Good Mother

Poem By David Lacey

What will make no sense to one man holds revelation for the next.

Bless the muse her word's of wisdom.
Bless Boon for a guiding hand.
Bless the Ice Queen Virgins of the valley
Whom pacified this land.

My religion my own, opinion my own
Grounded isolation, home sweet home.
Guard your secret well my son, remember as the Oboe done,
the way to flow, to call upon Pan, to know the giant's dance

Good mother adorns her child in spirit, maiden, mother, crone
Spin to measure to cut the thread of crowns hewn out of bone.

He may have no name, no distinct aroma
Just a song he whistles as he walks,
Vervain carried for protection, in honour of Venus turn your coat
To lift the mood.
To pull straight through.
To shift in modes of revolution.

Did they never tell you child, a circle with ends disjointed is no circle but a line,
No need to lift the mood, myself I'm feeling fine.
Still a little anxious, paranoid at times, Calling out in the night for a soul to comfort mine.

Shines this sweet dream moon beam maiden as she heralds a call for new beginnings,
Find the child of the moon to guide us in darkness, through mystery, obscurity, we find her content with her reflection.

Freedom for the soul to unwind,
Freedom there to find the time.
Paint a picture, write a book,
take another look....................

The world outside is waiting
As fortune flares to favour the blind
To taste the flavours of a bending mind,
A way to travel, way to find, to unravel the tapestries that blanket your mind.
To breed some new ideals.

An end to childish fears, insomnia
Adjust your frame to support your state of mind
Propel to prosper from the flavour at your hands
Ascertain your champion will die without a cause
Proud out of proportion, speaks without a pause.

A kind hearted clown, from a town in the hills
Foolhardy, flatfooted, chewing his face off on pills
Does it appeal to you, or is it hard to swallow
That the sun in the sky won't return tomorrow.

Elephantine elegance, still vicious and depraved
The bane of your existence to which you are enslaved.
Forget the world of hacked up chests of unwashed vests,
Confined in space, Confused in chaos, No texture left for fabrics
torn at every seam.

Reveal to me a passage through this wilderness, towards our long awaited Lady
Hope, Justice, Clarity, not insanity, I'm sick of my reflections laughing at me when I'm done.

Rising with the Mayflower,
Freedom chimes the dawn.
Cometh the child to power,
Freedom was never warned
He would be used abused so badly,
So sad it is to see
Freedom on a leash along side a Mistress
who will never let him be.

Insatiable lust in which we trust release me off my chains.
I'll find the ground, won't make a sound, still they'll have me in shackles again soon enough.

Old man waiting by the side of the road, Keeps his soul a shaking
I have dreams that buckle under the load of a soul that needs awakening.
When the trees are whispering, what is it they say?
To pass on by the hours as there for all to waste away.

Old man drunken by the side of the road, a prophet in the making.
Told to sink, holds strong to the mould as he dances the circles he's been engraving.
Lay down low besides the oak, Lay down bare defenceless, Slow down fast do as your told.
I'm afraid orders may leave me senseless.

The Lake dictates a sonata to the sun, As the birds make sure to take down all she says, resting there breasts upon mountains of the moon, cloudbursts in monsoon, they say always of your own creation. It's always the way.

All it is retaining a high, nothing more than refraining to try, stretch your glare to the skies, You'll see Freedom on a leash, a Mistress who will never let him be.

So tell me child do you fear the stars?
Do you fear the moon that glows?
Do you fear what may lie beyond the horizon?
Do you fear what you don't know to exist beyond the boundaries of the imagination?

Two serpents lie in wait for you, one of crimson colourings, one of snow.
Awaiting the opening the gates for you, to take from you all you've ever known.

They're coming, running on the fruits of our labour, stolen in the intense they were thrown into the basket. Still best to have hope for happiness, to heed the call of the softest machine, Best to remain mellow, calm, unseen.

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