A Phoenix Shall Arise

20/02/2021

https://www.facebook.com/windthroughtheleaves/?__cft__[0]=AZWlfV1MHOybUDIK5kJDlIhyryFBVZXs__QQzZC1VoY4GfV1RTahpzTISrN7vc5uvmZ-DAQ9vIJCetdKmOdIJTKlpFvmY4eF_s748BW5p_3CZ4dIrUmxxq1WZ-AehScrCy8GQ9aZIh7JQ8001GstNEtepAGLTgphRRWNJDWqvZkYjA&__tn__=-UC%2CP-R

08/02/2020

Amidst the ruins, in a flickering half light;
shattered ruins, noble ruins: stained in history
and blood; did you see me: in grainy black and white,
hiding, skulking; flirting with the light?
Dressed in a tattered uniform from battles long past,
shedding broken philosophies plundered in the dark;
discarded frivolously, a garment out of fashion,
in day's harsh light. Songs half sung; poems half remembered.
Words, shard-like and sharp, shatter and fall; or flow like wine.
sparkling like pearls, to be cast before swine.
Call me noble, call me sad; call me demented, who cares?
Do you have time to play DIY, to make the repairs?.................................................................................................................
Formatting a page is simple. All you need is an idea enthusiasm, time, supplies of the preferred beverage and a modicum of technical savvy. In the initial rush of watch-out-world-here-I-am, the page is set up, posted regularly; promoted with energy. Then. Then? Nothing. Silence.
Why? It's the nut behind the wheel. The oil well ran dry. The lunatics are taking over the world. [Censor's Note: rephrase that! I mean the Moon = lunar tics (tee hee)].
Why? Frankenstein lost his mojo (his unfortunate creation, to my knowledge, was given no name); the admin scuttled with the money (what money?); the Bush got diverted, lost his focus; jumped nose first into yet another enterprise.
Originally called, "Amidst the Ruins", this page was designated and designed to contain a collection of my poetry. It was and has been a half-hearted attempt. The catalyst for change? I thought the title too negative; needed something upbeat; thus, "A Phoenix shall arise".

18/07/2019

https://www.facebook.com/lesbushwritespoetry/?ref=bookmarks

This page contains links to my published poems, and other poetic adventures.

12/07/2019

DISCOVERY
A trinity (there are three), a divinity
(scratched, tainted and torn), a mystery,
liturgy, so many words, ending with -e.
You know their names; Me, Myself; I?
You know them well. I want this, I want that.
As part of a tripartite identity, I should shut up;
acknowledge me. It's me others see. The ceremonial mask.
At the end of the day, the lights are dimmed;
the music's ambient (café, rain and jazz),
there's only one that remains, myself:
The one that ponders, pauses, replays the day
stroll down memory lane; have to keep the house in order.
I prefer, a stroll down memory lane,
Sounds so simple. What's left to explain?
Nothing serious. Nothing deep;
Nothing to disturb your sleep.
A stroll down memory lane; walk quick pass the battlegrounds.
You remember them, as much as I. Warning! On my command,
Close your eyes; see a scene once, embed in your memory,
Once viewed it takes root, establishes itself; refuses to be deleted.
This is a highlights tour, the best and the brightest.
Don't ask me to expand, the tour wasn't requested.
It was demanded. I didn't want to go back, return or re-visit
That which I spent a lifetime intent on escape.
A stroll down memory lane? You say it's therapeutic.
I say, crap! You say it's a journey of discovery.
I say it's a trap. The problem is real, far from ideal;
We are one, co-equal parts of the same identity.
For better or worse, where go you, go I
(complaining all the way). Did I do the trinity/divinity thing?
I did? Forget it. It's an escape from anonymity!
Regardless of the music, costumes; they are words I sing.
I want to be someone. To be seen, acknowledged; not ignored.
Prove my worth (what's the exchange rate?). That's what I'll do.
Learn to surf? (Don't be stupid. You can't swim!). True. Admitted.
I'll show them where I came from; how far I have come, what I do.
That should impress. Speak of love, longing, loss and marriage;
that should strike a chord. A chord; why not a symphonic orchestra?
Maybe. Maybe not. Issuing an invite has its benefits:
a subtle hint of danger, mystery, and excitement.
Dream big; empires, conquest, battles of victory or defeat.
If Peter Jackson can drape the fabric of Tolkien's middle earth
over the New Zealand landscape in technicolour (and all that technical stuff);
why can't I create something memorable, of lasting interest and value?
Call me, Grandolf. No one else will; so it goes. Money, investment, skill, talent?
We have it all; quietly working away. Doing what needs to be done; producing the goods.
Journey? One of discovery, of that which I, can I say we, know little; our knowledge so brittle
It would fall apart under examination. Be it one, be it three: many, just you and me?
Let the e go; part of a team; read books, read them by the ream.
Tell tales, paint them in primary colours or tones more subtle, like a dream.
The mist in the mountains, over lakes; cloaking the rural countryside:
Looking for stature and wonder? Here, I realise how insignificant I am. The rest is folly.

( ) Les Bush 11 July 2019

03/07/2019

DARK GODDESS

I would like to meet the “me” you imagine
when we meet in the night.
Is it the same person
as when we conversed in daylight?

To read your thoughts
as you assess, my face,
my body. Have you sought
to understand he who takes my place?

I see how your body moves,
how you flick your hair;
for a brief moment
that fixed, piercing stare.

Those eyes are weapons,
they sear my soul;
deep like an ocean,
in which I drown.

Those eyes are like a lover’s,
they touch and caress;
like your breath on on my ear,
the graze of your breast on my elbow.

I would like to meet the “me” you imagine;
the “you” that entrances me is hypnotic,
exotic and intoxicating; sleep well
my dark goddess.

Les Bush
8 April 2013