Foreword:
On May 30th, 2009, P.D. Gourlais wrote the World's First Poetic, Zen Fairytale. The cause was a magic potion comprised of one packet of Fine Orange, Ceylon Tea mixed with one packet of Fine Raspberry, Ceylon Tea. Before I forget, I take note: "Tea imported from Sri Lanka".
P.D was just sitting down to write. When suddenly, she became very ill. Her beloved was very worried. What transpired next was mystifying indeed!
P.D. fell asleep on the couch with her favorite, Swiss pillow. Her beloved was watching over her. In an instant, P.D. bounced up off the couch and shouted, "Forza! It's time to write!"
Her beloved was startled to see her well so soon. She later reported that P.D.'s nap was only five minutes in duration but to P.D., it was Kingdom Come; a glimpse of eternity.
This Poetic, Zen fairytale (the First in the History of the World) is the story of P.D.'s adventure down the "Rabbit Hole".
Enjoy!
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Epigram:
"Those of Old, well cultivated in Tao,
Are subtle, mysterious, profound, and penetrative,
Hence, unfathomable—too deep to comprehend,
Too deep to comprehend, perforce must they be described roughly thus:
cautious as one crossing wintry torrents;
watchful as one sensitive to dangers all around;
courteous and gracious as a guest at a reception;
self-efacing and self-abandoning as an ice-berg melting;
integral and pure as ., uncarved block [i.e., untouched nature];
receptive and open as great valleys;
fused and blended as the muddy mud;
profound and boundless as oceans;spontaneous and flexible as winds and clouds. How to deal with the dark properly?--by light; How to clear the muddled properly?--by tranquility; How to restore the lifeless properly?--by activity. In sum, by Tao the Invisible and Ineffable,
Yet nonetheless the generous hand that lends to all,
The needy, and completes them wholly! - Lao Tzu
Let the World's First, Poetic, Zen Fairytale begin:
Prior to the end of this poetic tale,
In her eyes of green fire,
it was concealed from the Poet’s sight-
her Mistress is a Liar.
It was not so
the moment that they met.
No. It was not so.
In fact,
it was the opposite!
“What happened?” The Poet innocently asked in the End.
Zen question.
Let’s start over. This tale,
Damn! It’s complicated.
“This is only the beginning.”
The Poet’s Mistress said.
Without a chimed colloquy,
The Poet thought,
“Oh yes? What does my Mistress “think” she knows?!”
The answer cannot be, “Me.”
Mistress, you do not know the poet!
You do not even know yourself!
The Poet does not mind read. Neither do you!
Mistress, you are not her Master! Wake up!
Mistress, it seems you have forgotten,
as it were,
you are still a student.
You have so much left to grasp!
The Poet migrated through a Phantasy
of Lucid dreams. She dove in and out
of realities
and many Doors
that lead her to dimensions uncharted.
In the Maze, she went,
to decode this map of
the Mighty Labyrinth.
To solve this elusive equation,
It was insurmountable,
It seemed.
Would she make it out alive?
She wondered.
The Poet was always Marveling.
At times, she was so tired
of these ventures, trips and scenes,
But she had to keep exploring.
She had to answer the
distressed SOS of her Mistress' call.
Her Mistress' voice would not go away.
and her conversation repeated over and over
inside the Poet's head.
These events kept the Poet anxious, awake and wired.
In the clouded mind,
translucent, yet dressed
in a wardrobe of endless
Costumes,
The Poet read into oceans of Words
where myriads of reflections emerged.
She never did forget
the spontaneous instant,
when she saw her own Image
in the enigmatic, mirrored gaze of her Mistress.
And she never did forget.
A Poet like Hafiz never does forget the Way,
no, not indefinitely.
There in Emerald Seas, the Poet
of this tale swam
Endlessly toward Eternity
through the twists and turns,
Day after day,
Night after Night,
she explored the Galaxies,
and through a lens of Truth she searched,
and she searched,
to find her Shield of faith,
with which to defend the Song within her heart.
The Poet prevailed.
And while she investigated
Far and Wide
she decrypted the combination
to delusions perfected--
Things that seemed to be,
one might say they are Illusions,
those things, people and place
of which we have no proof!
The Poet was not fooled.
Thus, she dedicated her quest to Science.
She observed, first hand,
the living evidence of subjects in their cage-
societies rejects and derelicts,
exiled and lurching in the shadows
of distorted personalities.
