Palettal Prose: Little Bird Insurgence

With a dishevelled ruffle and a backwards smile, she roused at the cognisance of her wings. Wasted seasons, manacled to the manipulative malcontent dictating her sensory self. At last muted by the primordial meditation of ancestors’ imprints. With a docile stirring she unleashed herself – psychically primed to transmutate the psyche. She knew – recalled here, in her stillest memory – her place in space.

A shrill insurgence of the keenest heart commanded her not-so-elusive shake off. Gasping a thunderous roar, intuitively she knew she was of this world – meant to sail poised above it – but naught again be ensnared by it.

Crone’s currents spewing secrets, so the little bird pledged a worldly immersion; submission to the splendors of creation and its cyclical intercepting inceptions.

Inclined to clear herself of the pebbled precipice and its associating ascending chance, she whistled herself off, strewn about the channelling chants of the northern gale.

~Sky Eyes

Little Bird Wants to Fly

Palettal Prose: Christopher Edwards- Astrology I


open your eyes
spirit child
open your eyes
cold war begins

open the sky
spill out
spirit child
bad moon rising
the eye of the wolf
kill kill kill


oh the land of the free
my melting blue heart
the flowers of time
blowing in the wind

creatures of lust
blood vomit shooting star
surrounded by surrender


came home from work
with a briefcase full of money
and a hungry belly

did you hear the news today?
an airplane went down
lost in some remote forest

killer whale costume
a sea of red
a sea of blood


the near bright future
i love you so much
i love you like i love no others
i love you like a thousand dead mothers

in tangerine summer
i have loved you like a sister
i will love you like a brother

the future is ours
ours to create
ours to destroy

~Christopher Edwards

Spirit is a Demanding Mistress

The entirety of my goose-bump covered body wants to believe in the cold, but this chill cannot be compensated by heat. My longing heart knows it’s not a frigid day that pursues me but the relentless spirit world, driving me to reveal myself. It is only when submerged in a scribble of expressions, the only way I truly know how to share myself, that my skin turns smooth again.

It’s impossible to ignore the driving madness of a force like this. Too long have I neglected my pen – blocked, battered, inspired and dwelling in an incapacitating inability to face my genuine veracity. Only a scroll, an index, and a thumb can begin to understand. I cannot stop. It has taken a sure fraught  millenia to start. My claim on this world is far less demanding than its on me.

These insistent angels and guides have had enough of my passive display of waiting. They cannot take another iota of excuse or the un-necessitated  revolving door that holds me in this cycle of repressed gifts and unclaimed prayers.

Exhausted by sight, I close my eyes to the uninterrupted runnel of consciousness that fastens me in the wake at night. In the shadows, my most precious manifestations lie. Daylight has become a mere fog in which I gratify the cloud cover and sickly winter light. It is in this darkness that my most radiant purpose lives. The lucidity that ensues, transforms fantasy to an immortal, attainable truth.

Palettal Prose: Blanket of Miracles

I stand on a blanket of miracles.                                  skin and spirit,

I drum.

I am strange stuff and dark magic:

broken bones and black feathers,                                I stand on my blanket of

chants, fire, wood and                                                    miracles

so many tears.                                                                   and dance, singing

Tears like drops of moonlight                                       I am

along an evergreen path.                                               the blood of my mothers,

I am soft kisses and slick touch,                                  dangerous knowledge,

heavy and round,                                                              fire and water and 

like my grandmother.                                                     salted bread.

I arch,

reciting fever prayers                                                       I come to this place

to old forest gods,                                                             to remember my beginning.

breathing the rhythm,                                                    I come to this place

and giving birth to the world                                        to honor my end.

Then I curl up

This is no spell.                                                                on my blanket of miracles,

I am deep memories and                                                exhausted,

lies long forgiven.                                                            to dream my daughters

With tongue and teeth,                                                  into being.

~Katharine Saunders, from We’Moon