Silk-spun hermitage

I have cocooned myself this summer~
wrapped myself away from the daily chaos modern life bombards us with;
wrapped myself away with silk-soft strands of animal wisdom around me.

I learned from my dog to play with abandon;
to bark & howl with sheer joy a moving body brings;
to wag my tail & invite others to play – without shame or judgement – & share this exuberance of life.

I learned from my cats it is okay to walk away when I am done;
to nap without excuse & to do nothing with serene & regal grace;
to blink my eyes slowly in the face of ‘should be doing(s)’, stretch languidly & reply that I am doing nothing but being.

I have cocooned myself away this summer.
I shall not break free – that struggle is for the butterfly & not me.
I wish to expand this cocoon of earned wisdom & find others of like mind.
Together, we can create the world I long to Be in.

Advertisements

Flash 55 ~ Ghost towns

Human vision
creative dreams
ideas made real
triumph of man supreme.
Beneath the surface not all as it seems~
solid shells
empty guts
architects’ vision turn to rust
fall to dust
Death has come, as it must.
Flesh has fled
blood is drained
restless spirits all that remain
Till Nature moves in
the land reclaimed.

~*~
This flash poem was written as part of the Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads Flash 55 Plus prompt.

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

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?

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.

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.

Sun on Dark Leaves

I walk amongst the thorns that I wear upon my brow.
I clothe myself in the spun-silk of white blossoms budding out on spiked branches and smile with purple juice from berries ripe-burst upon my lips.
I dream the shadows.
I walk in candle light down mirrored corridors, where I catch hidden glimpses of my soul — waiting — in the bridal chamber between heaven and hell.