Necromancy 2015
Necromancy, Part 1 (13 March - 1 May 2015)
1st draft
1
Ghosts in our poetry and prose
Are much like us -
And did not know
Where they came from
Where they’d go;
The Dream Machine - a factory
the Glass Castle - Memory
has scattered lanterns through this web
through which we commune with the dead;
that treasure chest -
that hallowed vault
The Grave of Yesterday is lost
To history – the Greatest Liar
is Gasoline;
and Time the fire.
That is the madness of our lives
To know that all will fall in time;
when this we know so much must go -
We lost our Paradise,
we know:
Green leaves are lovely,
yet the change
that transformation in the rain
Draws us in; it lets us know:
the scene is over;
though the show
Goes on -
as it must go.
Life though priceless has a cost;
as everyone must pay for all:
And strange it is to think
some may -
have such a dreadful debt to pay;
What’s true for one
is true for all;
Leaves are most lovely
as they fall.
For all we know there is no show
there is a closed door
nothing more;
although we somehow know:
We are performers in rehearsal
Desperate for a role.
The past expires in the fire
no King but Entropy,
and this Conductor in its Bluster
made Despair a crime;
And in our pain
to stave off change
we built an altar for our shame.
And the embers we remember,
Valentines, Thanksgiving dinner;
Snow-angels, snowmen,
that December.
What we think and what we dream,
is more than idol worshiping:
it pushes us and focuses
the lens through which we see;
Those golden moments once thought stolen,
with a pen may breathe;
And this lens so much depends
On what we wish to see;
and windowpanes that we have stained,
Have framed this fantasy.
As for this storm in which we’re born –
are pearls by blind watchmakers formed;
And this mirage must give us pause
to let us know that though we go;
through narrow bars immortal stars
Burst into life
each time we write;
This pen - this magic wand -
with proper spells may defy hell
this is a real seance.
We all know hope
If truth be told
Is our desire in a robe;
Yet to deny this lullaby
Is yet more painful still;
For our Fair queen
In love with grief
Denies love not to feel;
There is a reason hope is treason -
And faith must take the hill.
An overflowing wishing well
is proof enough that this is hell;
And in this scene grief is made King
the Queen forsakes the throne.
It may be brief;
it may be tragic,
There is magic in this madness:
a canvas picks up those left stranded -
And this voodoo - Necromancy:
gives rise to what is everlasting.
From the grave onto the page,
from ashes to the canvas -
With every line we defy time.
We are the Necromancers.
An opera, painting, or poem
Is life in a more lasting form;
With life being one brief season
Snow on the desert’s face -
Is the reason there is meaning
in a most cold quiet place;
This calls on us who have the touch,
To create and then replace -
What is fleeting with a beacon
That someone may trace -
Through tangled strings of history
back to that seat of grace.
All those moments
once thought stolen,
are safe within the maze;
Ariadne in her reverie,
gave all the keys away.
And in that second – resurrection!
Dawn is a reborn day:
The King of grief has been impeached:
The Queen delights in May.
1st draft
1
Ghosts in our poetry and prose
Are much like us -
And did not know
Where they came from
Where they’d go;
The Dream Machine - a factory
the Glass Castle - Memory
has scattered lanterns through this web
through which we commune with the dead;
that treasure chest -
that hallowed vault
The Grave of Yesterday is lost
To history – the Greatest Liar
is Gasoline;
and Time the fire.
That is the madness of our lives
To know that all will fall in time;
when this we know so much must go -
We lost our Paradise,
we know:
Green leaves are lovely,
yet the change
that transformation in the rain
Draws us in; it lets us know:
the scene is over;
though the show
Goes on -
as it must go.
Life though priceless has a cost;
as everyone must pay for all:
And strange it is to think
some may -
have such a dreadful debt to pay;
What’s true for one
is true for all;
Leaves are most lovely
as they fall.
For all we know there is no show
there is a closed door
nothing more;
although we somehow know:
We are performers in rehearsal
Desperate for a role.
The past expires in the fire
no King but Entropy,
and this Conductor in its Bluster
made Despair a crime;
And in our pain
to stave off change
we built an altar for our shame.
And the embers we remember,
Valentines, Thanksgiving dinner;
Snow-angels, snowmen,
that December.
What we think and what we dream,
is more than idol worshiping:
it pushes us and focuses
the lens through which we see;
Those golden moments once thought stolen,
with a pen may breathe;
And this lens so much depends
On what we wish to see;
and windowpanes that we have stained,
Have framed this fantasy.
As for this storm in which we’re born –
are pearls by blind watchmakers formed;
And this mirage must give us pause
to let us know that though we go;
through narrow bars immortal stars
Burst into life
each time we write;
This pen - this magic wand -
with proper spells may defy hell
this is a real seance.
We all know hope
If truth be told
Is our desire in a robe;
Yet to deny this lullaby
Is yet more painful still;
For our Fair queen
In love with grief
Denies love not to feel;
There is a reason hope is treason -
And faith must take the hill.
An overflowing wishing well
is proof enough that this is hell;
And in this scene grief is made King
the Queen forsakes the throne.
It may be brief;
it may be tragic,
There is magic in this madness:
a canvas picks up those left stranded -
And this voodoo - Necromancy:
gives rise to what is everlasting.
From the grave onto the page,
from ashes to the canvas -
With every line we defy time.
We are the Necromancers.
An opera, painting, or poem
Is life in a more lasting form;
With life being one brief season
Snow on the desert’s face -
Is the reason there is meaning
in a most cold quiet place;
This calls on us who have the touch,
To create and then replace -
What is fleeting with a beacon
That someone may trace -
Through tangled strings of history
back to that seat of grace.
All those moments
once thought stolen,
are safe within the maze;
Ariadne in her reverie,
gave all the keys away.
And in that second – resurrection!
Dawn is a reborn day:
The King of grief has been impeached:
The Queen delights in May.