'Volcanic' for International women Day. redux 2facebpook page016

This is a sister poem to one I wrote before or they might be darfts of the same poem I cant rememebr. You will see the fetus form of this poem oon my facebpook page but I have vastly improved it here with more adjectives and metphores. 

Go here for a similar poem that might be a bit the same in places.  Gaia poem or whatever it was called.

gifted twice over, amethyst, indingo 

with mauve oneness womanhood

and the poet's soul

sensory, sensitive, sensual,

I share with you

my soft silky softness

mother of pearl rainbow opalescents

but beware the egg of obsidian within

make it molten at your peril

I will fight you like a raving lioness

a multicoloured roarer borealis 

the constellation Leaena

mother to all things,

deflecting a popelectic nuclear bomb

the epitomy of maleness

in this man's, man's man's

folly of a world.

Part 2 written on International owmen's day 2011 for all the oppressed, women of the wold.

but I am fierce medusa fearless

unalone like sledge sister gorgons

hammer and hissing tongue 

with silvery, moonlit, siren song

smashing the cock sure rock hard ons

that rapier joust

raping our mother planet Gaia

spike spunking our drinks

polluting our water

with GHB, BP pumping hyperbole

WE

WE ARE MOLTEN STRONG

hot tit nourishing wisdom to the world

we are girls

let our stretched flesh unfurl

its love

as a mother shell yields a pearl

as polished as the most ecstatic clit

yet singular

not in a box set

bejewelled sex spurt

for what are we worth, mere trinkets,

like limpets?

[keep going - it gets even better soon]

or is this ne'er to be

BUT WE ARE SISTERS

not slash and burn misters

who quarry for blisters

and all that glisters that is not gold

for they are fools; there is no bling

shinier than when WE sing

our sirens' call

will see their male downfall

like a battlefield of dead Frank Spencers.

if not today

International day of women

then when

men?

[keep ging its not finished yet}

When will your passion for toil, oil, 

hats of tin foil

scorched mother soil, 

be done?

We shall rise, lava hot, like Surtsey,

breast like, thrusting, nourishing new life,

transitioning in our fast fashion

from the ocean spread, sea bed

like legs of  a labouring wench

waters break forth o'er Mariana Trench

WE DECREE

it will be

volcanic.

FOR WE

are international

women

of the world.

I am now a pop supertstar!!!!! Visit my bondcam and buy my records for 81p.

Aplogies as usuals for being absent for sucha a long time my wondrous friends. It is becamuse i have beem hypno regressed an i have foound out that i have been a musicina in a pst life and have while a way many an hour on a harspicod.

It is a wonder. You would be amazed how many famous pices of music that have been supposedly written by famous madmen in wigs were really written by there female wives, servants and wenches that were conned out of there talents. More on that another time, it will not happen to me because i have ciopyrwrited everything. However the big news is that I will be releasing a new album of spoken word / songs based on the poems that you have marvelled at in this blog dear readers.The album is called 'Helene Smithees' Greatest Hits!!' and will be avaailable in full when i have fiunished it, but for now you can listen to the debut track which is a reworking of my poem 'After the Solstice' first blogged here; .

so now without further ado i can reveal my debut album track, 'After the Solstice' - those of you who know me for being a wicked wit will notice that we are currently before the solstice tho the poem was written a few days after the sostice a few yeasr ago but dont be confused its just me being funny as usual. : )
WATCH IT NOW!

\you can also just ;isten if you are someone who has fits if you see flashy colours or if you are on drugs that give you eye fuzz. LISTENM NOW HERE - IT IS VERY SOOTHING> YOU CAN SHUT YOUR EYES TOO

POetry workshop : The sonnet

It was Shakespeare, the bards birthday the other day and coinciedntly the anniversary of his death. 

Obviously he didnt die on the day he was born because that would have made him a still born death and he wouldnt have written all those plays. Anyway, i was inspired by all of the chatter of Shaekespeare to introduce a new series of poetry workshops to this blog where I explore the nature and form of classic types of poetry where i can help you to imporve because i am an expert.

First some background information for the laymen,. William Shakespear was a famous poet (like me) and playwrite who lived in the medievil times when men wore tights, cod peieces and beards and when women werent allowed to be in plays becaiuse Oliver Cromwell was in charge. 

Oliver Cromwell writing a poem

Oliver Cromwell was like the Taliban at that time and banned fun. Because of this William Shakespear had to get boys to play the women rolls in his plays and sometimes there is mistaken identity where people think boys are girls and girls are boys and it all gets hilariously confusing but I forget the name of the play. (I do now its not Romeo and Juliet though I think there is a comedy vicar in that one like Derek Nimmo). This is where we got the idea for pantomimes in modern times, and drag acts too.,

(He looks a bit like a Marge Simpson from history doesnt he?)

A lot of what we know now in language, 

plays, writing and art is down to Willim Shakespear, so much so that some people think he was lots of different people. Some snobs want him to be someone posh from that time but I dont know whats all thats about. It's a bit like all that stuff about a fifth Beatle.

