Body Becoming Liquid
Marimbas & a violin slide scales
manipulated by fingers of musicians
who improvise the language of forest
green. Hollow lengths vibrate with
sound & my nerves & flesh respond
causing my body to wave liquid.
Chords can elevate mood like
Saint Johns-wort succeeds in doing
with its pollen-bearing organ
hidden in yellow flowers swaying
in its stalk with swollen sac.
I have become green-gratified.
A piano's keys are fingered
passionately & even ivory can warp
from dissonance & harmonics
clashing for the master's strokes.
Wood will resonate when twiddled
& it bends/curves/whistles with wind.
Low moans groan from a bass
fondled with a long strong bow.
Its wired body-hairs quiver & I swear
the female-figured wood has become
pregnant from the constant caresses
enhanced by the pain of creativity.
Thirteen tones succeeded
by half steps blow from the lips
of Lee Konitz & like the yellow
flowers of Saint Johns-wort
my pollen scatters to the waiting
wind wailing like Lee's sax.
My body too is an instrument. It has
been worked by experts who played
paradiddles on skin executed with
alternate beats of my heart. But
listen to my green song of wood as it
slowly melts my flesh to body liquid.
I am like the butterfly escaping from
the pupa which once bound &
sheltered -- giving me wings to fly
on sound waves. Music plays me
mercilessly though. I too quiver like
the bass plucked with purpose.
I swell -- forced to rest my legs on a
wooden bench while my mind soars
with the baritone sax & I astral-sit on
the lip of its ax holding on for dear
life as those low sounds blow bee-bop
memories from a hot throat.
Years have been good to me in spite
of forests fast becoming barren.
I'm still privy to birds serenading
in nests made of mud & twigs
borrowed from our lawn. Their
young wait for morning as the
greatest musician of them all
sprinkles the grass & flowers
uncovering a worm or two. Why look
at me. I too have blossomed under
the hands of an expert improviser
extracting notes I never knew I had.
Copyright © June 29, 1997
by Carmen M. Pursifull,
All Rights Reserved
What is Consciousness?
Is it dark matter hidden
from inquisitive eyes --
eyes that cannot see
the incomprehensible?
Is thought the Universe?
Why do I think
& why do my thoughts
circle me like photon wagons?
I cannot catch my thoughts.
They swirl & whirl around me
& I fall to the ground
searching for substance
but the ground opens under me
swallowing my mind
destroying the illusion of I AM.
There's no escaping thought.
I feel It multiply remorselessly
in my skull & now
they bang against the flesh
anxious to manifest a light
for me to see
but there's no escaping
The First Thought
& I become a prisoner of a force
driving me
to the ultimate creative destination.
I experience a sexual mating
with the smallest shadowy components
of a consciousness unknown to me
& I bond with It
becoming something new.
Copyright © January 22, 1997 by
Carmen M. Pursifull, All Rights Reserved
A Discourse on Rocks
I hold a rock -- stare at unity
contained in my palm.
I am divorced from It
by naming rock an object.
I am confused by the illusions
consciousness conjures.
This search I've undertaken
has thrown me in a world
where the I does not exist.
It's difficult to disassociate
my Self & be -- but instincts
instilled by evolution
with the passion to survive
beat temples with the drums
of reasoning.
How can I perceive what is
without losing all my senses?
But maybe -- just maybe
the converse may be true.
How will I recognize the truth
& will my senses be
just like the rock
who never questions
(as best as I can tell)
whose ambulations I can't see
& I can't see until I've learned
to be & that my friends
is the metaphysical crux
of universal matter.
Copyright © January 26, 1997 by Carmen M. Pursifull, All Rights Reserved
Looking For The Constant Amidst Change
It's in my cards - she said - this change I seek
the womb & comfort of tranquillity.
This ponderable search for peace eludes me.
My life's blood runs like old hose
& I'm left with remedies of nail polish -
clear of course - to curb the damage
of destructive inclinations.
Rage is an old enemy.
It's followed me through life again & again
camouflaged in humble courtships.
I've reached the point of singularity
-swallowed by fear & anger
of men swearing machismo.
Imprintations of my youth bind me
to men whose characters I loathe.
I remember Papa's rages - his foot
destroying what wasn't paid for
& Mama cringing in a corner
grateful that his foot had found
an object for expression.
My brothers emulated him
using the bully pulpit of their balls
to compensate for their irrationality.
