Etheric Shell

A cosmic release expelled 

as branches bloomed outward 

crimson on pale, 

clutching in gloom

the arc of your eyes, 

a touch like gold brushing

warmth on my soul 

like tiny petals dancing

past--in a breath of spring wind. 


This is the end.


The imprint of love

cooled the canvas of my

still life, flashing backwards 

through all the lights and darks 

scintilated by the blush 

of newborn stars 

blooming with the density

of souls mating in retreat

of the skies. 


Biting on the leash of death 

I knew again

every laugh, every lie 

sanity yielding to spiritual escape

memories sink like aimless ships 

in the gray asunder. 


Energy pulsed from everything, 

I noted from the sky line

of an Ambien and whisky haze-- 

our bookcase ghosting with

fables of voices...

Sylvia's soprano sorrows and

the elegy of Poe's

grand genius breezing

his broken keys, his mark of woes 

these tragic tales 

and gutted cycles

dripped from palms 

as I waited 


I noted from the great divide 


a vibrancy of colors I had no name for 

Microscopic lights bouncing

like aura's, not fading like mine

never before had I been so enchanted

by dust particles in the air 

collections of books, 

the manifestation of despair

lament snaked through a 

tangle of thoughts, bittered 

like age in the raw of my youth. 


The myriad of thread on the rug 

was quite fascinating, too 

an electric circus of threads

beat a dance of macabre

to the last pace of my heart... 


smells like tropic rain and amber

and old pennies; rust 

permeated the room, 

pooled around last letters 


my sense of self ascending

lifting like sunspots from the pages 

of a stationary life, over the din 

your voice crept like cancer

a shadow on the hemisphere

like potted plants, my membranes

rooted in you --it was in that space between that

monochromatic mum's popped into my head

all the pinks sung into memory; 

The ones I lay on your plot 

on numb Sunday afternoons...


Oh, in this great below 

I conjured the sound of music

a lost soul's lament; 

a heart

bleeding with mad cursive 

a heart, 

withered and gray like

a shivering rose, 

alone in the dark. 


Bones bleached pale by 

too many sunsets ,

here I am, 

awaiting furious angels 

to appear at my tomb. 

There I was, 

alabaster skin stained by 

liquid roses, 

sorry eyes that once adored you, 

vacated vitality

another of your silly prose's.

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Pungus's picture

It’s like a time trial

I'm sure you are already plenty aware, but when I see the dint of this drug-laden inspiration witch you yourself so extravagantly embedded as the force behind these astronomical words


How I do (its true) deem it such an otherworldly escape to better places and a Príma Pleasure, Princess, that otherwise would dematerialize due to the drastic limitations of a more mundane, sober perspective


So behold, here you interweave flippant, seamless, profound the beauty of what IS and that which only SEEMS LIKE A DREAM when really there is no never a between...

I never dreamed what it would be like

To cherish a creative son -Imagination

Cascade's picture

Thank you for gracing my page

Thank you for gracing my page with such a thought-full interpretation. Blessings to you, dear poet

patriciajj's picture

A new poem by you has a

A new poem by you has a magnetic force I cannot resist, and with a title like this one has, I'm hooked before I even begin. So where do I begin?


The first stanza, as in all your otherworldly essences of language, ignites every sense and taps into a wellspring of almost tangible emotions—feelings I can see, feel, touch "like tiny petals dancing/ past--in a breath of spring wind". And then you did something slick and virtuosic, a favorite device that acts like poetic nitroglycerin: you stopped short with a very brief one-line summary as stanza:


"This is the end."


And it got better and better from there, because your signature, contagious energy and your sly and contemplative descriptive powers always keep me locked in and savoring every line.  


The third stanza had me holding my breath in a state of meditative focus, and the payoff was enormous. I'm still unpacking, with great pleasure, that "imprint of love" that we can all identify with along with the wonderment of the last lines:


"blooming with the density

of souls mating in retreat

of the skies."


Oh yea.


And who can't relate to the deliciously pensive sadness here:


"Energy pulsed from everything,

I noted from the sky line

of an Ambien and whisky haze--

our bookcase ghosting with

fables of voices..."


You nailed it. And with spectral imagery, in stunning vaults of language, you nailed it again and again. I know my comments get rather verbose, but I just can't help myself. It's a pure pleasure to read, analyze and comment on your exceptional creations.


You did it again, fine poet.

Cascade's picture

My dear poetess, please

My dear poetess, please forgive my late response, my life has spiraled into a bit of hectic chaos lately and so my focus has been on other things. Thank you for this wonderful enthusiasm. You are one of my biggest inspirations. I look forward to your visits and your work revitalizes my desire to write. Much love and gratitude!

Starward's picture

This poem is classic---and

This poem is classic---and contains what, in my mind, is the most powerfully strategic combinations available in the English language:  strong imagery, and very active verbs.  This is not the kind of poem that an amateur, or a dillitante, could possibly write:  this is the work of a verbally skilled and well prepared Poet.  The first stanza, with that phrase "cosmic release" prepares us for the multiplicity of imagery and activity that has been choreographed so adroitly by this Poet.  I have been reading poetry for a half a century, as of last month, and I have read far too many poems that attempt to do what Cascade has done, and most of them fail miserably and, sometimes, laughably.

  I like allusive poems (Milton's stuff, and Eliot's The Waste Land are great examples of that), and Cascade's poem does not disappoint in that way either.  We have allusions to Sylvia Plath and Edgar Poe, and a very subtle allusion, further down, to Wallace Stevens' great poem, Sunday Morning.  This, again, demonstrates artistry:  a well informed Poet acknowledges their peers, particularly the very great ones, in just such a manner, and Cascade certainly does this also.

  As a significant Poem, this one works very well.  As an example to other Poets, especially those who may be starting on their journey, it is an example . . . a textbook example!!!

Enjoy effulgent days, and exquisite nights,

unto the exultations of Heaven.


Cascade's picture

Thank you for this very

Thank you for this very encouraging and uplifting review, dear poet. Your support means more than you know. Much love and gratitude!