The Earth and Her Memories

Its been a couple busy months, but I’m back, with another gem from the vault.

 

These were the ancient days

She said in the shades

As her nerve endings reached up from the earth

They were broken, dead and in hibernation

In the cold November sky

And her memories were rife

With the smell of decay

And the blood she fed the hundreds of thousands

She swallowed up at the end of their lives

They walked her lands

These old people

These children of the earth

They lived and died in the cold brutality

Of the earliest hunting tribes

Whose very law was survival

As hers had always been.

Early warriors waged a war with the ghosts of their land,

Holographic forms from another time.

Even then,

Things the shaman knew not,

For its age was far beyond their own.

But hers was an ancient earth

When it was new,

And she showed me the visions of her memories

The memories of the trees

And of the water as it carved out

The trenches in the hills

The people of the red death,

Who left their mark upon the flesh of their enemies

Swallowed their souls

And poured their blood into the caverns of this landscape

Marking the graves in ochre.

 

Old tales speak of the need to bury the bones,

But what brother has done to brother

Is engulfed and forgotten,

By the swallowing and swelling of the earth,

Until only she remembers.


Shekinah the Muse

Inspiration is my beloved

She is my honey wine of the stars

And the well from which I drink

She is my first love, and comes before all others

To forsake her is to deny my birthright and soul

All the works I conjure and channel

Are called for her

And called by her

As she breathes them into me.


Anastasis

How far I have fallen

so sick of this wonder and terror

and longing for my brothers’ skills

at feeling nothing at all.

Searching for an off switch

but the days of spiritual robotics are long gone.

we’re wading in a pool of human emotion.

Its wild and terrible,

and so very real,

and burns brighter than the stars.


Astride the Tree

In our revelry

the great gods joined us,

Drank with us,

Laughed and cried with us.

In the hall and around the fire

our ancestors met,

in a circle filled with more than our bodies.

In a timeless and spaceless vacuum,

In ginnungagap we gathered

as its primordial realm overlapped Midgard.

Old friends and far travelers shared stories

and forged community

in the name of frith and goodwill,

And strangers parted as friends,

already thinking on the next chance

to become something greater than self,

Drawing mannaz

and thinking about the bonds of human love.


Recent publication

My work was recently accepted into another anthology.

Potnia: A Devotional Anthology in Honor of Demeter. edited by Rebecca Buchannan and Melitta Benu. Biblioteca Alexandrina. June 2014.


Memories and Revelries

Ages I have forgotten

like monoliths of glass turned to sand

not knowing if I can ever have simplicity

shining into my eyes

as golden as the morning sun.

I have raised soldiers and kings.

Raised them from the dust

into the starry heights

and watched them remake the heavens.

 

I have loved such men

and turned the mirror on their souls

to show them their worth.

For a good man is worth his weight

in virtue and grace.

 

I have dressed in satin

flowing with garlands of red and white.

Guiding the fates of man

for a cause no less than divine.

 

I have dressed in rags,

tattered and dissolute

to find the lost souls

who have fallen far from the heights

of the celestial palaces

where they were grown

to say goodbye and to bring some home.


A Letter to Our Sons

The deepest sadness washes over me.

My heart aches to witness your struggles,

but they will make you who you are.

And baby boy, you always learn things the hard way,

but you’re reaching the cusp of Orion,

and on the edge of manhood.

People will do for years,

what your closest kin are doing now.

They will buy other people’s lies.

They will believe and submit themselves,

and give up everything they are,

For the comforts of socialized slavery.

We are fighting a revolution,

every one of us, who decides

we will not be forced into coercion.

You will be called hateful things for your beliefs.

There will be no end to the vitriol,

So be strong,

Mon fils d’esprit,

and choose your battles wisely.

Your true mothers and fathers are always with you.


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 253 other followers