Its Etiology foreign,
yet most comprehend,
This Monster is a bona fide illness
infecting the unsuspecting
with "incurable" disease.
"What am I to do with this knowledge?"
The Poet threw her hands up in the air.
"Are you hearing voices?" A man in a white coat
prodded. He was always near.
"I am not hearing Voices! Do you see inside my head?"
"No!" The Poet shouted. "Now let me go back to bed!"
These mental wounds in the Mind's
of the people the Poet loves are scars.
Generation after generation,
they are inflicted by the progeny
of souls adrift.
We are all frozen on the Event Horizon
between two worlds.
The Poet wrote in her guarded book.
Yet there are those,
who are trapped in ghastly addictions;
A Past rooted in the Genesis
of a systematic machine
which feeds itself by voracious desires.
Fueled by power,
domination,
influence,
status
and Greed—
the Pharaoh whips His slaves.
He's entitled.
He believes.
For him,
the Masses shift his hefty load.
Some die for his cause
while they put in place the building bricks
of his reigning Empire.
These hopeless Masons,
working toward their deaths
on a barren, breeding ground
are tangled in lives of
cruelty and lies.
And one by one,
the Pharaoh's thought becomes
their own--
This is the way to live!
It is alright!
They are justified like him
to do whatever they please
without an iota of consequence!
Time and again,
the perpetrators of victims unclaimed
return steal their "Prize".
Like toxic thoughts,
they rise from the zombie minds
of the spiritually contemptible and dead.
Do not believe in their restraints!
These chains may bind minds.
These locks may close the coffer
on healthy emotions
but the human spirit,
under Oppression,
is still resilient, indomitable, inimitable and Free!
These predators are they who wander the earth with the Mark.
Who are servants of the Sick and the Damned.
For they invent bigger lies
and use them to Attack.
Their method instills
doubt and terror
in the promising minds
of naive prey.
Their teachings are self-serving.
And in the process of their campaigns,
they shepherd multitudes of sheep away
from the safety of the flock.
And toward the edge of rocky, fateful cliffs,
this is their easy tactic they use to kill-
Blind suicide.
As it was so,
with the Poet's Mistress,
these are the same authorities who
propelled the Poet's Mistress into silence.
Who drove the light of green fire
out of the Mistress' eyes?
The Poet witnessed the events,
one word, one thought, one action at a time.
“This is mental rape!” The Poet cried.
Olifant’s horn was sounded.
It was too late to turn back for
the defensive troops were called in as reinforcements.
Through the sublime, Majestic mountains,
the music rang among the Masses.
Roland’s lamentation surfaced once again.
It was as if,
from the solar plexus of Echo herself,
the same thousands and thousands of Wars,
in the history of humans,
would mimic this Zen fairytale,
which no one could tell,
from one Generation to the next,
was the conte about to begin
or was it to end?
The Poet fell ill with an infection.
She was misdiagnosed as the doctors
swept over the truth of her condition--
a case of Delirium.
In bed, she wrestled with high fevers.
She shadow boxed and did karate in her sleep.
Sheesh! Her covers were a mess! She was perspiring!
She had a small moment of awareness
but other than that, she covered her head
with a sheet and went unconscious.
Tout à coup, a Poltergeist
blasted across the threshold
of the Poet's room.
She was sleeping, beautifully, when
a Mara of the Eastern script appeared.
And like the Buddha in his penetrating
meditation, when the Poet opened her eyes
in her hazy condition,
she encountered the Sorceress of the Dark.
This malevolent creature sailed in on waves of Static.
The sound was deafening.
It was as if the Poet was inside
a hive of Wasps. The were stalking
her, their stingers pret,
and the Sorceress mobilized them as her troops.
As the Poet was about to
plug her ears,
the Sorceress delivered a sinister revelation:
“I am the Master of the One responsible
for your grief. She is a Child of Darkness.
For millennium, she has been your Enemy.
She obeys only me. She hires armies
of villainous mercenaries;
they are the same who keep
your Mistress captive.
Poet, do you see Our property?”
And the Poet lost the Veil
of her Virginity. She turned not
her eyes away from suffering.
She saw her Mistress huddled
in the moonlight on the floor.
She was chez elle,
and like a newborn baby she was weeping,
though hushed, and to herself.
