esoteric poetry

The Dream Girl

It was the night before the moon shifted phases from old to new that I was visited by a girl, so beautiful, in a dream so vivid. I asked her who she was, and she answered in seven poems, accompanied by seven pictures. Each poem was of an unfathomable esoteric allure. Each photograph compelling like a Pre-Raphaelite painting. And when I had finished taking it all in, I felt like she had shown me her very soul. The core of her being. Her rights and wrongs. There, in that realm of unbridled fantasy, I loved her. And I could not help but create something similar to what she had shown me, here, in the world of the waking. Fitting together the little pieces of her I had left after waking up. Her art could never be approached, so this is merely an ode. To her. The dream girl.



“Soft. Ethereal. High above where the wind plays with messy hair and flusters cheeks a healthy apple-red. Innocence. Sometimes I disperse in blue to let the universe in unfiltered. It often hurts. But when I then return to that endless sky-meadow, I am so grateful. Always so grateful. Tears of joy stream over my face as I frolic among my kin. As if everything will turn out fine. As if every day could be the equinox of spring. I am that cloud, ephemeral. That lamb so vulnerable and small. But when I drift away in aether, I reify unwavering hope.”



“The mountain, the cottage, the skylight. The attic where a child hides to read ancient books in silence. She must have read a thousand. A thousand wondrous worlds. A thousand escapes from ours. I let in the sun whenever she feels darkened. To hug her warm with arms of amber. And when there blows a gentle zephyr, I let it seep through the cracks in my window. It stirs the dust and cobwebs that, with a little help from the daystar, shimmer a spectacle in sepia. It keeps her from being disenchanted. She lives in me and I protect her.”



“Imploding stars. Antimatter. Within my rib-cage, mother Titan inverts. Creation malforms into obliteration. A vacuum of nothingness. I am dead, and yet, I am less than dead. There’s no memory of me or who I was. I’ve turned into a shade of light-absorbing pain. Below my sternum all collapses. My diaphragm mimics the spiraling maw of the world-eater. I dare not move. I dare not touch. I dare not sleep with all this rage surging through my veins. Is this the real me? Stay away! I’m so afraid. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt again.”


Gaean healer

“My hands are soft. They ache to touch. I am moss, overgrowing the lifeless grey of ancient ruins. Returning what man robbed from nature to the grand cycle of symbiosis. Mine is the life abundant. I am made of root and earth. In my arms I cradle fledglings. And butterflies surround the flowery vines of my hair. My cheeks show streaks of sunny pollen. Painted by bumblebees clumsily bumping. I care. For the toad that hops on my head when it rains to croak. For the salamander and newt that hide in my coat. For fragile things. For life unconstrained.”


Star sower

“Mother moon birthed me. Primordial breath, exhaled. And I, within the dark of nil, exploded into being. Shimmering in brilliant chaos, a light-catcher. Intangible, incomprehensible. Yet I am. Small and grand. Traveling in limitless expansion, searching diamonds of life-giving evolution within the never-ending. I soar. My butterfly-net of sparkling mesh, a comet’s tail illumining the darkness. I’ve sewn each star caught on Nyx’s cloak. And when after aeons the earthen sky was finished, I left mother moon for space. Shaping brand-new constellations and nebulas. I catch and sow the brightly orbs, forever expanding the last frontier between veil and void.”


Atlantean wayfarer

“Water. Soothing weightlessness. I drift in dreams depicting crystal clear images of Antediluvian civilizations. Tranquil, I am. Yet ever flowing. Ever exploring the depths of our planet’s chalice. Diving into the deep blue cornucopia. Come. Come with me. Feel. The sensation of flying. Hear. The stillness only broken by the distant whale’s melancholic song. Don’t worry, we can breathe here. See? My cheeks are still touched by the vagabond blush. Flustered in wonder. Warm is my blood. Here, in the womb of creation. Where curiosity’s never sated. Where we, if we dive deeper, may dream the answer of our everlasting.”



