poems by arlene rees


Place your lips upon mine
And as you breathe
infuse my code
with the fire
of my becoming.
I hunger for your divinity.
Your prana
like wildfire excitation
across a neural manifold
of tautening flesh,
as I in vain attempt
of mad desire,
would tender the
delusion to contain
the fiery excitation of
a burning god.


Ode To A River

What Pain is mine that runs so deep
yet barely seems to touch the rocky course of life.
For surely those in troubled depths
face far a greater challenge of the heart.
Along the running flow of time
did I pour languid pools of peace.
Or did I choose an altered course
to dry in stagnant ponds of doubt.
And did the whisperings of my soul
nourish hearts that sought to drink.
Or did the tricklings of my fears
erode banks of strength that led me on.
The river does not seem to seek
or even care to know its source.
It chooses only to embrace
in churning arms, to grow as one.
Should I then care to stem the tide
or cease the running flow of truth.
And judge the essence of my soul
compared to breath not drawn of me.
If you in time should round a curve
to find me building dams of doubt
Investing power borne of me
upon hearts whose souls are merely lost.
Fear not that I have lost my way,
been forced to veer on altered course
Or silenced by the sun parched lips
of hungry souls' unopened mouths
Just listen in the noiseless depths
and quietude of pools
To know the gentle silence there
preserves for all my hidden source.

Sea of Tranquility

I sang my chants
to storm swept seas
awash by time and tide.
And oftentimes my life
was left to breathe
a rotting stench,
until the pull of love
called forth the sea
again to wash away
all earthy sin.
Yet regret like
stagnant tidal pools
was left a dank reminder,
to soul aligned not
with the pull
and primal urge
of distant shores,
a call to being and
becoming heart
of clear reflection
in a tranquil sea.

Vine of the Soul

I knew a meadow where I grew wild and free.
That home now far and gone
Remains a longing and a cry within my heart.
These gardens where I now reside
Have no familiarity to me.

You say you found in me uniqueness
And a gentle loving way.
You chose me for the beauty of my flower,
My strength and versatility,
My gentleness of fragrance and of hue.

Yet when I came into your garden
You sought to prune and shape me to your needs.
You said I grew too wild.
And when you came to trim and shape me
I sought again the freedom of my soul.

That very strength once known to you as virtue
Not favoured in this garden
Became to you a stubborness of breed -
No longer grateful for your way
Of tendering upon me, nourishment and care.

My petals, beside roses of more striking colour
No longer treasured for their soft and subtle blush
Were fertilized and urged to manifest
The best that all the others could produce -
You said which only lacked development in me.

And even the gentle fragrance that you once so cherished
Was lost among seductive scents
Of others vying to be plucked.
The bees alone prevailed to taste
Its message faint upon the wind.

You will not find a market for me in this garden.
You will have no call to gather large bouquets of me
To fill the empty vases of those seeking something more.
They will not offer you their praise
For cultivating such a pale contender.

You will not find in those who walk this well worn path
A need for my unruly, tangled graces.
So place me gently back amid the meadows and the fields
Along the banks of running streams
Or climbing obstacles that nature tumbles in my path.

There you will see me bloom again
In ways my heart will nourish.
And those who gently walk the mountain way
Will value my unruly beauty.

They will not gather me to sell in shops
Where others fetch a heady price
They'll leave me free to drink the love
That nourishes my dream to grow
Uniquely and forever free.


Shards on rocky ground
And I can no longer make the pieces fit
As deeply dawns the grief in knowing
Desire to play the game is lost.
The vow now broken
Disappearing strands in cosmic dust
Free to bind again another promise
Before the quantum fall.
Are we sculpted in images formed from beyond
Or not unlike a cosmic attractor
Does the Bodhisattva call together only pieces
To hold the shape of emptiness.

father confessor

The breast that leaks no honey milk
Seeks to bring me solace
Upon a bosom of darkness
That I may be again denied
In the name of father, son
And wholly ghost.

Bestowing grace and in exchange
For all my carnal sin
Your arms in benediction
Convey upon me second hand acceptance
In patronizing gesture
Crossed with thinly veiled contempt.

I cannot offer up to you confession
For just beyond your curtain of illusion
I sit and touch those private parts
The ones you must deny
So that your power may exist without
My god that dwells within.


The whip is coiled.
Insidious yet innocent
its intent intact.
'I am the foundation'
upon whom the family reels.
The belt loosens
As illusion falls.
And hell unfurls itself
upon the darkening night.


Scents of peroxide tainted flesh
Stalk the panther woman
Until from deep within her loins
Desire cries to taste the flesh
Of the Madonna.
Content no more to walk the shadow
Her pelt of innate power shed
In one swift crossing leap she falls
Into awaiting flesh
Of media virgin, mother, whore.
To find contained in supple skin
And well tanned man made hide
No beauty nor divinity.
And sinks her teeth into the flesh
Of pseudo woman
To kill the manufactured beast.

Speaking in Tongues

Many were the evenings
Of my soul laid down to rest,
Craving the sweet elixir of surrender
Into the freedom of the darkness before dawn.
Yet one good night I did imagine hearing
In the single most beautiful language I have known,
A voice, an essence spoken in a foreign tongue
And uttered from unmoving lips,
That left my heart awakened in a thirst for dawn.

Into The Fire

You continue to suggest I slay you,
How then do you care to die.
Shall I entice you beyond ties that civilize
Into the wheeling of the galaxies,
In whisperings of invisible connection
For none to see nor possess the vision to hear.
Do I turn you around without precision
And in a quantum leap beyond undertaking
Launch you into the fire
Of a thousand burning stars.
Or do I extinguish the fire
To fan only a flame,
With breath enough to allow you to smolder
Until only your ashes remain.
How then do you care to die.


There is an odour to sin,
A sweet and sticky fragrance.
Im told it leaves a bitter taste,
Yet tongue across my mouth
Seeks lingering drops like nectar
Upon the parchment of my lips.
Dry not from retching indiscretion purged,
But thirsting
For another salty taste,
Another drop of holy water.


Why seek you to prove me wrong
And by your vain assumption
Call me unto trial
In your court of paradox.

That I may move beyond
The confines of your velocity
Need you condemn me to the materiality
Of your non monistic realm.

Must I relinquish then the boundaryless inside,
That in the breaking of your wave upon my shore
I may become defined and yet denied
And forced by solipsism to my self exiled demise.

Sacrificial Lambs

Our bloodletting done
What fate are we yet to assume
In sacrificial offering of our lives
Unto the death that serves to free
Your so called god from dust.
The pain of his disease weve borne
And worn in scarlet ribbons on our chest,
His cross that he may be denied
This godly sin of his creation.

His vengeance let it take not from us again
Our freedom from this god of punishment,
That we may walk once more within
The valley of the shadow of Your love.



And now I lay me
down to sleep,
as slippery fingers
of darkness slide
between the folds of night
and inverse thoughts
of you precipitate
a point of no return
And I am taken up,
and carried off
to no small demise,
before the soporific waft
of sweet forgetfulness
may then overcome
the inundating crest
of my desire for
the penetrating depths
of your return.


No longer she,
who She is not
as still the flagellating
battered wings against 
the cages of confinement.
The molt of feathered supplication
transforms the Nightingale,
as through the emptiness between 
the bars of self containment
She writhes emancipated,
the sinuous cosmic serpent
of helical return. 


 © Arlene Rees