Tiphereth
we were born in the
time of the
cardboard empire
of hiding from the
ones
who say
beauty comes
and beauty goes.
today there is much
left to be desired
and tempered
going slow when the
world is fast
the temptation to
know
has surely
surpassed
the capacity to be
inspired
and to see into the
past,
beyond extremes of
white and black,
endeavouring
not through frosted
glass
to think.
i wear green but
reminisce in pink
and dream in
translucent starry forever.
i guess it’s the duality that stings
to be the thorn and
want the rose
to aspire toward
the goodness life can bring
must mean its
nemesis we will be shown
i read a book, i
looked inside,
i thought i had
always been so nice
brimming with
poetic words,
knowledge pinched
and summarized
wrapped in lace and
velour
I pressed send, to
lift your spirits high,
but now i see my
lines for what they were
gleeful disguise,
seven of swords,
icy
reserve, faux feminine demure
though i held you
close in my mind
my lips couldn’t give shape to
dim contours, of
moments endured
it was clear only
on the other side.
and the first part
of my current life
i was but stumbling
the earth
spirit in body not
yet arrived
the wider vista not
yet discerned
until the day i
awoke,
i was just a paper
doll
pushed forth by her
time of birth
as the angels had
it scrawled
you and i both,
after all, we do
align,
tethered, as it
were, through
sun and north node,
mercury jupiter
trine
And despite reading
many books
and seeing many
signs
to you it was a
joke
a self-indulgent
waste of time
that one could
otherwise devote
to infusing
material life
with true antidotes
to the woeful
conditions which
through birth we
are obliged
so in a culture
crystallized,
those magic arts,
by weight of soul’s twilight,
are like a bouquet
kept in hope
that flowers past
their prime
might get their
second growth
but morning rays of
light
will always expose
sweet multicoloured
decay
a desiccated form
reminding us of
what
we once could
appreciate
and in brighter
eras what
was once understood
more.
a design of
intangible worlds
that were once ours
to explore
do you remember
those days?
even in a landscape
populated
by plastic shapes
even in dropped calls and
messages later
erased
i want to believe
there exists
something like a
solid core,
a permanent state,
a love that
persists,
despite resistance
towards
its binary form.
and in the end, it’s this
force that we will
face
the love that moves
all to be born
and all to
disintegrate.
and in these times
be ever wary
towards
the ones who claim
that all is
illusion,
that there’s nothing
worth living for,
when upon death
memory is effaced,
and
oblivion is
ensured.
for the reality of
beauty past
is merely one of
many doors
which open pathways
to the array of
outer stars
an expanded sense
of space,
where binary stars
dance
in full knowing of
their fate,
in true showing who
they are.
where colours not
yet named
entice us to keep
on going
into plains too
vast
for mortal thought
to contain,
into a sky formed
by the rhythm
of ever darkening
and glowing.
there lies the goal
of the heart of gold
to embrace a
picture
of time ever
flowing.
Medicine Woman
i have 28 pens but all of them ran dry
i have a box filled with journals
with words spilling from every line
i search for myself, by going back in
time
it took reading every frayed page
before i’d realize
that i was always writing the same
thing about you
the wheel spun, yet i got no closer to
the truth
i was always writing the same thing
about us
the shadow bunnies hopped up the walls
and the walls turned to dust
and on every finger i got a paper cut
and they stung, in the wash, as i
cleansed my sins
from the touch
of the past
that lingered on
singing a song about
how life is perfect, and
everything is wrong.
God is love,
and i’m obsessed
with perfecting every
letter drawn.
even when my
book was bound
i could only focus on
rubbing my sore wrists
and putting the kettle on
babe you don’t have to remember it,
just blow a kiss to God and be one,
like the Sea is to its droplet.
spill blood and ink, down the sink,
twisting red-azure rivulets.
yet, i take it seriously
so here i am scrubbing the dishes
wearing liquid cat-eyeliner in
gold
replaying everything you told me
ever sinking further into it.
