Tangerine Sky

.
.

The sky turns orange
And begins to singe
On the fringe
I see that we are plunging
Through a tangerine sky
Lunging towards a ground we cannot see
But I expect our feet will find it soon
And as we travel our fingers slip apart
Yours are no longer intertwined with mine
But then I realise
That I am the one
The one falling like a fledging
I look back to the ledge
And see your hair your shoulder blades
And the steps you take
Away from the ledge
Now I’m falling fast and faster still

Yet I have never landed
I just keep on hovering
Hovering and choking
Hovering and choking
On orange mist

Jenna Grabey © 2013

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Free My Mind

 

Out of sight
Out of mind,
For a night
Or two bind

This with time,
Thus it’s true
Still all mime
Because you

Came then went
Without trace,
It’s not fate
Now your face

Lingers on
All cause I
Saw you,
No good-bye.

I don’t cry
I’m hoping
You’ll see me
And we’ll lie

As we did
Once again,
Now to rid
Of this pain

That is you,
I’m astute
Any route
I find you,

Out of sight
Leave my mind,
Day and night
Now unbind.

Jenna Grabey © 2011

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Inscrutable Instruments

Along the same vein as the previous post – A Dedication to Emilie Autumn’s ‘The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls’ – is this poem, Inscrutable Instruments. I wrote this a few years ago but have re-drafted, revised and edited it again over the Winter holiday. 

This time delicate Victorian lace
Replaces those daunting steel bars
How nice
Where are the mice?

Not in here! Not at the orthodontists!
Where my teeth pushed and pulled in every direction
The enamel left is only a fraction
From what was there before

Starring through the window
My gaze penetrating to the outside
In a vain attempt to refocus attention
From the damage I struggle to abide

Away from these inscrutable instruments
That look suitable only for violation
And yet this is my remission
To be scraped and reshaped

Ready for the next time
When the devices return
With yet higher prices
And no amount of remission will suffice

Jenna Grabey © 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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A Dedication to Emilie Autumn’s ‘The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls’

After reading Emilie Autumn’s semi-autobiography The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls which by the way I highly recommend although it is not easy to get hold of a copy. I thought I would post this poem which I wrote back in 2009 because it strongly relates to a poignant point Emilie makes. For those of you who have a copy of the book then the page that I am particularly referring to is 220. I hope you enjoy the poem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Psychology: If it’s so popular they why the stigma?
Mental Illness affects one in four people: Fact
.
You demonised me into being victim
Like I chose that- are you sick?
Just because the fromage I wouldn’t lick
And wanted to resemble a stick

Or to be violently sick
Left alone to be depressed
Though I had nothing to confess
Suicidal thoughts I caressed

All these years attempting to express how I feel
Shut down and shut up every time, by you
I would have told you till I was blue
In face if I thought you’d have listened

People, unlike you did listen
And act, support, didn’t “shut up”
I talked freely, drinking coffee,
With bars, on the window
I owe them my life.
The ability to laugh and not care
What anyone else may think
To be drunk and to be aware,
Emotion doesn’t mean, you need to see a shrink
It means you are alive, and living,
Interacting with everything around you

A slave, subjected to emotion
A victim of expression
Terrified of my reflection
Surrounded by oppression

I was sick.

All negative blood tests
That is always best.

Can’t see anything wrong
Just “come back if symptoms persist”.
Was ten years too long?
Were you waiting for rig-amortise?

In body, physically a child
In mind, psychologically a child
Listen to Blake as he whispers, Innocence
Epitomising youth in his assonance

Dry cries for help
Invaded 1999 to 2009
All without tears
Just pure anger and fears

I owe you my existence
My life belongs to me
Sick of submission
And a victim of emotion

Jenna Grabey © 2009

The image above is taken from the book. I do not own any rights over it only what is written above.

