Persephone to her Pluto

He bursts forth in flames of abandon His heart raw,
A bleeding wound barely staunched, packed with salt and sand,
Vulnerable yet strong he hands it to me,
The most fragile gift, delicate threads interwoven
In a design only we can contemplate,
A dance of Moon and Stars twisting in the night sky,
Our pulse one, breath joins breath, palm to palm,
East meets West, Dark and Light,
And we meld
As traveling Souls, a journey ancient and forbidden,
Persephone to her Pluto, Venus as Evening Star,
The helmet and the veil,
My heart contained in his chest,
My eyes mirrored in his eyes,
He devours me, a starving man - I pour out over him
Feeding his mad frenzy,
My dry Dionysus, sober and crazed,
His blood in my veins as he cries out my name and
We embrace, Soul to Soul, on the rocky edge of uncertainty,
Our fate our fate,
Cast in the past, as God wills it.


Dena L Moore
March 5, 2012

Our Flesh Encases Us

We could’ve talked, but we didn’t.
Our eyes spoke across centuries,
Deep recognition of…that something, somewhere
Timeless merging, a deep chasm,
And I fall into the mystery,
An urge to know and not know,
Yet…you call in the silence, clear and crisp,
Talons sunk deep into phantom flesh
Pulling, tugging, opening in inspiration where
Lips should touch (but haven’t),
Where minds should dance, emotions flowing
Freely from the depths of the past,
And I could touch you, not with words alone,
Where I could feel your heart beat against mine
And know, know purely, that this is what we are.
We are kindred spirits, One in Spirit,
Across time and space,
Above and below –
But our flesh encases us, separates us, and the past –
The past is the past and we are in the Now,
Apart,

If only my heart knew the difference.

Dena L Moore
May 31, 2011

A Blackened Room

Lightning strikes an empty sky
Piercing the darkness of you and I,
The call of the night, the shrouded light
Of an existence laid to rest
Yet rumbling, scratching at the chest.
Thunder born of discontent,
A half-faded farewell never meant -
Glass and wood, mud and mold,
A fresh-dug hole yawning bold,
Illuminated by the sudden flash
Striking open this wound, slice and slash.
This is the mood, a blackened room
Shifting with spirit, a moving tomb;
This is the storm, the rising flood,
A corpse left floating in bitter blood.

Dena L Moore
February 7, 2009

Water and Stone, Ice and Flame

It’s the clash of water on stone,
The mountain top bald and beckoning,
Waiting for the storm to take shape, to mold
The stark whiteness into dark echoes and ridges.

It’s the hiss of ice on flame,
The crackle and spark rising fiercely,
Forcing the solid into liquid form, drenching
It’s own source; extinguishing it’s heat.

It’s the essence of you and I,
Water and Stone,
Ice and Flame,
Urging and beckoning, guiding and shaping

One another, changing our essence as
We clash and spark,
As we hiss and flow together,
A waterfall of emotions flaring up


Then calming into a gentle bend
In the river, a slow-moving cascade gliding
Over ancient rock, the foundation shaping
The flow, soothing us as we carve new ridges


In one another’s life.


Dena L Moore
June 27, 2009

Hades Moon

I chose the path of The Hades Moon,
The rite of life and death.
I bit into the pomegranate
And cast my lot.
It was not from hunger
I tasted the fruit,
But out of obsession,
Out of compulsion for Him
Who rules the dark depths.
Queen of the Underworld I am
And I do not deny the title.
Persephone the witch, the prophetess,
The mystical doomsayer.
Paranoia and revenge are the underpinnings
Of my soul, the heights of passion my addiction,
The healing touch my transformation.
Above the crust, light shines forth
Waiting for the day I will rise up with my King,
My Hades, My Love, My Life.


Dena L. Moore
December 11, 2001

Entwined

Entwined

Tangled and twisted, a coil of shed skin,
Crushed petals caught in the vine
Thinly-veiled - smooth and pulsating -
     Vulnerable.
A pattern revealed in the dusk;
A bleeding heart swollen, exposing the crimson,
Bright on white, oh so bright,
Caught in the dance of drifting petals,
Moonbeam plucked one by one…


Two horns twist in a feral beauty –
To conquer, to glorify the rush of life as
It lifts…crushes…betrays…
White petals on red, floating down upon his back.
He lifts his head, nose to the wind.
The scent’s strong, rising up, the vine caught
Upon his horns, punctured and permeated,
Entwined.

Dena L Moore
July 1, 2010