Burn Baby Burn

Fire in My Head

I did not know just what it meant to have the fire in my head,
until one evening cool and calm, I lay alone up my bed.
And in the still sweet blessed dark, my heart let out a quite prayer,
and rising from that empty room, my spirit soared into the air.

And as my mind slipped loose it's bounds, in exhaultation did it blare,
it stretched to fill eternity, spread oh so thin, like glosmer hair.
Within that mystic vision sweet did sound a thundering note full blown,
and light did flare within my mind, and press upon it things unknown.

And in that moment I did know that burning which surpasses words
as truth and peace and blessed bliss came crashing down in golden folds.
The fire like a living thing did dance upon the heart and soul
An all consuming harmless flame of ancient means and timeless goal.

So trembling I lay alone, with smoldering ashes in my thoughts,
To ponder thoughts beyond the mind, which render written words as dross.
Sweet burning light, sweet wild might, come back anew and dwell in me
and dancing singing in the light, then all my days I'll blessed be.

Freeform

A Poem

I'm going to write a poem
  with no form
rambling, wandering
 without structure or rhyme or story or point.
But that's kind of the point, isn't it?
  the breaking of rules and melding of chaos and intuition
 often
  or maybe always,
like the seed of an oak growing to a great tree.
Roots stretching through the ages,
 binding the ages past with branches of the future reaching skyward with a beautiful form beyond the ken of human hands.
What birds must nest in the branches, singing songs of Awen to time out of memory.
 But anyways, I'm going to write a poem.
 Maybe you'll like it,
 Maybe you won't.
I can't say I particularly care, I'm not writting it for you.
Then again, I'm not writting it for me either.
Who am I writting it for? What God, Goddess, Spirit has placed the fire in my mind to call forth the stirings of my soul?
Splaying my heart on a screen of bits and bytes, plastered on the virtual bathroom stall wall of popular culture.
Is this magick?
 Or maybe just insanity?
But if it is, do you care? Do I?
 In a world were everything seems insane, is insanity such a bad thing?
And now I realize that I'm not going to write a poem.
Someone else is going to write a poem.
I'm going to tag along for the ride.
 I wonder what this poem will be?
Perhaps I'll turn a page to the future and find out.
 Then again, maybe the truth lays in the past, buried in a hollow hill under a full moon.
 At the very least, I can assure you that it was, it will be, it is and might be and always was a poem.
At its heart beats a thump, thump, thud, thump, deep and slow in time with the sighs of the world as it dreams.
 Thump, thump, thud, thumpa, thump, can you hear the dream? Taste the light as it flies flashing past realms of endless possiblity and soundless songs, and drink the three drops of knowledge.
 Overflowing, my mind spills to the page, a song of singers floating on a flaming wind.
 Maybe this isn't a poem after all. Words, words without words form shapes of shapeless truths.
 Is that what a poem is? Is this inspiration?