All of Shakespear's plays are written in rymes called sonnets. These are a type of poem that have strict rules that you MUST OBEY or they wont be a sonnet. 

I am a free spirit as you know and dont normally write like this. it is called form.

Here is teh structure of a sonnet.:

It has 12 lines to start with then another 2 at the end. the rymes and beats go like go like this:

one two one two one two one two one two

egg pie egg pie egg pie egg pie egg pie

red blue red blue red blue red blue red blue

bee fly bee fly bee fly bee fly bee fly

moon cup moon cup moon cup moon cup moon cup

wind chime wind chime wind chime wind chime wind chime

omg i am bored picturesActually i am quite bored with this now so yu will have to google how this works, but i will show you that i can write a sonnet and maybe you will understand what im on about.

Sonnet on the fallen maid by Helene Smithee

Oh highway man thou doth turn mine girl eye

And wet mine mouth then dare I say more parts

that tremble as your black mare gallops by

whence you have taken your wants from mine heart

Bereft I weep into mine robes of hemp

my thoughts alighting on a distant star

and you a strutting cock like Martin Kemp

the actor that I saw in visions far

What magick is this future that I see?

a pock marked murk pollutes my crystal ball

whatever shall become of poor wench me?

now I collude and bow to Satan's call

this hole will not be mended with one stitch

For  morrow doth see I burnt as a witch.

Phew that was hard work i dont think I'll bother doing that agin in a hurry. well done Shakespear He must have had a very patient mind and a speedy quill to write reams and reams like that. I cant be bothered, It blocks my chi.

Limericks for Jesus at Easter by Helene Smithee - work ing progress over the easter holiday.

 Im going to do some more in a bit so pop back later, like Jesus did on Easter Sunday

 if your just reading the first on that I wrote. Please add your own poemas and limericks for easter in the comments if your are artistic like i am. Thank you/.

Limerick number 1. 

 A young Jewish man who looked Swedish,

Once made the Romans quite peevish

so they did the snide

and had him crucifried

Although not everyone believes this. 

© Helene Smithee Easter 2014

 Limerick numer 2

 Good Friday was not quite so good

For Jesus when nailed to some wood

Now we eat fish thats fried

Because on Fried - day he died

and because fish arent 

 all covered in blood

(like Jesus was on the cross)

 © Helene Smithee Easter 2014

 

 This next one isnt a limerick but i am a creative soul and wont be nailed to any cross of regiment and rules i have to go with my flow.

happy birthday god bless you pictures Poem numvber 3

It's Easter weekend and so what we do

Is take a trip to B & Q

Because woodwork was Jesuses craft

that's why the nasty Romans laughed

and made him build his own cross from a kit

which made being crucifried even more shit.

poor Jesus. 

Does anyone know if POntius Pilate invented Pilates? If he did i might have to give up that genre of yoga because of its negative conitations.

 [some verse here by my protege E-Fluent}

On Easter Saturday there lied therein

in the tomb wrapped in some special linen

a loin cloth he'd bought in Turin

Was Jesus who died for our sin

and everyone was very sad

that Jesus had been killed by his Dad

who was also Jesus which sounds quite mad

But God works in mysterious ways like my i-pad

 (God inventing tablets)

and soon people would not trust their eyes

because instead of stinking and being covered with flies

Jesus Christ like a zombie would rise

which would be the most lovely surprise

to be continued....

The final ode of this poetry marathon fr  Easter comes again from my protege, young urbane poet E-Fluent. It is a great trubute thtank you E-Fluent for being part of this blog though I know you are indebted to me for discovering you and for all the guidance i have given you in your career. 

Rap For Jesus by E-Fluent

Hip hop and a hippety hay

Here's a rap for Easter Sun-day

Those Romans nailed J-sus thru his wrists and legs

so we can all celebrate eating cholcolate eggs.

A hip hop and a hippety hoo!

Hey Pontus, that was a mean thing to do

you tortured J-sus like a Spanish Inquisition

just to invent a new yoga position

why dint you show karmic peace and love

to our man J coz he's the son of the Gov (God)

A hip hop and hakuna Matata

thouse wounds were real cruel not fake stigmata 

(though stigmata it is a real thing)

After God Fried Day J-sus was unwell

they put him in a tomb where he started to smell

But our Lord JC wouldnt be forgotton 

he didnt let his corpse go all zombie-esque and rotten

Like some old take away chucked into a bin

after drying on the cross for our sin 

NO!

"I said NO Siree!"

and no Alas and Alack

Coz its Easter Sunday

And Jesus is back!!!!!!!!

Hooray!

(passio fruit - see what i did there.)

He is risen

like a souffley on Come Dine

Remember this dude turned water into wine

Yo! 

JC's feelin' fine

Rock it Jesus

Happy Christmas.