“Connection. Heightened senses. Hands brushing in a passing by. Foretasting electrification. Hold mine and feel the sparks fly. Energy surging in undulating waves originating from our linking palms and interlacing fingers. Squeeze harder. Feel our heartbeats synchronizing. Pounding. Eagerness incarnates in the space between our atoms. Souls sparkle signs of life to prove their existence. Look into their pools. Pleading. Consume me. Fuse with me. I am the moan in your throat. The silvery thread of spit connecting our rawly kissed lips. The reaffirmation of a million lives simultaneously lived and unlived together. The emollience of the whole. The affection.”

26-3-2020, M.A. Tempels ©
Special thanks to @lorienfae​ (Star sower), @aubriestar​ (Sky-lamb, Apocalyptica, Atlantean wayfarer), and @undertheheart​ (Light-eye), who so generously offered their absolutely stunning photography to accompany these poems. Helping to create what I envisioned, dreaming.

Day-born dreams

Last night, I dreamt of you, but I didn’t
Think much of it.

It wasn’t one of those intricate dreams
Packed with symbolism; scenes, and
Conversations, conveying
Hidden meanings,
For me, the dreamer
To decipher.

There was no scenery; no surroundings,
Not even darkness existed in the dream.

There were solely pictures
Of you.

And the dream’s only purpose, I believe,
Was to simply say: Isn’t she

That you are.

Yet such is not enigmatic. Certainly it’s
No secret; it offered me no aha-erlebnis,
For if anything, I have always found you

It was a
Pleasant dream,
But of no significance.

At least, so I thought before my reentry
Within the tangible world.

Where reality,
After days of having been unkind to me,
At long last did immerge my existence
In oneiric esotericism.

There was the toad;
Messenger of spirit,
Who had greeted me at my doorstep.

There was the blossoming water lily that
At long last had emerged from
The murky pond’s depths.

There was the ladybird
That had landed on the nail of my thumb.

And those two butterflies of pristine white,
Fluttering ‘round each other in lemniscate.

It was one of those strange intricate days,
Packed with symbolism, and scenes
Conveying hidden meanings,
For me, the living, to

Yet it was also a day without conversation,
Until I, by these means of poetry,
Break the silence,

Leaving you a day-born dream to decipher.
You, the catalyst of all things magic
That exist to my knowledge.

26-6-2019, M.A. Tempels © “… as life turns beautiful.”


There’s too much      r  a  g  e      now,
boiling in the canister.
I let it all simmer
down to
some sort of reduction.
Essence of self, slathered
in the gaping maw of a gutted stomach.

How else am I gonna eat
these parts in me that want to kill?

The bridges bleed,
and I’ve grown weary of their wails;
        pillars crying under the weight
                               of every corpse
                                        I’ve yet to

When will I ever learn
to praise the scent of scorched earth?

                       I’ve waited too long
                            to cleanse these
                                    fields in ire.

Black turf
for many a lifetime’s aeons
and it won’t allow any cyclical rebirths,
so I’d rather 
disintegrate each atom;
crumple the sun and let my wrist drip golden.

This death will be the death of all, cherished
                and in the pierced earth
                            naught will grow
                                     nor bloom.

                                    I hear, ‘chicken stew’.
                                        I hear, 'consumed’.
And when
I finally sew up my gut
there will solely be a faint rumbling,
                   like the distant thunder,

                               the hunger.

How many times
do I have to claw my way
out of this soul soup you call heaven

to make you see my light is lightning;

the seconds.





27-5-2020, M.A. Tempels ©


A pair of alabaster hands wandered through my window last night.

I watched thumbs slide under the seam, lift glass from frame with

a rush of wind like a shush to a cry.