She thrashed intensely,
in her pitiful state, to and fro,
to and fro,
with no relief in sight
for the end of her tears.
Her husband was asleep
yet for years on end,
The Poet’s Mistress buried her misery
and kept her pain a secret from everyone outside.
It broke the Poet's heart to see her
Mistress dying alone.
The Poet trembled and shook with Fear while
a Mighty Tower of Ebony arose.
The wicked witch was mocking the Poet
and spreading rumors saturated with the speech of Hate.
The Mistress' husband was content for now.
The Poet was defeated.
And like a Phallus, no longer shrouded
in mystery, his true nature was revealed-
He feeds himself by a vein of Ancient,
poisonous blood,
Itself it does erect,
And, to this shrine, he dutifully served a Lord from Hell.
Thereby casting his life away to the Sorceress of Darkness
and her petit tribe.
Every trace of light disappeared.
The Poet rocked inside an earthquake of destruction.
She crashed against the faces of the old, the diseased,
the poor and hungry. In their expressions,
suffering had no end it seemed,
and this fairytale is far from through!
When she awoke,
The Sorceress was gone
with no imprints of her Hauntology.
The Poet had no fever.
No delirium.
Her blood tests were pristine.
And her Grandpa G. appeared.
Yes her Grandpa G. appeared
with advice to help the Poet on her journey-
“Tell your Mistress that you love her.” He commanded.
And the Poet obeyed. This she did.
And the Poet declared,
to unleash the Taboo
that encompasses
the seal of Shame and Silence.
In doing so, she crossed the boundary
of the Ivory Tower
when she did it was not ethical.
When she did the words tumbled out wrong.
Her voice was not her own!
The Sorceress took away her most precious gift!
The Poet knew she was alone.
She was done with her compass!
It was broken into bits.
She feel to the earth and was jolted by fits!
She trembled and she shook.
The doctors looked inside her head.
"Hmm, no pathology." They said.
Her words were strings of nonsense.
Her fate was ill indeed!
The images were clear yet of her symptoms
she could not be alleviated.
The Poet fell to her knees.
"What shall I do?"
"Be patient, especially with You!" said a white Rabbit,
who popped out of the brush on campus.
And then, he hopped away.
The Poet was sobbing and heaving
with frustration.
Very early, the next morning,
the Poet went to a Fountain to rest.
A Doe approached her,
while she was sitting Zazen.
They communicated with their eyes.
Like a mother with her child,
the Doe led the Poet away
where she taught her in secrecy to follow the voice
of her Inner most spirit
and separate her Voice
from the Voices of others who muffled her own.
After this experience,
she viewed her words as sacred Oaths.
She must tame her Anger,
before she goes to speak.
Otherwise, she will perpetuate
more misery on humanity,
and this is not the legacy the Poet wishes to leave!
She vowed to chase the Arrow of Intensity with skill;
the flaming dart that burns inside every lifeform's heart.
So, she practiced her craft.
Day after night,
night after day,
and eventually, she wrote her Mistress a healing Rhapsody.
For a period of time, her Mistress stopped crying.
The esoteric abuses, which haunted her with Shame,
stopped their merciless reminders
as long as the Poet was close and near
in some kind of manner.
Who is your Master, Mistress?
Is it your Father?
Is it your Mother?
Who is the One who harmed you?
Is it him?
Your husband?
Nevertheless, the truth
made the Poet’s heart ache.
She pined to soothe her Mistresses’
douleur with an herbal, balm of Love.
The Poet's clock was racing to expire.
She knew not what to do.
Thus, she drank a lot of tea,
peacefully in private.
She knew her Time was short.
100 years is not enough.
And all of this,
never to be taken for granted,
and at any cost,
her story must be chanted.
Perhaps her words
would reach a Successor
somewhere down the line
who might be clever enough
to finish the Virtuous trajectory
of Poet's pursuing Time.
Who is your Master, Mistress?
Is it your Father?
Is it your Mother?
Who is the One who harmed you?
Is it your husband? Is it him?
Who is the One who knows you best?
“I don’t know. “ Her mistress answered.
“That’s okay.” The poet replied,
“I will wait for you to remember.
When you are ready, I will be here
to celebrate in your happiness.
When you know the culprit,
together, we will forgive
but we will not forget.”
“My poet, why did you hurt me?
You are the scapegoat of my blame.”
her Mistress sighed.
