Interlaced Haiku* for Magia

Magia, no thing,
Ideas old, newly spun,
Words always change.

Change guides all seekers,
Through veils of misleading lore,
Magia, a word.

Modern ancient art,
Magia means only do,
Words bring changes.

Change rests upon void,
Magia like poetry,
Old echoes sounding.

More than five senses,
Words change and shine new, bright lights,
Magia, no thing.

Inspect well-worn paths,
Silent knowing changes hearts,
Magia, behind.

Mountain is mountain,
Magia, ever present,
Change is the constant.

*An interlaced haiku is a series (however long) of haiku on a similar theme where words or phrases from the lead haiku are found woven throughout the reset of the series.

So we end another National Poetry Writing Month. Thanks for coming along for the ride!

Chaos Syncopated*

From Liber Null				ritual redesigned,
these mages cast their spells,		the structure stripped away,
with Book of Results to guide;		embraced pop cultural signs,
		belief alone well will all night and day.
No single path they tread,		rejecting pre-ordained,
each act romance with chance,		unfettered on their flight,
their will, their will the creed,	no unexpected reigns,


		minds open as the sky, boundaries dissipate,
			
			
they draw from deep within,		creation’s breath so free,
A sigil, cut, and focused gaze,		then outcomes resonate,
chaos chaos the true lynchpin,		traditions bend and sway,


	new lines of thoughts they build, new patterns from old fray,
a truth that's ever-flexed, 		unbound, they find their way,


	wild spirits never stilled, a dance of light and gray.




*Syncopated Sonnet: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OmtH0A5mVnA

Curious Cinquains of Crowley

Crowley,

Wizard poet,

Mystified and shocked us,

Love was the law. Love under Will.

Rebel.

Rebel.

Magician bold,

Brandishing Book of Law.

Beast of the esoteric world,

Crowley.

Crowley,

Chaos conjured

Laughing, bewildering,

Strange mess of a human spirit,

Seven.

Seven,

Clever bastard,

Thoth tarot in pocket,

Played life like some grand, garish game,

Crowley.

Echoes of a Golden Dawn (After Wordsworth)

Years stretch behind me like all shadows cast
At sunset, deep and filled with hues of time that’s past,
When once I walked along ignorant lanes of youth,
Seeking webs of arcane threads spun with hidden truths.
Now, resting here in darkness, i hear echoes softly sound,
Echoes of the voices that sung of The Golden Dawn,
Those singing seekers sought such mysteries profound,
Within halls wizened and with thick curtains long and drawn.

Bathed in London lamplight, under a cloaking fog,
Where alchemists and sages emerged from the smog.
Woodman, Westcott, Mathers, and the rest did bind
Their souls to ancient Hermes, seeking but to find
The keys of Solomon, and Hermes' sacred lore,
In rituals deep, where spirits sprung from lore.
They mapped the astral plane, traced the Kabbalistic tree,
Crafting a legacy of esoteric decree.

Not merely scholars, but poets and artists, too,
Drawn to the mystical, the profound, and ever-true.
Their world was the canvas, magick itself the paint,
Every ritual a picture, every chant without restraint.
Through symbols, signs, and, at times, celestial guides,
They sought to grow and grab reality by strides,
Revealing sacred structure of a cosmos so divine,
In hopes that all humanity and infinite aligned.

Yet, as in all human ventures, strife did boil brew,
Ambitions clashed, and schismatic winds they blew.
Crowley, the rebel, with his new, Thelemic will,
Pushed against the order’s boundaries, seeking to instill
A new aeon’s doctrine, pulling threads apart,
Yet even in dissent, his was a destined part.
The Golden Dawn, though fractured, did not fall,
But transformed as a caterpillar heeding far skies’ call.

Now, gazing back across to those earlier times,
Where memory's muddy river meets clear springs divine,
I still see the quest—not just theirs, but mine—
To peer behind the veil that covers this earthly line.
For though the Golden Dawn has since turned to setting sun,
Its search for light in darkness can never be undone.
The paths the GD blazed for Western Esoteric rite,
Still bright above to guide like constellations in the night.

Reflecting thus reclined, beneath this dimming vault of sky,
I grasp at last the thing within what can and shall not die:
This secret knowing here compels to move the mere,
And what holy fire awaits me, what a reflection clear.

Abramelin on the Disco Floor (After The Trammps)

Burn, burn, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn, burning

Oh how the disco ball flickers when night descends,
Everybody’s drawin’ circles on the dance floor.
Incantations spoken low – the rite begins,
Something waits behind the backstage door.

Frankincense to cleanse, myrrh to sanctify,
Cinnamon and oil mark your brow.
Stars above bear witness as you hope to fly,
Every single funky step a sacred vow.

Burn, baby, burn — let the ego fall,
Burn, baby, burn — hear your angel’s call!
Burn, baby, burn — no self at all,
Burn, baby, burn — ’til the walls dissolve!

Symbols expand – wide and deep,
Every type of ‘gram is cast around.
Dancing for secrets that the angels keep,
They’re right above you in their disco gowns.

{Super funky bass groove right hurr}

Chalk and ash laid down to help the spirits move,
Holy names invoked to dance possessed.
In this sacred space using dance hall groove,
Every drop of sweat building a world so blessed. OW!