I have become a man-hater. Me.
The one who has had 4 husbands.
Me - who yearns to catch the ring of quietude
with one incapable of putting down the bottle.
He claims stars burst within his head
in vibrant colors. He sees these tinctures
swirl within his skull - hues so vivid
they blind reason & he's pulled
into a vortex of violence & I believe him.
I have gazed into the eyes of madness
& I forget the goodness held in hostage
in the redness of his angst.
It's in my cards she says - swift change
to what?
Copyright © November 14, 1994 by Carmen M. Pursifull, All Rights Reserved
Where Has The Future Taken Me
& why is this knowledge
beyond my ken?
Like a dog
I chase my agnostic tail
catch it/chew the tip
until I realize I've bitten off
a metaphor.
That's what this search
has done to me.
The Creator
is constantly flickering
out of sight.
Sometimes
I catch a glimpse of wings
out of the corner
of a suspicious eye.
Obviously messengers can step
in & out of space-time
to prepare me for the search.
Think!
Question!
Am I but an atom
in the body of the Cosmos
& are my thoughts
being filtered down to me?
What me? Who me?
Am I really me or am I a part
of the system of a universe
too complex to perceive?
Is my life
already written & my struggles
all in vain?
How can I fear
the death that is to come
yet plant the seeds
of last year's crops?
I wait impatiently
for blooms & yields
suddenly aware of their passing
in the Fall. It is then I understand
that death is necessary.
Eternity can be exhausting.
No surcease from the elements.
No rest from bearing fruit.
Is that the case with me --
death/rest/then bonding randomly?
with other matter floating in the air?
Where would the I go
or does the I exist in actuality?
If I came back dressed in new flesh
would the I be someone else?
Would the atoms of my flesh
contain the memories
of many personalities?
Time has become the enemy.
We rush to be a someone
that may never fit the cast
which has been molded.
Ego is an obstacle
to bathing in the Light.
Self-blinders curtail
visions of simplicity.
I've made my Self
a vulnerable ploy.
Must concentrate
on mindfulness
then maybe I will learn
what my son already knows --
"That now is the only always."
Copyright © January 5, 1997 by
Carmen M. Pursifull,
All Rights Reserved
Astral Inclinations
Lulled by woodthrush song
I hear my body breathe.
My sleep is cotton grass
in a world of my creation.
I glide out my window
leaving my body behind me.
I am nocturnal
a silhouette on the moon.
The moon smiles canals
cold/hot places far away
and I'm beguiled
to bay a call to sleepers.
Darkness surrounds me
and nightsongs fill the air
from other thought projections.
I've met a poet of the night
who has flown in my dreams.
His violent metaphors intrigue
singe the wild side of my song
but I've learned the pain
of the bite of blood-suckers
as my neck arched
to the moon in adoration.
I've seen his eyes blaze
in his poems and I must fly
back to my flesh on Maple Street
curl around the body of my mate
shut out the moon/wolf-song
and the seductive bite of his verse.
Copyright © January 25, 1988 by Carmen M. Pursifull, All Rights Reserved
Keep Hope Alive
Again
the poet sits
seeking to pluck a theme
from her racing mind.
It's a Heisenberg dilemma
to realize & grasp a thought
bent on speed.
Wrestling with time
is tiresome
so she slows the time
she thinks in
& mentally sees
the tail end
of a graphic image.
It's a head
attached to a phallus
& the face on the head
is smiling.
She too smiles & remembers
the voice whispering in her ear
many years ago:
"You'll never be happy
till you meet a man
with a brain on top of his penis."
Well
she hasn't met him yet
but the image in her mind
reminds her
of Reverend Jackson's words:
"Keep hope alive!"
Copyright © September 5, 1993 by Carmen M. Pursifull,
All Rights Reserved
(Formerly titled: "Flux" 1982.)
Where did Now Go?
the moment
I was thinking of yesterdays?
Whose eyes were those --
the ones which once stared
at the back of my neck
triggering associations
of older apparitions --
other visitations?
My mind visits haunted rooms
I've lived in
where sleep was a slip
leaving me open to possession.
I dreaded the dark
moon afforded --
sought dawn & sun's radiance
to heat the specter's atmosphere --
disperse converging matter
forming this abomination.
Now -- decades later
I thoughtfully study
those rooms of long ago
seeking to comprehend
the incomprehensible.
