Poetry Cottage

A small corner within Lemuria, inside the word weaving cottage, where a Lemurian poet, Soul Food's Poet Laureate, comes to read her work to fellow Lemurians.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005


I walk this lucent pathway
With the shadows of
Between the bright veils
They brush my cheeks and soothe my
Slumbering eyes
My fingertips kiss their softness
On each side as I walk

Sleep is chiffon, melting easily
With almost nothing in between
The other side and I
The breeze wafts fluidly
China silk, crepe de chine
I am here
I am gone

The dream veil wraps me round
With a thickness I perceive
I can feel consciousness slide
Thumb and finger brush each side
Cashmere, suéde, broadcloth, brocade
In the stiff wind of vision, the dream veil shifts
And I’m holding on with both hands
Corduroy, tweed, canvas, chinchilla . . .
Batik, alpaca, cheese cloth, chintz . . .

I walked under stars
Where the past melted from the present
The present slid into the past
She left finger prints on my memory
Soft dreams behind my eyes and
Rustling veils of velvet, doeskin, Venetian point
Wafting lemon oil, lemon grass, lemon verbena

When all of the selves
On this luminous path, join breath
And mystery, memory and meaning merge
We will lift the final veil
With the beating heart of a bird
The veil spun gold gossamer
And behind it we will find . . .
A spill of fresh moonlight
And laughter
Like a fae blessing
In the deep
of the

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Duende Deluge

Call from the chasm, black heart of night
Walk backwards into deepness, reaching
Yearning shadows paint the
Dance of darkness

Candle of creation, bloomed bone black
Clear, clean, candent
Dredged from darkness
Sudden flaming fretted fire

Up from the depths in breath suspended
Throbbing beyond the beat of blood
Powerful pounding sable shadows
Spellbound, strong and spinning

Engulfing the Muse that holds my heart
Drowning the Angel that keeps my lips
A deluge of darkness ignites my soul
Seething with splinters of stars

Pitch-black lightening
Silver and sweet
Sings up through my body
From the soles of my feet

©Edwina Peterson Cross


Dark Dance with Duende

I don’t think I dance with Duende
I think it dances me
Like a puppet or a pawn
Pulling strings in lurching, frenetic movement
Or leaving them hanging
Tangled, still and flaccid

Do I drink darkness to dance?
Shall I go seeking shadows?
I half sick of shadows, she said
I am past half sick of shadows
Fully, 100%, in toto sick to death
Disgusted with phantoms
Repulsed by ghosts, wraiths, apparitions
And nauseated by numbing penumbrae
From staring at the sun
Trying to see the light

I’ve beaten horses that are throughly dead
Into submission
Smashing shriveled skeletons into splinters.
While side stepping the truth
As adeptly as Ginger Rogers
Who did everything Fred Astaire did
But backwards and in high heals
No one ever noticed Ginger Rogers
She was too damn good
Exquisite Irony

And this is my profile,
This is how I dance:
Backwards, blind, invisible
You’ll see the Duende
It is leading
Deep, black darkness - it’s the one in the

The Duende is not at fault
A totally blameless, dark, creative force
Which one wants to cultivate
But only in theory, only in thesis

You dance with Duende in reality
And no one wants to look
No one wants to walk on razors
They don’t want to hear about blood

Bring forth the Angel, who you paint so beautifully
Provide the metaphoric flowers and butterflies
You are fully capable of, or
Be silent

I don’t know what Lorca
Believed in the end
About his struggle to bring
The dark force into

He ended up in the glaring
Headlights of a parked car
With a bullet
Through his

©Edwina Peterson Cross

I began dancing barefoot,
throwing words at the paper like a confetti of joy

Remembering who I am, I remove my shoes.

Oh no, my partner in this weaving dance

I’ve never doubted your pattern, the purpose in your steps
The Goddess is, verily, your choreographer

The chaos is mine. Indeed . . . inherently, intrinsically, innately mine
I was raised on free verse, free movement
I began dancing barefoot, throwing words at the paper like a confetti of joy

Friday, July 01, 2005

Onion’s Progress

Such a small thing, full of layers
To have turned us all to vile players
Oh! The punsters we’ve become
Because of Ascalonicum!!
Poor Dilyn’s most nightmarish fears
Come haunting from a vale of tears
Soon we’ll hear the poor man screaming
Chopping ‘til his eyes are streaming
Gashing, slashing, cleave and cut
Foul memories of Pizza Hut!

And Bards who once were all so chic
Now laugh until they start to leek
Poor fellow must be so distraught
Sweet Lady Em’s gone eschalot!
Wicked night-mare’s turned to stallions
Distinguished Bards are now rap-scallions

Vidalia, Bermuda, Italian red
Like a noxious wind, the scourge is spread
The evil of this baneful fruit
Goes all the way down to the root!
Save your eyes from scent that stings
Just say ‘NO!” to onion rings!
Like a warning tale from old John Bunyan
Damnation, hell . . . the cursed ONION!

~ A POEM ~
the Lord of Misrule
Ace of Anarchy
Duke of Disorder
~ Foister Von Ripster ~

This poem is for Dilyn
May he never have to face