For a time, some people believed the Mistress' story,
but not many, and eventually, her cursing words wore off!
“I didn’t mean to,” the poet sincerely responded.
“This I regret. You are safe now to speak.
There is nothing to Fear when we come from Essence.
Do you see the same as me? I am here without judgment
as your sister and your friend. If you never speak to me again,
I will think of you fondly for I encountered so much good in You.”
One day, her Mistress did choose to speak
without the use of any language.
When their eyes locked,
in unison,
they vocalized by mere expression,
“We are not the ones to blame for these reprehensible crimes
committed. We are innocent and playful. In the beginning,
we always got along! We are not responsible
for the choices of the Sorceress nor her appointed Priestesses.”
The poet drew out her sword
And shouted,
“Set my Mistress free!”
And in the middle of the battle,
she prodded her Mistress to answer
a Zen koan:
“Mistress, who is Your enemy???”
“She is not You!" The Mistress wailed,
"I failed. I was wrong and blind but now I see!
Please don’t leave. We are not finished.
This is only the beginning!”
“Mistress, who is your Master?
Is it the One you married?”
The poet quizzed rhetorically.
“I am my own Master!”
The Mistress cried.
“Who is your prophet?”
“I am my own.”
And the Poet's Mistress sighed
an exhalation of relief.
Alas, she remembered her own dream!
“Well, if you decide you need a friend,
someone loyal, good and true,
I am still your Poet but you must prove
to me you're worthy to meet. Until then,
I'll be here for you by proxy
on another plane in Time."
Am I you or are you me?
What are we?
May we be everything?
One by one or two by two?
Togetherness or a separate crew?
Witches lost in the dark, thick, Woods,
Unaware, both to themselves,
without a clue.
This Inquisition will
start over.
Yet this time around,
the discussion will be loaded with Memory,
articulation, respect and diplomacy.
Fagots of sticks,
were prepared in secret,
somewhere along the way. This has always been so,
in every faction group and village,
as the Martyr must be hung again and again
in the view of weary, grieving people,
to keep reminding them of what will happen in the End!
And the noises grew louder,
And the voices more Angry, as
the mob of Jealousy, Envy and Hate
stampeded the Poet once again
to protect the One.
At night, by their torches lit bright
with hot, orange light,
they assembled in the corridor for Graduation.
The hunted Poet arrived in peace, her white flag
flying in the space of her third eye,
and by the light of knowledge,
she was handed,
through the teachings of her numerous teachers,
her Diploma.
She made it to her destination.
Yet all this time this fairytale
has been unfolding,
there was only one could bestow
the secret code to the origin
of the sacred, Emerald fire.
And the Poet rode the flames back
To a Home from whence they came.
At the door, she knocked,
and there, she met the Keeper of this Gate.
Her Mistress said, "Goodbye."
and the Poet said, “Okay.
I respect your decision.
Just know with this, we have caused
each other immortal pain-
Do we really want to say Goodbye, this way?”
In silence,
they departed,
to go their separate ways.
One by one, Day by Day,
Night by Night,
They walked through the danger
of the treacherous, black friar
Unafraid.
At last, unafraid
and glorified to have survived
a near-Tragedy.
In their left hands,
platinum sheaths designed
to serve as Holy vessels of Ink,
They started once again to use
their tools, or in Modern terms,
"Weapons of mass Creation".
Hours turned into Days,
Days faded into Nights
and in their respective specialties,
they matured. Through their tenacious,
persistent work, their souls inevitably aged.
They crept nearer to their
deaths like a real, sweet wine,
promised to the Festival of Roses.
They invested and immersed their tired,
scholarly, heads of gray in tomes and tomes
of literature.
They ultimately discovered,
once again, the language of desire
hidden in the body of the Goddess.
This is the seed of Freedom-
A woman's inalienable right.
A Power that no husband, Man or Sorceress of Dark
may possess. A woman is not a trophy to be worn.
She is a woman first. And for this insight,
one must fight for the proof.
Like Stealthy Leopards
starving in the Winter's of Russia
(the World's most wicked wilderness)
they mated
and they mated away from the public eye.
Patiently, they waited to
to leap from hills on Higher
into a space where they would
really be ready to save their
dying species.
Music from the Grecian lyre,
flowed from the fertile flute
of the Mistresses’ very best lady.