Our lifelines spun by hummingbirds, 

I watched how the hands

worked to keep them


I saw

our consciousness                 tinctured,

a measure pressed through a medicine dropper to be

                     set in the mouths of strangers, 

                     a quiet gift

so we might stay each other’s

like how snow knows rain, having

been it


One remembers there is something
drempt, being left on a distant shore
catacomb of reality sliced open
heart beating ancient relics
of spirit vibrating from cells
all swarming within

creature of self, made alive
in so much one sometimes argue
against self as though mirrors
could speak, in any voice including
ones, own. A silent vertebrae on
infinitesimal back, a breath lost
in a notion of time, sanctified
second hand faded dance
Continues on, these parts
of one self, hour paced by
squrrillings of mind minutes

measure an hour glass of sand
doom, dunes like back covers
another story living (as lived).

yet, in a library, one cannot recall
names, nor labels or thought
rather indifferent knowing breathe
in experience
breathe out star dust.

one can experience sheds on
a breeze undefininable regions,
a memory so precious that it
graces space seen, hearing echoes.

gift impressions, instant ashtack
to introspective, observer
veils eyes whilst giving cheat sheets
to a masked charade

walk lines between heaven and hell all waging within a mind that does not even really exist… except in moments one, breathe in two, breathing out, one.
Sun dancer

Within the inexplicable
Where answers are hinted;
Whispered, cryptic in a
Multi-dimensional maze
Of near tangible turning

Where every
Question answered
Explodes into a plethora
Of more, ever branching

An overgrowth of thorny vines,

You shine,
Descendant of Sun,
Your light mesmerizing;
Tearing a pathway of golden
To show what matters most
In our limited time
On Earth.

Holy water
Drips from your chin
In silvery rivulets of redemption.

I follow the river,

Longing to be
Quenched; silenced
By the truth that lies within
The time-shattering impact
Of your kiss.

16-7-2020, M.A. Tempels ©

Our ever undulation

The ever ongoing invisible wave
stretches through
all-time’s flow
and so
travels through
the children of stars;
through the meshes
of their atoms
in the dips and rises of low
and high resonation,
either energizing
or physically demanding;
soul nurturing
or bodily toiling
in the sequential demands
of human evolution wherein
body and mind struggle for dominance.

So, the world hurts and we hurt with it
at times when the heart
must learn to bleed,
and we open ourselves up
with arms spread wide,
welcoming the pain
to give it a place and grow beyond
our former effigies of selves, self-made;
our collection of atoms,
kept together by purpose.

It isn’t always easy
and we may curl up in a coil of misery,
yet in the end we’ll always stretch out
to meet the sun and greet it as an old friend.

We both experience this undulation,
and I recognize
each dip and each rise;
deep breaths before the plunge,
the calm and silence of sinking
to the cool and dark of the bottom
where we sit
and muster the strength
to take off and sky-rocket
toward the surface again; the flight –
that never lasts a lifetime, yet in those
soaring moments
we love from soul to soul,
and that’s why I cannot let go,
nor escape our ethereal bond,
for no matter
the physical distance between us
we follow this exact same pattern,
and in a state and place
where we are unbound by our fleshly cages,
we are already one.

It seems to me the eternity
as of yet still
beyond our temporality driven imagination
has already begun.

21-6-2020, M.A. Tempels © “… and if I’ve never said it, you are my sun.”

A poem about the spiritual fall, by an unknown esoteric poet (not my work):

You fell into the well of illusion

In seeking to quench the thirst of your spirit,

But never did you expect to swallow flames

Or become a flame yourself.

Your ashes you threw into the four winds,

For you wanted to become wind.

But never did you expect to lose yourself so easily,

A tempest lost in its own madness.

A wanderer amongst tombs and deserts,

You now speak in riddles and ghosts,

Preaching what you have once forgotten,

Preaching what you yourself once had.

In the memory of your spirit you recall

The happiness of a star and bright eternity,

Now shadowed by your own eclipse

And the tears of too much knowledge.

And having wept the tears of the spirit

You cry, “Naked I left that star in whom I was born,

"Naked do I wander among streets and ghosts.

"For little is there of spirit here, now that I am spirit.”

