Celestial Aeons Podcast - spoken word poetry with cinematic music

Celestial Aeons Podcast - spoken word poetry with cinematic music is a new podcast that focuses in combining spoken word poetry with cinematic music. It is very intricate and different experience from most of what you have experienced so far, as pure spoken word without music is so different than spoken word poetry with music. The poems contextualise the songs and vice versa, enhancing the experience for the listener.

Themes are often a bit melancholic and nostalgic, but always hopeful and inspiring.

You find the the podcast on Spotify via this link:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3dgzoeskJA7s40dpDD3A4n?si=14fd4a3ad41c4af4

https://open.spotify.com/show/783aIvYapQA5bLoV8wgC2W?si=88264b0e18f34bc

#podcast #spokenword #poetry




Grace
I.
She once was light, and laughed like rain
Upon the hills of Elenwain—
Where sun fell soft on golden wheat,
And joy rose simple, clean, and sweet.
She bore no crown, yet all who knew
Would say: She walks as morning dew—
Unspoiled, with eyes the color spring
Might give to skybirds on the wing.
II.
A man she loved with soul and bone,
He built with her a hearth, a home.
Their child—a daughter, fierce and fair,
With dandelions in her hair.
They sang, they slept in woven light,
They held the dark at bay each night.
And in that hour, the gods were kind—
Or blind to what they’d left behind.
III.
But sickness rides with quiet breath,
And love is not a shield from death.
The winds grew cold, the stars went still,
And silence settled on the hill.
The child was first to fade away—
A single cough, a single day.
He followed soon, as twilight fell,
Too tired to fight, too frail to dwell.
IV.
She screamed, but only mountains heard.
She prayed, but there came not a word.
She broke her hands on altar stone
And found no god would bring them home.
The house grew pale with dust and years,
A vessel for her saltless tears.
She wandered, hollowed, thinned by grief—
No myth, no song, no small relief.
V.
And yet—one dawn, with aching breath,
She stood where once she cursed their death.
A flower bloomed beside her feet,
Unbidden, small, and incomplete.
She did not smile, nor did she cry,
But raised her gaze into the sky.
Not seeking signs, nor seeking peace—
But letting all her seeking cease.
For grace is not a thing we claim,
Nor prayer, nor rite, nor holy name—
It lives where sorrow cannot speak,
And walks beside the bruised and weak.
It rises, pale, through shattered days—
A quiet, undeserving blaze.
And she, though torn and touched by flame,
Still whispered once her daughter's name.

Princess of the Woodland Realm
I.
In twilight grew the forest throne,
Where birches whispered dreams alone,
And soft beneath the silver bough,
A crownless maiden made her vow.
She sang not loud, nor laughed in light,
But mourned the stars beyond her night,
For time, that thief, had worn her grace—
And left no mirror of her face.

II.
She once walked veiled in woven green,
A shadow cast by silver sheen,
Where lilies bowed to let her pass,
And dusk would hush the meadow grass.
But on a crimson summer's tide,
A stranger came from realms outside—
A mortal, weather-worn and bold,
With eyes that held the sun’s own gold.
III.
He spoke not fair, nor sang like kings,
But bore the weight of broken things.
And in his gaze, she found no lie—
Just dust and death and dreams gone by.
He knelt not low, nor begged her hand,
But stood as still as ancient land.
And though her kin bade her beware,
She laid her sorrow in his care.
IV.
They danced where none could see them go,
By moonlit pools and firefly glow.
A year, a breath, a heartbeat passed—
Then horns of war blew cold and fast.
He went, she wept, the forest grieved,
For none who march in war are cleaved
From fate’s cruel page. No sword nor name
Returned to claim his love or shame.
V.
Now still she walks where willows lean,
A shade between the bark and green.
No mortal eye beholds her face,
For sorrow leaves no dwelling place.
She sings no more, her voice is dust,
Yet winds remember, as winds must.
For even stars are born to fall,
And even gods must heed the call.
What once was love, now silence keeps—
The world forgets, the forest weeps.
And so she stands, with gaze turned high,
Where branches cradle ash and sky—
A fleeting wisp, a whispered name,
Like all who pass through life's brief flame.



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Our playlists on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/michikawa