further into it, into it
I go into it
i look out the window
at the white owl
in the distance
winter sun
white light
talons drawn
i have a witness
prey is clawed
my hands are tied
so i will not pray
but instead visualize
the truest riches of my life
come alive
Gold and myrrh
Hawaiian sage
Of crystal aeons and
oil crayons that
tantalize the page
with infinite colour
but do not stain
we’ll never be what we were
those creatures
from a forgotten age
waves to the shore
we will return
at a future time
in a different way
my life is colour
your love is my core
pearlescent feathers
point toward things that
are not yet born
on the other side of
this rainbow bridge
it all exists
in liquid form
every sculpture of ice
must melt into its
unbound state,
become vapor
Affliction
The gusts of wind cleanse
As much as they afflict
Alone in nature is the lens
By which is revealed all the tricks
And traps, being set, in my thinking
So twisted gets my vision
That I put value in the words of
Unwitting servants to the system,
That thing so rotten to its core
With all its minions keeping the score
Of illusory games, flashing their
chains
For affirmation, like prisoners of war
Who have no date set for liberation
Strolling the green free fields of the
living plains
Bee and dragonfly wings spell out the
plain situation
Of how depraved and poor the human
soul became
In its relentless quest for
illumination
Devolved into obsessive activities to
transcend death
Scrolling, giving rise to a cascade of
distractions
Like a pail with a hole
The rhythm of time stripped of
sense
’Til
there’s nothing left
How dense was I to think there might
be
An exception to the rule
That I could survive a few drops of
venom
With my mind intact and blood flowing
smooth
But in the knowing which these winds
bring
Such deception cannot stand
What other step next then to break
From the world of men, and be the fool
So I commend the one talking to
herself
In a pitched tent or a forest bench
Meditating, listening to the songs of
birds
Vibrating, which continue on & on
Like an ancient breath revived, it
mends me,
But only when my attention is steady
enough
To let it all in, this moment of time,
I’ll not forget it, nor will I cling on,
Thus it becomes never-ending
And so am I
And then it’s gone.
The Cocoon
with every year going by
we become a bit more calcified
the dreamworld of another life
fades out while mundane memories
take its place, sculpted by
time and space,
the culture makes its way,
fortifying cobwebs in the brain,
spinning its own dream, the illusion
of having something to say.
but when you read between the lines,
in magazines, newspaper pages
there is nothing they can say,
there is nothing, just empty
signifying
plastered on top of a phat fact
that everything they love has always
been dying
just as much as it’s been thriving
and prose as dainty as a rose
will not stop the deluge of time,
So give up.
you are just one grime-coated pearl
pulled from the
mouth of an oyster; deaf dumb, and
blind.
there is meaning to be found in
being beaten down by the
hand of something you can’t understand.
please Divine one, correct my retarded
need to
compete in the ever-spinning ferris
wheel of
performances and ideas.
i have inherited this disease,
a material form filthy from aeons of
taking in, filling a junkyard with
what i please,
like a hoarder, and not releasing,
the windows are fogging up so
the light has to be decreasing.
we are prisoners in a fogged alien
life but we keep
chasing it, the darkness,
as if there’s something final to reveal
When I lift up a rock I see the
insects underside are of a number
unbounded,
infinity contained neatly within just
one planet,
one universal flow, and do you
remember that
just one spark can ignite the whole
world?
they don’t write about it
because it can’t be counted,
so they don’t know how.
if you felt one drop of warmth, like a
moth to a flame
you’d give up everything, just to figure
it all out
i have to melt down this wax i spent
So much time trying to make right,
shaping it with my doubts instead of
Allowing myself to be shaped,
maybe i’ll receive the gift of vision when
i let open the blinds of this house
where I reside
‘Don’t forget, i’m a prism bitch but not yet
crystallized
just waiting for my chrysalis
which will
take me to the other side, that will
undo me
Every page before it was paper
was a plant reaching toward the light,
of a star which burns and dies through
me
Beth Tolmach is a writer and artist
based in the Hudson Valley, New York. By profession she is an art educator and
small business owner. Her creative voice is informed by a love for nature,
occult philosophy, and time spent living in different countries. She has been
writing poetry on and off since childhood, on those occasional instances where
inspiration strikes. Besides poetry, she also likes to work in the visual arts
(primarily drawing and collage) and as an electronic pop musician known as
C.O.R.E.
