Some drums aren’t meant to be danced to~

My friends,
why do you beat down so
on this hard-baked surface of ordinary life?

Why do you fight so diligently
to repair cracks that would readily shelter the seeds
of your desires and dreams?

Slaves to the drum beat of progress,
you pound away at receptive soil, until
your dreams shatter on the adobe of the mundane,
desires roll down into silent, sterile despair.

My friends,
why do you beat down so
on this hard-baked surface of ordinary life?

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Beyond Rappaccini

I told you I was the witch.
I told you I was the wolf.

I cannot dumb it down any more for you.
Society has already made you~
an ignorant cow, stupidly chewing
the cud of media bullshit
in the putrid glow of your television screen.
(Your kind makes me want to scream.)

I would try to elucidate you,
but I have given up the habit of banging my head against society’s walls.

Instead…

I shall eat with you honey collected from the finest foxgloves and mandragora,
and grown in the garden you seek to Roundup and destroy.
My words always sweet to your kind, but dripping poison
to undermine you.

I shall perfume the air with salvia, wormwood, and myrrh.
My eyes watchful, waiting for you
to dip a drowsy nod & then I shall haunt your dreams
and turn your world inside out.

I shall feel the moist soil on my hands as I dig,
continuing to plant ivy to climb your walls and pull them down.
I will tend the slender willow, smiling when her roots crack open your controlled pipelines
and release the wild waters across your barren landscape.

I shall continue to anoint my skin with hemlock,
belladonna, henbane, and wild rose;
With my touch alone, I shall send you to the wild mountain to dance with the devil
and pull civilization from your shrieking soul.

I am the witch.
I am the wolf.

If you continue to seek my company
I shall, like Beatrice, kill you
so that you are reborn,
fit to keep me company.

Forest for the Trees

“I don’t understand you.”

You might if you noticed.

“I don’t know why you (insert everything but the one thing you like here).”

I know you don’t, hide-bound in
your orthodoxy,
your dogma,
your conservatism,
your fear.

You see only one side of the umbrella of me turning a blind gaze upon me when I twirl~

dancing in the rain.

You see only my back – or worse,
only the footprints I leave when I wander through the unmapped forest~

There’s wolves there… and witches.
Which scares you the most?
You cannot grasp that I am both.

You want me to be just one thing.
You want me to be your version of me,
your vision of me sacrosanct in your imagining,
your security, your comfort, intact.

But,
you cannot force me to answer to one name,
one label,
for your convenience or safety, coward.

I am not a single flower, mother-fucker,
I’m the whole damn Garden.

Good Friday with the Saints of Heresy & the Sages of Blasphemy

I have an interesting relationship with Christianity~ and to be fair, it started before I was born. My mother was born into a mixed marriage. Her father was (Irish) Catholic and her mother was (Hungarian) Methodist. My father’s family was the opposite: (Irish) Catholic mother and (Hungarian) Methodist father. Needless to say, family get-togethers were entertaining.

For myself, from a young age, I noticed that the parishioners (of either religious flavour) were as sweet as could be to your face on Sunday, but wouldn’t piss up your arse on Monday if your kidneys were on fire. This always struck me as wrong — and I came to the conclusion that I was probably the only person in the congregation(s) actually listening to the words in red when they were read to the people.

I also was always drawn to the inherent esoteric mysticism within Gnostic Christianity — which was/is a big ‘no-no’ in the dogmatic structure of the church(es). Needless to say, I gave absolutely no fucks and continued my own spiritual explorations without the added benefit of the benedictions of either sect.

So here I am, sat at my table, eating baked haddock (seasoned with lemon grass, garlic, and a hint of red pepper) thinking about my mom and watching the sun set over a verdant line of trees that have ‘miraculously’ regreened after winter’s embrace.

I am not, as my children reminded me when we went shopping for fish, a good Christian, but I am a decent mystic. May the Mysteries reveal themselves to you this weekend, and may the blessings of Spring find you in good health.

Sunday

Suddenly able to stop. Stop struggling & trying to
Understand the deep fuel feeding the raging lake of anger boiling in me &
Not knowing that much of the attitude & mood is in turn influenced by the
Demands of my body preparing for its monthly shed ~ a mystery solved this morning when it
Arrived, along with dreams of overthrowing a dictator state, & I woke in the puddle of blood I created in a dream.
Yuck.

Drive by Goddess~

Twice daily, I drive by Mary — a perpetually bored and disappointed Madonna planted in the garden, her arms eternally extended in benediction to an increasingly oblivious humanity.

Some days, I drive by unheeding, caught up in the sleepy rush of pre-caffeinated working life… an ungrateful child, indeed.

Other days, I spy her, Goddess mantled in stellar blue, bridging the worlds:
Crescent moon cradling the earth at her feet with the serpent and its apple curled around lunar horns~
Arms extended, sharing the blessings of the solar realms with us all…
perpetually hoping that we eventually (re)kindle our own divine spark.

Change ~ or, on the occasion of spring’s impending arrival

I’m not sure what it is that I expected when the queen waved her hand, conjuring ~ or at least trying to ~ once more. For the on-lookers, thrill-seekers, & Lick-spittles to appear out of thin air?

Perhaps.

But I, the court jester, will continue to move in the shadows, weaving from pillar-to-post, dancing to my own inner songs.

Winter’s Hart~

Deep in the heart-wood that reaches upward to crown the sacred hill, Callieach’s white hart stamps the ground.

Antlered head cocks to one side as he listens to the birds speaking; sharing the best places to forage and the ones to avoid due to prowling cats and foxes seeking to put on winter fat. Once more the hart stamps the ground, steam rising from his nostrils to collect in clouds rising to crown his antlers. The conversation changes and he listens to wolves singing of winter winds and empty bellies; best to run and hunt lest winter stalk them later.

He nods in assent and his breath curls more around each point on his head. He bows his head to the ground under the growing weight. So he stands, waiting — impatiently — for the Queen of winter to gather his breath on her staff and spin out the snow-heavy clouds of winter.

Into the Long Dark~

My mother is dying.

In this season of plastic trees and LED lights artificially keeping the darkness at bay, I am turning more to the long dark that precedes the winter Solstice. I’ve known that my mother, like the sun, is journeying into this darkness since Thanksgiving. I also know, that unlike the sun, she will not pause before turning back to make the long walk into summer. Weekly, she is fading before my eyes, and in the dark small hours of the night, I silently pray to whatever powers of mercy and compassion that there may be, that she just closes her eyes soon to this cold world and slips peacefully away into the West.

But, I am still her child. Both my heart and head periodically go into dread denial of this fading, and the soft greys of winter become bleak. In those times, I look more often at photographs of Newgrange and Dowth on the winter Solstice. The people who built those passage tombs are my Ancestors. Their wisdom is in my blood, and when I see these photographs, I can hear inside myself their silent and ancient messages of hope. The spirit is eternal. The sun returns even when our loved ones do not. The sun carries them to the lands of the Blessed, and tells us that one day, she will carry our spirits too.

My mother is journeying into the long dark, but she will not reside there long… she, too, will pass beyond it and dwell on silver shores with her mother and father, and their mothers and fathers before them.

For the time that I remain behind, at the winter Solstice, I will sit in darkness illuminated by white lights on my tree and tell her stories as each ornament catches my eye.