Burn, baby, burn — let the ego fall,
Burn, baby, burn — hear your angel’s call!
Burn, baby, burn — no self at all,
Burn, baby, burn — ’til the walls dissolve!

{To the bridge:}

Look within, nothing’s hidden,
The only time you got to see is now.
Serpent rising here, as if bidden,
Let the holy fire burn, burn it – burn it down!

Burn, baby, burn — let the ego fall,
Burn, baby, burn — hear your angel’s call!
Burn, baby, burn — no self at all,
Burn, baby, burn — ’til the walls dissolve!

{Guitar solo, then to bass and drums before guitar comes back gently like a consolation}

In the silence you can hear all that’s been told,
Your angel’s voice so confident, so soft and bold.
The ashes cool to embers while we grow old,
But then the flame kicks up to keep away the cold and

Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn, burning burning
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn, burning burning burning {Fade}

The Ballad of Johnny Dee (After Poe’s ‘Annabel Lee’)

It was many and many a year ago,
On an island in the sea,
That a scholar named Johnny Dee did seek
A language so heavenly.

While traveling Central Europe free—
Johnny Dee and Ed Kelley and black mirror key,
Wrought by angels’ hands, not for the meek,
A script that evoked divine glee.

And this was the reason that, long, long ago,
On that island in the sea,
The airs grew cold by some degrees
As the angels spoke to Johnny Dee.

He learned the language, dense, arcane,
Of Enochian tables, destiny gained,
And inscribed each letter upon earthy plane,
He and old Sir Edward Kelley.

And love for hidden wisdom by far did grow,
Stronger than fears of what it did show
Of mysteries far wiser than he—
And neither did library ruined by foes,
Nor the shadows deep under cold, salty sea,
Ever dissever the angels from speaking
Through the mystical tablets of Johnny Dee.

For the moon can not beam, without bringing me dreams
Of the tablets of Johnny Dee;
And the stars can not rise for these tightly-shut eyes
Until the angels respond back to me;
And so, every night-tide, I lie down to recite
These forty-eight keys, my life and my guide,
Zirdo! Zirdo! by this boundless sea—
Ipamis! Ipamis! by this pounding sea.

The Fool Steps Out

The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins,
A Magician’s tools lay spread, their power grows,
High Priestess whispers of a secret, present win.

The Empress’ bounty, life anew she spins,
The Emperor’s rules an order firmly shows,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins.

The Hierophant’s traditions: faith and proper grins,
Lovers’ choice of paths where all love flows,
High Priestess whispers of a secret, present win.

The Chariot’s conquest, a discipline that spins,
Strength reveals the force that gentleness bestows,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins.

The Hermit seeks the light from societal chagrin,
Wheel of Fortune turns where fate unknowingly goes,
High Priestess whispers of a secret, present win.

Justice wields the scales of a balance pinned,
The Hanged Man’s new perspective of understanding slow,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins.

Death transforms, ends and starts again and again,
Temperance’s stream, where inner melding flows,
High Priestess whispers of a secret, present win.

The Devil’s chains of material lust in sin,
The Tower’s fall, upheaval, overthrow,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins.

The Star’s hope, the Moon’s dreams, the Sun’s light within,
Judgment calls a past toward a future to bestow,
The World’s dance circles back from there to here knows when,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins,
The path spread out before us by a tale that’s always been.

The Ascent of Horus (A Myth in Limericks)

Osiris’s Fate
There once ruled a god named Osiris,
Whose brother, Sett, was desirous.
Sett’s jealous black heart,
Made him rip O. apart
And sent Egypt veering toward crisis.

Isis’s Mission
O. left Isis with grief so profound,
So she gathered up all of O. that she found.
With Anubis and care,
They brought life to O. there.
And zombie O. was then ready to pound.

Horus is Born
Soon after, Isis birthed her sweet son,
Lil’ Horus, god second to none.
With an eye sharp and keen,
On revenge, he was keen,
To battle Sett underwater ’til he’d won.

Mother’s Intervention
Beneath mighty waves, uppercuts,
While Isis feared all was for nut.
She threw harpoons with might,
But her aim wasn’t right,
And struck her own son in the butt.

The Confusion of Battle
As Horus cried out in rear pain,
Isis’s efforts to help seemed in vain.
Yet resolve didn’t break,
She’d fix her mistake,
To ensure that Lil’ Horus would reign.

The Final Judgment
Seth tried to oust Horus, indeed,
But his own words highlighted misdeeds.
At the council’s behest,
They found Sett failed the test.
He was banished, and Horus took lead!

The Last Bigfoot of Clackamas County

Why were you here, O stinky giant never gleaned?
Wandering mostly silent, rare the scene,
Through tangled undergrowths of evergreen.
Now no more to bathe in rivers clean.

Why were you here, O hairball calling in the night?
Only to cry when the moon burned bright,
Oh your face so furry and so light.
Now only memories may we hold tight.

Why were you here, O friend of ancient trees?
Telling stench oft-carried on the breeze,
Wild-hearted secrets kept with ease.
Now grunting echoes have all but ceased.

No more footsteps on the old forest floor,
No solved mystery, only retold lore,
All vanished now forevermore.
Gone and gone, wanderer of yore.

Cooper’s Tanka

Shattered mirror grins

Sycamores loom, reflect dark

—

Evil now HIS face

Red Room turns coffee bitter

Time is electricity