The Alchemist

Dear Magestic Panacea,

White Stone of the River
has embedded itself
within my quicksilver cardio plexus
plutonium solar sunrise

the Ansata cross
has branded my sternum

a stigmata of immortality

Sancti Spiritus,
bathe my body
in aqua vitae

the stone that burns with mercury,
chloride and arsenic

transmutates
cinnabar

male to female
life to death
art to alloy
perfume to dye
embalming of the dead


lead
        to
            gold


the base of self
is Buddha
a handmaiden to chemistry
dreams and fantasy
as Jung discovered
symbols replaced text
to collect

streams of (un)conciousness

the metal of Heaven
birthed five birds
to scribe
scriptures of life

do or die
die to live
cry the beak to bone
condone
rebirth
from wing to light

the ravens plight

the blackening begins
innerspace to spin
the swan
to sweet etheric flight

sailing sailing
the surface of the soul
just to be surprised
a peacocks cry
colors swirled
fanned to shift

opening self
to experience

the pelicans stab
own beak to chest
bloodlet to feed
embryonic creed

to ignite
a phoenix rise
spir-it alive
flawless and free
spanning heavens highest trees

simultaneous birth and death

rising rising from ashes
to rest
and renew the dead


lead
         to
              gold



© Susan Marie

Issa

Among five bodies, translucent,
Issa took respite from Israel.
Crouching by rivers,
learning teachings, the great Buddha.

White priests present the caste
raising Vedas, simultaneous,
as Issa tilts his weary tuliped crown
in confusion.

"World-Soul, Manu, Creator,
is there no correlation between this
and everyman?"

"The beauty of life exists not in law and priests,
but in a teardrop, the iris of an eye.
From the first day and each second,
no idol nor beast shall be uplifted."

The Sun has no power of its own.

"The Wailing Wall resides beneath my sternum
alongside breath of beasts that attempt to feast my bones."

Through tongues and time passed,
words are as sand, a hand wiping slates clean.
Words through translation.

"Raise your chin to the skies, friend.
It is there your spirit lies, not beneath your feet, bare.

Your path is for you to discern,
I am but a tool.

You do not need to see my speech as truth.
Yet I have chosen to view you,
clear and lit, in pale moonlight.

Pure."


© Susan Marie