I still remember the fear --
ejected from my rooms
by a fierce force of survival --
staying out all night
seated at a bar
or restaurant
with a book or friend
conversing about everything
but purgatory possiblities --
or potential impregnations
of a spirit's memories
from the ghost who haunted
The Guest Room
for as dawn flashed its light
upon me
I knew I had to face an energy
whose tenacity
was much stronger than mine.
Poor Pursie!
My faithful dog left alone at night
& who cowered beneath the sofa
until I came home bringing the light.
I'd take him for a walk & he'd be wild
with a sense of escape
& I still feel the guilt of leaving
a loving pet whose sensibilities
were more acute than mine.
I still see my long-dead Pursie cringe
with tail curved down between
his legs & his pulled back ears
as we approached the Navy Base
which we called home.
Eventually I left those ghosts
for the next tenants.
Would they be insensitive
to frequencies or the sudden chill
on entering The Guest Room?
I recall a visit from two men
(they looked like scientists)
wanting to inspect
that rumored room
where this restless soul
jealously guarded her space.
One man removed his jacket
handing it to his friend
(while I watched)
then stepped over the threshold
of that accursed room
(whose doorway looked like
a malevolent eye)
& walked out shortly after
shirt clinging to his chest
& eyes crazed with fear
& exultation yelling "Egads!
That room is really haunted!
Its field of energy is fantastic!"
Then they both went to the room
& I hurried after them
fearful of being left alone
with a full moon
& a frightened pet cowering
at my feet
& the sense of being watched
reproachfully by an unseen entity.
I remember sitting on the bed --
watching the corner of the room
where my son's drafting table
stood tilted -- ready for drawings.
The men standing silently
mentally taking measurements
of activity not seen but sensed.
I remember the walls angled
towards me protectively --
my sense of warmth & ministration.
& finally I remember
the men leaving
as I grabbed my purse
loathe to left alone with an anomaly.
I was ready for a strong cocktail
a dance -- a dirty joke --
anything to clear my mind
from an untenable situation.
Maybe the new tenants
might be spared the nightmare
of that room -- the room
which infested the apartment
where gelid objects
passed you in the hallway
or invaded your consciousness
with alien thoughts.
Maybe I couldn't or wouldn't
see the wonder of an afterlife
or the compelling drive of the dead
to stay on an earth which bore them.
& finally
I remember
the desperate desire
to view the object of my fear
but I couldn't handle it then
& I can't handle it now --
only in dreams
& then I fear
the fear
of not awakening.
Copyright © June 19, 1996 by Carmen M. Pursifull, All Rights Reserved
Surfacing from the Abyss
One must learn how to swim
across one's brain.
It's like uncovering scabs
to see if wounds have healed.
Or opening a door
& stepping into space
filled with dark deciderations.
Sometimes there's a glow
a spark of eerie light
behind a pair of inner eyes
that you can't hide from.
I hear all kinds of apparitions
float within this place
where wormholes coalesce
to speed you on a journey of discovery.
The facial features on a calm exterior
may not present a true portrait of composure.
Like Mother Earth the inner core smolders
but not to naked eyes.
When pressure builds
concrete & steel cannot contain
that inner heat which surfaces violently
& it is then that the face of earth
is twisted into smoke & fire.
Desire to be is sometimes
the crucible of creativity
that twitching ache taunting
you into an act of expression.
You dig beneath the surfaces
of cool exteriors
clawing for a truth you know exists.
Your nails rip from fingers bent
from holding pen to paper
& your vision blurs from
filtered bedroom light
hoping your insomnia
does not disturb the spouse
who cannot comprehend obsession.
You force your body to behave
to find that spot which cups your flesh
& bones as only a mattress-cover can.
You squirm - hike up your leg on a soft pillow
only to find another leg soft & warm
claiming your space. You don't mind.
You feel the heat travel
to your flesh & you remember
stars the blazing/heavenly stars
that you were formed from.
It is then that uncalled for crossing
to the abyss slips by your
whispered lips articulated with
a tortured sigh high in the upper octaves
screeching like a banshee freed
from containment. Your mind opens
like a blossom & you catch a glimpse
of ancient processes boiling matter
to the point of an eruption.
You are the scream -
the connection to that wormhole
& the leg on your pillow.
Stars novae-dance a fancy wrapping
of shock-waves & your petaled limbs
open to the coming burn.
Copyright © July 6, 1997 by Carmen M. Pursifull, All Rights Reserved
