Barry Van Asten Poems

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Resurrection Of The Butterfly

In kamikazic state and crisp,
Steered and wrenched from soft illusion;
Terrible, it's fragile, dust-blown shape
That carried it's fat world within -


In these nocturnal woods, my heart finds
The sacred light of a forgiving sun -
Her radiance through the wild boughs, winds
To the dark beauty of unending woman.

Telescope Dreaming

This eye-glass on Byzantine worlds
Of our own mythological fate,
Locked upon some distant star
Like Gullivers' gulping on dead space.

Spoon Bending

The house is empty and seems so cold;
Rooms are dying, winding down, all through,
Where childhood thumbled long ago.

Six Moons Of Abramelin

I am called:
The times of destruction,
By awaiting star-manifold seers.
The room lay in never-ending

Something Supernatural

At twilight, I imagine her as before,
Assembled from posted fragments, gathered
Into an alphabet of her ways and more,
Until the female form is covered -

Prunes And Parallelograms

To see beyond this veil of stuff
And glimpse the things that I once saw;
To feel the same strange formlessness
Weave its way and create once more.

Sonnet Vii

Should this veil between us ever part
To reveal love's course and astronomy,
Where the gentle ballad of womanhood
Sings soft and sweet within my heart;

The Veil Of Eden - Part 4

Part IV - The Blossom And The Sigh

From this holy place I go
Unto a wilderness unknown;

The Little House In The Woods

There was a man lived in a house
Made of graveyard bones!
'But bones decay: Why not use clay? '
A young girl said, 'and maybe sticks and stones? '

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