Upon her inviolable breath,
she was a pivotal messenger
who crossed an oasis of landscapes
to help her endangered friend figure out
how to act. In other times,
they called this, "decorum".
With haste,
all did aspire
to sing the same chorus
with lyrics and verse meant to uplift.
No longer dry,
their ink rushed forth
to nourish thirsty infants
like sustenance from the breast
of the Virgin Mother.
In a Matriarchal world,
they were free
to tell the “hysteries”
of all who Profess.
In this city
of Verses, a Uni-Verse-City;
they crossed among each other
like amorous, star-born Lovers.
The Universe willed them to be no longer
limited by Symbol and Sign.
The Women of the Source
were not molds to be molded
their only advertisement was the slogan
"Uniqueness Welcomes All".
These Mothers of the Ancient fold,
the Antiquity, dressed inconspicuously
in their robes.
Hence, they devoted their lives
to protect the Place from
where the nectar of Creativity flows.
The Poet’s situation
as You now may see, was dire.
She learned the remedy
was cached in her Mistress'
eyes of Green, translucent fire.
Thank you.
And the Poet bowed to her Mistress,
with her hands held to her heart,
to offer a deep gassho with sincerity.
Prior to the end of this poetic tale,
I must report one last fact.
The Poet did admire her Mistress,
yet her only bad karma, for which
she found herself Guilty,
was she mistook her Mistress
for being the Green fire.
This consummation, launched her like a rocket,
toward a shared Cosmos,
which they both had always desired to know.
After all, their other dwellings,
shelters away from their home lives,
house the Muses in the libraries.
"If my Mistress is not the Green Fire,"
the Poet inquired, "what is it?"
Man, the Poet was deluded and she knew it!
What is this Power birthed
from the Mystery of purity and light?
What is the Word?
Why does it inspire?
Does it ignite philosophies into animated, pieces of Art?
The Poet did inquire.
What is the etymology
of this verdure and Energy?
What is its Origin?
Where did it find its start?
And the Poet did inquire,
Restlessly,
in solitude
and meditation,
the Poet did inquire.
For three, long years,
She did not sleep.
Then, on a magnificent, unforseen Day,
the Light descended.
Luxurious Providence arrived
with an endorsed check.
"I will use this wealth for good."
The Poet vowed, "but first, I must rest."
So, she tucked herself in
the sanctuary of a distant, Swiss briar,
where she was adopted by a gentlelady and gentleman.
Their feline, Figaro,
had a face of fur like a white, Venetian mask.
These Guardians persuaded
the nomadic, traveling
Poet to retire.
In the Creator’s dreams,
As Figaro purred his symphony,
the Poet no longer wept.
She slept in peace at last
in the safety of their grandmother's Chalet.
When she rose,
three days later,
she went to pray in the Woods
in order to ask for strength.
"If anybody is listening, whoever you are,
please help me let my Mistress go."
The Poet knew this was the Noble path to choose.
Anything less would be stained and dirty.
This time, her exploration for her answer
was different. Nobody and nothing intervened.
All was quiet
as the Poet sat inside a thicket of
primordial, Jurassian trees.
She waited for a signal as to what she must do next.
She moved every mountain in her Mind,
leaving no stone unturned,
and battled one aggressor after another.
When she fought off the last opponent,
her hard earned answer emerged:
“I must only speak from my heart. Always.” The Poet declared en haute voix.
Nobody but the animals were listening.
And the Poet felt consoled.
“Yes. That’s it.” She proclaimed,
"I vow to stand my ground,
speak my truth, even in the face
of death for as long as I shall live".
With her nerves as calm
as a Scottish Loch of glass,
she took out her trusty pen,
just a thirty-something Lass to write a Peace Note.
"This is more important than writing my Dissertation."
She asserted and began:
“Madame,
Je sais ma faute. Si j’avais un souhait, il serait
que vous pouvez me dire votre vérité. Je suis prête.
Je vous écouterai. Faites signe si jamais. Votre humble poétesse.”
And when the Poet
made a choice to claim her Voice,
the spell of misery and darkness was undone.
She shouted her mantra
at the top of her lungs,
and to the top of the trees
she scattered the birds-
"My choice! My Voice! My body!"
but to everyone except herself,
the spell was not yet undone.
"If you touch me," She warned
the Enemy plotting, "You and your brothers
will spend Eternity in hell."
"Yeah right!" The gang responded.
And they held the Poet to her bed.
