Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
Fragrant peony intermittently perfume my senses,
From those blooms set in a vase by my grandmother’s portrait,
The scent pulls me,
mind and body back to the reality
That presently exists:
My grandparents,
all 4,
have passed on,
To the other side;
And yet the viel between us
is so very thin,
In moments when I smell the peonies again,
Profound fragrance
Of flowers planted
by my mother’s mother,
Her spirit leads the others to,
and me to them,
To feel them
Still,
In the space between.
You,
Something happened to you
That you don’t want to touch
Don’t want to ponder,
Because it hurt.
The wound memory remains;
A scar,
Tender,
Real,
Still part of you,
Be tempted to feel it,
This reshaped you,
To know
And accept that the past happened,
And you are not who you were before
You were injured,
But you are so much more,
You are a living work of art
a soul vessel
Being modeled and molded still,
Your cracks repaired with healing gold,
And
Your light glows through
Where that won’t hold;
Beautiful
As you are.
I am artwork;
We all are.
We are tattooed and pinned
Adorned, pierced, and sculpted vessels
These forms made to reflect
To show the others
The unique glow that we can each feel
That burns from the core,
That peeks out through eyes
Nose, mouth, pores…
Filtering out the contained light;
For our bodies are but glorious lamps
For the starlight
Our selves,
Our spirits,
Our souls are.
Give, give
Give of your soul,
Give in pieces,
Not the whole,
Don’t lose the essence,
The objective
The source,
Some will take, take,
Take without question
Don’t lose yourself
As you are giving
Give for others,
But forget not
You are living.
The mind’s eye knows
What the physical eye does not see,
It understands what the heart denies,
I laid a table with some trifles,
Momentary thoughts made visible,
Placed a bowl of stones,
So pretty,
Made candles glow,
Cinnamon sprig for scents so lovely,
I adorn and go,
But then return,
Something calls me to the setting,
This is my space,
What am I forgetting?
Charms of luck,
Of thoughtful teachers,
I’ve a space fit for a priestess,
I gaze upon the temple I’ve created,
And see myself reflected,
An image either I avoided,
Or could not see,
My naturistic heart,
At peace,
The mother womb,
Experienced with patience,
Has waited long for this realization,
Viewing this my altar,
I am more than I thought I was to be,
The title tastes like copper on my tongue,
Savory and forbidden,
I accept the honor be it bestowed,
In name I shall try on,
My ancestors are with me
Helping me to take the mantle,
To acknowledge their often fatal sacrifice,
For sacred craft,
From core realized,
I accept this name,
This gift,
Breathing out I speak it,
“Witch”.
As much as I find formation,
In the Ivory tower that surrounds me,
There is something missing,
Begging for completion in this equation,
It is a longing for familiar arms and body
For me to embrace,
And the comfort of love in the flesh
Made closer to my being,
It is a need for the very souls that drive me in my seeking,
It is an irony of needing to leave to find what is most needed
Is what was left behind,
I knew this already,
But it is the felt notion that brings this to brightest light,
In missing home.
She of Letters 