation for me… a way of lancing pain, finding a way through bleak expanses of hopelessness.

        Sunset cools even the most sweltering of days here, and sweeping winds off the dam help clean away the harshest heat. Enjoy the tropics, for its warm seas and dramatic storms. Well, as much as possible anyhow!

        Continuously climbing, this ever upward arching spiral… I’m blessed by your company and kindness.

      • seanbidd
        February 2, 2013

        Yes, blessed by your company here included. How would the the first sentence in last paragraph look as a drawing or painting, as a projection of the mind?

      • circulartree
        February 4, 2013

        Creatures crawl? Oh I had a rather horrific image in my head of this contorted mutilated half human-half animal crawling out of the bloody viscera of the moon. The kind of painting to chase sleep and sweet dreams away for good!

      • seanbidd
        February 5, 2013

        I was asking about the arching backwards, spiraling ever upwards, but it was interesting hearing about your imagery residing in you verse and words too. I should frame questions in a better context, my fault. Thanks for still delivering your thoughts on the creature pouring out from the moon.

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This entry was posted on January 23, 2013 by in Summer and tagged , , , , , , .


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