They spread her legs,
while she screamed with Terror,
"Father! Please protect me!"
Yet this time, he did not answer.
He could not. Though he was in the room next door,
he heard all that happened. And while he recorded
notes for the Judges, he wept and wept.
The Poet was violated so deeply,
it was as if her body cried in Unison
in droplets of blood and sweat.
She saw every woman in the history of the world
in her situation.
The Man with the most Power shouted
"Capisce?" While he did his job.
The Poet was robbed, a little,
more and more while she sobbed and sobbed.
She begged him to stop yet he could not hear.
When she awoke, she knew she was not completely
broken and her renaissance was to Ascend
from the ash and aftermath.
The Poet momentarily believed that her father had left her.
However, as soon as they were finished,
and they left the room and slammed the door,
the sunlight spread across the floor
and bathed her cheeks 'til they were no longer wet.
The Poet thought she could not go on.
She begged to die yet she did not want
to leave this world she loved despite her fate.
So, she did what she knew best,
she curled up into a fetal position,
as she was in the beginning,
and as an adult now, she prayed:
"Father, I know you are there. I feel your Love
and your Protection. I have heard your message,
loud and clear. I am ready to serve. Show me the way."
The Poet lived to tell this story to the End.
And by the time her last hot tear dried up,
she knew her Father heard her prayer.
He was her only, real, true friend.
La Leonessa roared.
The Sorceress was dethroned.
The Mistress’ lying tongue was tied.
And one evening, as the Poet's Mistress
was reading to herself in seclusion,
she was reborn when she least expected it.
This story was transmitted through the written Word
across the highway of the Internet.
And as it has been for Ages and Ages hence,
the Poet will always have a Job
when she has to ability to appeal to the Masses.
The Voice in this fairytale is so powerful and pure.
The Poet's Mistress is reading.
The ring was clear as a Bell.
Though it was scribed in poetic code,
like the Monks of Old,
(as to spare the Poet and her Mistress as much dignity as possible)
finally, the moment arrived.
The Peace Note worked its Magic.
Poetry set a series of events toppling in Motion.
One at a time,
the effect resonated as truth and light
in ripples of poetic frivolity and rhyme.
This was the little girl who penned.
This is the Woman that the Poet’s teacher would remember in the End.
For when the Poet's Mistress found herself that Day,
she was no longer labeled a Christian
nor was she ostracized or pigeon-holed as being
a "little, Psycho freak."
"My Mistress is just fine!" The poet defended.
"I love her just the way she is! No revisions needed!"
Keep your categories to Yourselves.
And if you are the Poet's friend,
celebrate her new found knowledge.
Rejoice in her Will to embark on a new adventure
so alongside her, others may discover
Who They Truly Are as well.
One thing is prophesied and certain-
She is independent of the Sorceress’ appointed One.
En bref, when she herself realizes this,
she will divorce her husband, before it is too late.
She will leave him in his Hood, once and for all.
She will have enough of his so-called, "Religion"
and outside the walls of the Church of Christ,
she will find her "Savior within" waiting to embrace
her in the light of her inborn, natural spirituality.
She will do her salutations. She will greet everyone she has missed.
She will heal herself and then her family,
As long as she grows tired of her husband's cold, rhetoric.
If so, she will see that his selfishness is not her own,
nor is his Greed or miserliness.
She will find her healthy anger
and she will leave.
She will leave him in his Hood forever,
ALONE, at his Master's crumbled shrine.
The Door will slam and she will go!
Never again will she waste her precious breath upon
the footsteps of his empty Throne.
She will return Home,
to find herself standing
on the beaches of her childhood.
And in the sand, she will recognize
the Castles that she built with hopes
and dreams before her Innocence was lost.
The Tides will bring her Memory back
like a note that was written to herself
and casted out into a bottle decades ago.
And she will go foward,
one day at a time.
She will feel her strength becoming stronger.
Day by day, night by night, she will lift herself,
time and time again,
out of the moonlit, lunacy of eventide,
And into the warm, rays of the Sun,
in which she loves to bathe.
She will cast aside that Cross,
the anchor on her back,
once and for all.
She will toe the perimeter
of the sea surf
and she will choose to swim.
Stroke after stroke,
one counted measure at a time,
she will go forward.
She will reach the other side and she will say in a tone of surprise,
“Oh! It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be! I was so caught up in the moment,
I barely noticed this journey of painstaking effort, after all!”