With new funeral stones you surround yourself,

Deaf to lamentations as to whispers.

Only with chisel and hammer do you dare

To pave the way to new resurrections.

For in the expectation of great dawns

You carve out your ivory stone of happiness.

“This is the pillar to my new god,” you say.

“For once he was dead, and now he is born.”

The essence

One dream…

Drags me
Back into
The realm of

I woke up
Without the virulent ache
Washing and sloshing
Within my body ad nauseam
For a good couple of minutes.

One dream…

I haven’t been to McDonald’s
In eight years,

Yet I remember fondly
How everything tasted better
In your presence.

We went out
To watch a movie
And though it might sound
Trivial to your ears
I was so grateful to remember
You liked Mr. Bean.

I was grateful a 
Little snippet of your personality,
Buried deep within me, surfaced.

One dream…

We held hands
And bumped
Into one another, walking,
Like we would,
Always stealing moments
To get closer.

Bliss was
So easily achieved.

Yet as the anxiety
Of your leaving kicked in,
Lacing the state of tranquility,
I knew reality would soon swindle
Its way back into the atmosphere.

One question…

The words oft change
But you never leave before you do
Strip me of all my wants and needs;
Desires and wishes, unfulfilled;
All I think is important;
All that has me

Till there remains
Only one answer;
One soul spoken higher truth.

One question…

One answer:


17-7-2020, M.A. Tempels ©


burst, an

arcane effervescent hum, 

bubbling vibration from

throat, from fingertips, the

         soles of feet arched over a volcanic 

         membrane: our inner

fruit, a fig in the skull, a pulp

         galvanic, forcing forth a

         fist that’s caught flame, clutched tender. close, your

grip of Prometheus’s spark.


The core, the crux of being
100% contented
is an ember, burning
just there, in the middle of my chest

lit by a pair of wanderer fingers,
roaming around my (country)side.

Sentience is implied by the cosmos

…a sonar pinging,
a strange unknown sonnet,
a quasar singing
to its brethren, scattered throughout

…reflecting in those irises of yours
and I am

a stargazer, contented.

© Anna S., 2020
Eidolon (6)

The valley’s path stretches onward.

I recall the crimson dusk
That made its steep mountain sides
Seem like great walls of fire.

                               Threatening, yet
            Awe-inspiring; a beauty that
Wraps itself around the heart, tightly.

Fingers that squeeze, only to loosen
             Their grip, harmonizing with
                               The natural beat.

      The tongue
                  Of the desiring unnatural.

It echoes
The presence
Of an intense closeness;
A piercing feeling that’s sorely missed
        When night finally settles in.

The starry veil soothes; the cooling air;
The lungs daring to breathe fully again.

Still, the valley’s path stretches onward;
Every step is accompanied
By a deeply-rooted

Each step a beat; each beat anamnestic.

Far behind, in steps to ever be retraced
Remains the city of the damned;
The tomb of the accursed.

She awaits.

 In halls of horrors, shunned as loveless,
             Where the truth lays mummified;
                         Eternalized in the notion
                                That every cradle is
                                           One lid short


And the tomb, never closed, is destined
To be revisited…

                                  Was it always so?

She awaits. Dead. Alive. Beyond touch.
                                 Yet from wherever,
Her message:

                             "Look above.“

                                              The stars 
                            Are so very

I remember.

    I could look
            At you

3-10-2019, M.A. Tempels © “… look above.”


Parched, your lips
are slightly parted
in anticipation,
awaiting the respite
from the drought —
                                         a liberation
                                                            by satiation;

wild are the eyes

A scintillating oblivion
yields its glow
to an elemental Vitruvian Man
etched upon the filaments
of aether —

                                       signifying an essence of being

Your fibers fibrillate
in cosmos,

an intergalactic sonar
by your heart, transmitting
to the receptacles
in mine —

                                       being wild in a starry

Reverberating throughout
space, you are a radiant


© Anna S., 2020