Happy Birthday Michelle, xoxo
We are made of subtleties bound together by mystery.
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.
open your eyes
open your eyes
cold war begins
open the sky
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
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.
Thank you Anne-Marie Scott for sharing this quote.
Things are calling
me away. My hair is
being pulled by the
I stand on a blanket of miracles. skin and spirit,
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.
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