(I know its easter but Easter doesnt rhyme with Chrsitmas like Jesus does - E-Fluent)

Copyright E-Fluent 2014

Valentines Day 2014

I am in a hurry so here is a quick poem i have tried to make it into the shape of a heart or a vajazzle. but before that i send you all my love. here is a picture of some dolphins - they are tyhe abngles of the sea.

blaze the cat pictures

Valentines poem - a work in prgress. as any love truly is. So that is quite apt actually.

As King Arthur at                the battle of hastings
  or Steven Fry when         he was in heaven 17
     or Robin Hood             weraing green in
        the wood shooting at targets like the
           wide eyed pupil of mine lusting
              eyes or William Tell splitting
                apples as Issac Newton split
                  atoms using science for
                  making mead and cider
                      for the honeymoon
                        swoon and the beats
                               inside her
                                under the
                                     tree
                                   of
                                 love,

could you Adam and Eve it
that I would receive it
For I have been arrow struck by the beaty of you

OH BUGGER IT HASNT REALLY WORKED AND IVE GOT TO GO OUT NOW!!!!!

greek goddess pictures

Potrait of the poetess at a window as she writes

This is just a short poettry storm as i have just had coffee as a writing exercise. you never know when inspiration will strike and if, like me you, are a true artists you have to go where your creative beckons you to go, like a dandelion husk on the wond or a sticky bob on a cat's tale, or a special person chosen like Richard Dreyfuss to make mountains out of clay and venture forth into the u nknown with the space alans because you are a special prophet for the greys.

POtrait of the poetess at a window as she wrirtes

Throught the window, onto her damask, gossmaer alabster skin

the spidery dappling sunlight trickles through fading tree leaves

wisps of autumn light is patterning her pretty brow 

like a speckled mischeivous young trout 

winnowing through a babbling brook

her cheek bones are wise and thoughtful, 

and her pink lips moist with crisp ideas

words are her esential tools ;

she expressess, like breast milk,  

the craftwomans beauty of her existence 

through theire font dance quilling on the papyprus like old page

and in tune with Cleopatra, she too writes

of storm swollen loves past, in her own lifetime 

and previouos ones 

for she has jorneyed as many a woman, a figurehead bust

at the forefront of her ship

like chakrak Khan she is every woman and also none

she has never been a nun though

she is too passionate, too colourful an exotic butterly

besotted qwixsotic, erotic amazing Amazonain

her blood too spicy and hot - a wastrel to her cause

a sauce pot, a mexiocan dancer or serenina

twirling a light fantastic fire dance

maddened into a tangling of hair and a coughing up of yeasty phlegm

triffid like tendrils of Tarzans grip onto her helpless Jane

slain by the demon of jungle lust 

[ (readers dont read this bit) Note to me: find a way to come back to Yorkshire]

she has been on those moors and they have changed her... [end poem with elipstick coz its always good and add mystery]

{ i'll will have to come back to this because my noddles are ready]

Wierd ~Perceptions

This is not so much a proper blopgpost from me more of a freestyling riff of unkempt writing to get my creaive juices flowing but your feedback is welcome as everv. this is called weird percptions and is about distorted reality and whatever else comes out (ive not written it yet)

Wierd Perceptoins (poem)

wierd percetions round my unique, light worker brain
catching the electric orgasmeme
mother universe vibe
like a star burst weather vein
strange senations like opal fruits, space dust
 and lemonade
doesnt mean im going to insane
infitessimal incantations pumping through me - 
the ferric blood of gaseous planets
 all a swirl: a delerious dry ice disco 
on a super fast train
of this earth daughter's thought
and diurnal eternal astronsut 

wierd percetions what do these mystery messages mean?

a prphecy from the comos for this indigo conduit? 
things arent what they seem

weird perseptions.

 

 wierd perceptions and im not on transluscent drugs 

(unless you count ginsneg and echinashea)

so many mini micropscopic protoons 
and tiny helpless atoms we cant see

the indigo minutaei of truth is out there 

we must seek to find

lost as Altanis's Seahorse queen, 

but bubbling like a cross hair 

of an idea in our minds eye looker

our collective memory from when 

we were one ancient people, co-operating

building mud dwellings and sleeping in trees in swamps 

when we were onLY  A STONES THROW in years AWAY FROM BEING CLAY FIGURINES OURSELVES IN THE HANDS OF GOD'S

painting in cave walls with ochre and the blood of scarificial volunteers that are now mummy's

[Broken watches that were mysteriously fixed by Urie Gellar]

Weird perceptoins toss and swim 

like broken tailed sperm through my evervescent head
mad genius ideas, thwarted detstinations 
and confusion but the glorious truth shall be reborn
tho' corrupt dark forces of the CIA dost hide

their dark doings and evil dealings 

while spying in our minds.

but we shall cojoin our conscousness, 

fullfill our movement with  persistence

we know there are a thousand 

unreported Rossevelt incidents

we shall prove to the septics of area 41s existence

The government underestimates the force of our resistance

for we are at the helm

with help from other realms

weird percptoins. 

  copyright Helene Smithee 2013 
(a work in progress as we all are)