The Poet's Mistress will be a different person to very few.
To most, those who truly love her,
they will recognize her for the person that they always knew.
Then, she will laugh alone like she used to as a child
from the tips of her toes to the top of her head
and giggle at her self-fulfilling prophesy,
"I made it. I made it! Hallelujah!"
All of the binds of her bad karma will be lifted.
Those Demons
that fed on her like a Vampire,
Day after Day,
Night after Night.
These were the same Monsters
that exploited the mistakes and faults;
those the Mistress' husband uses
as blackmail to manipulate her.
He will go impotent with Age.
Or as the Poet coined it,
"go Freud" like limp lettuce.
Why does he have this faculty
over his subservient mate?
The reason is--
he is practically the only one
who knows her furtive life story.
He knows her so well, she cannot escape!
He is a Mastermind of the Theater of the Brain,
and he only recruits those who grovel to do his dishonest work.
Nevertheless,
the Poet's Mistress will make it.
She will make it, You'll see.
Her courage and faith will be her currents
and she will be swept away by an instinct
other than her Fear.
Her Metamorphosis will be complete,
and she will flirt like the Enigmatic butterfly
that she is when she trusts herself again.
All will marvel when they witness her living her destiny.
What I say is true,
it will be fulfilled.
On the Day this is to occur,
Day and Night,
Night and Day,
for 24,
a storm will sweep through the City of Salt.
The rain will Fall and threaten to Flood
but Mother Nature will not dissuade the selfish Husband's wife to stay.
She will take Shelter under the roof of her best lady.
She will know this journey began
as a boat tied at a dock
for Beginners.
Yes, she, the Poet's Mistress,
will approach her best lady.
She will disclose her honest feelings
about all that has occurred these past few years.
The Poet sensed a portend the Day this Odyssey began
And in the Immortal beauty of her Mistress' eyes,
she recalled a foreign land
where she met a forgotten friend who was Lost at Sea.
The Lightning, to the Poet, you see, has always been an Omen;
respected as a metaphor of Omnipotence.
The Poet has foretold of the Good to come for everyone.
This story ends well! It is not a fairytale of Doom!
Here is what she sees:
healing, honesty, positive change and miracles in the works.
Her work is done.
And the author of this narrative
is ready to work on something new.
The Poet is also now free to enjoy her Days
and Nights, upon this Earth,
while she composes poetic symphonies
at the brims of her steaming cups of tea.
She is no fortune teller.
Oh No. She knows its true.
The characters have choice, you see,
to speak and act freely.
The Poet believes in the Existential creed,
"My freedom begins where another person's ends.
And, vice versa."
Some choose poorly to speak ill of others.
Some choose well and speak only words of praise.
But there is one thing for certain that gives the Poet solace--
whether these words are Spells of Fantasy
or a Spells of Reality, her pilgrimmage
guided her to a better place.
They are friends and family in tow who share
in the festivities of life and work hard along the Way.
Rather unexpectedly, The Poet found and she will
marry the companion of her dreams.
Ironically, her beloved shares the same name
as the Poet’s Mistresses’ mother.
Now that's another storyline!
But let's not get carried away!
This ending is simple.
The Angels bless a Union born of Love such as this.
They surrounded them and protect divine couples
and bring them to common ground where they may meet in Time and Space!
The Poet and her beloved,
whom she affectionately named,
"mio faro"
lived happily ever after
in a House by the Sea.
After some time, it was hardly ever quiet.
No, it was not. In fact, it was very Noisy
but this was Joy in every sound.
Finally,
no uninvited static interfering with their lives.
Together, they wrote tomes and tomes
of ultramodern texts,
and for each other they did read,
Day and Night,
Night and Day.
They lived,
two lesbian mothers,
with their insatiably Curious children,
whom they educated very well.
And, they taught their
offspring to do one thing-
Love others and include All.
And whatever creed you choose,
we hope it will be good,
Never abandon friends for friends
are family members in disguise.
It was there,
at the Oceanside,
where they spent their lives
buzzing between the walls of a healthy, honey Hive.
This poetic, Zen fairytale is a pedigree,
which traces the births of the spiritually Noble and the Wise.
The Family Coat of Arms is hung,
under the banner of the Rainbow,
a bridge
where every uplifting thought
and every happy dream
becomes Reality.
P.D. Gourlais
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