…Some species of orange sheep

 

 

People are strange
People are weird
People should not be orange
Orange and strange seem to rhyme
Yet I thought orange had no rhyme
It’s not supposed to have a rhyme

If a person is not strange
And if they are not weird
And worse still if they are orange
Then they are an orange canvas
Or some species of orange sheep
Neither can leap or have any possession to keep

People are strange
People are weird
You are seared
By an estranged beard*
But I am normal
Because I am abnormal and paranormal

Jenna Grabey 2012

*A person who diverts suspicion from someone

The Tale of Constance ~ A Broken Ballard

 

In the depths of the misty moor
Stands a castle from ancient lore
Shrouded by the tangible night
Stars hang emitting crystal light

Barn owls chase shrews and mice to kill
Across the rolling Exmoor hills
The castle built from local stone
Is enchanted with the winds’ moan

This castle has no space for time
It’s the elements greatest crime
Centuries pass all unknown
Yet see how the ivy has grown

Laying on the dungeons cold floor
A girl holds no key for the door
Thrown in there by her misery
Now she’ll cry till she finds the key

History of blood and bandages
Haunt her dreams at the fringes
In the tower a prince is found
Loneliness is what keeps him bound

To the castle, to the tower
Every single hour, tastes sour
His past wisps like the dusty wind
What he did – could it be a sin?

Constance knows the prince will save her
From the fearsome dragon, he’ll lure
The beast away, break the bars
And take her to see the stars

As hills become veiled in darkness,
Alluring music is played
On a grand piano by the prince,
This keeps the princess hoping

Every note played silences the pain from the chains
Which bind her wrists and fists
They are manacles for imprisonment,
The lock, a gaping hole, there lies

A fire, restricted, silenced
Chains of spears burn through her thoughts
Dissolution runs through her veins
Her logic has crumbled and cracked 

With the rising of many suns
She hears him on the cobbled steps
She weeps, must have slain the dragon.
Infatuation at first sight

Their bourbon eyes interlock
Transfixed.
Forgetting time, in time
Biting her lip she smiles

He breaks the bars, but he does not
Take her to see the stars
She sees the verity before her
A chilling beautiful monster

No eyes does his face hold
Or anything she ever knew
Just a frozen heart with ivory fangs
And a lurid face torn apart

She sees the awful reality
And hears the testing truth
Never again will she be chained
And never again she be pained

Her silk screams are in unison
Echoing from the high tower
The monster crying in the night
Finishes her off in a fright

Beating her to her bones
Till she falls with a thud
He wants to shred her more
But only to see more blood

Her skeleton, abandoned
On the floor that now wears her flesh
And death she now wears
As if in blessed matrimony

Constance died of a broken heart
Her melancholia is always
In the castle, every hour.
While that miscreant of Mother Nature

Winds along the dusty tunnel,
His thoughts flicker back to Constance
And his eyes turn misty in a howl,
For she is now an angels’ hymn

 

Jenna Grabey © 2011. All Rights Reserved.

 

the_tower_by_feral_dragon_art-d56xz0v

Mistletoe

Ice and snow cover the Earth,
Nature says, ‘stay at home
By the fire of the hearth
Now is not the time to roam.’

So on this frosty Yuletide eve,
We burn the Cailleach Nollaig*
And song and laughter we weave
In the light of the Christmas Hag.

We feast and drink sweet mead,
As we relish on the sacrificed Earth
Whose now in death but we know will seed
Once awakened into rebirth.

Under Druid blessed mistletoe
We kiss as the Sun begins to grow,
Because on the deepest, darkest night
We celebrate the rebirth of light!

*The burning of the Cailleach was the ceremonial burning of the Winter Solstice. A piece of wood was carved roughly into the shape of an Old Crone to represent the Spirit of Winter. This was then placed into a fire to burn. As people gathered to watch they would be mindful of the symbolism, that was the ending of all the bad things that had happened the previous year and a fresh start for the next one. “Nollaig” in Scottish is used to refer to Christmas. In Irish it means “December”. “Cailleach” refers to the prototypical Crone figure and thus the old wise woman in Gaelic.

Through A Druid’s Eyes

Through a Druids Eyes

Who would I be if I could not see the beauty before me?
And what would I be without truth?
How can I live without the moon?  The goddess that pulls the tide.
How can I live without the sun?  Where Lugh and Brigit reside.
Why live without the inspiration of bards?  They weave the world into language.
Why live without a love for nature – life?  Without this we only exist.
How can I live without the sky?  That forms the triad with sea and earth.
How can I live without the stars?  The Egyptians knew their worth.
Where would I be without trees?  Their language inscribed as Runes.
Where would I be without animals, my equals?  Watch the Shaman commune with the Racoon.
How can I live without justice with no malice?  Responsibility is our keystone.
How can I live without peace?  There would be no release.
And what would I be without those I cannot see?
Who would I be without history and my ancestry?  Where would I be?

© Jenna Leanne Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.
November 2010