The Czarina’s Eulogy

They still write about us,

they don’t know why.

Our memories live on,

through their worlds and song,

Maybe they envied us,

our glory and our wealth,

Doubtful they may long for

our struggles and sacrifices.


They still talk about us,

in media and in revelry,

History only ever painted half of the story.

They still spend their lives,

in the search of what motivated us,

Our psychology, our politics, our mysteries,

and desire to be shocked and dismayed

When they think they’ve learned the truth.


But they still don’t know us.

They haven’t worn our shoes,

fought our battles,

bore our children.


In the context of history,

we were inspired by contemporaries,

Who shaped the times in which we lived.

We who lived in the golden age,

paved the road for the present world,

A world of iron and death.

Hence their preoccupation

with the palaces of painted gold,

and the resplendence of the high castle.


Sleep, the anesthetic
For the drowning pain that floods my senses
I spent so much time misty-eyed,
Hovering in the abyss,
Barely hanging on
And desperately searching for a hand
To pull me back over the edge of the cliff,
But there was none,
Just eyes, critical and terrified
To touch the wild, lucid flood
And a haphazard surgeon
With a laser trigger finger,
Ready and willing to make the necessary repairs.
In this world of flesh and emotion,
The only thing more frightening than a life devoid of human emotion
Is a life in excess of it.

This is why the stars shine

On the ever winding road
Walking the labyrinth
Whose twists and turns spiral again
And overlap the hardest lesson
The lesson I failed 17 years ago
Wisdom has taught me how to read faces and smell lies
And to beware the eyes of Men
Who value quantity over quality.
Silence teaches me how to listen.

For you whom the absolute value is what you squeeze out of others,
So long as they surrender everything they are,
For you whose highest goal is to reduce
Transmutation into enterprise,
And whose will is done only for profit,
Your ethic is compromised,

For you who will lead the flock, like lemmings,
Into the abbatoir,
Stumbling and feeling their way through every “black mountain”,
Showing them the way,
And irresponsible to your duty to clean your mess,
When they fall forward on the knives,
Horrified by their blood and shadow,
You promptly wash your hands,

For all of you who perform a disservice unto gods and men,
Stars will rise, burning brighter than a thousand suns,
Chariots aflame with the thousand-eyed,
guiding and nurturing sheep once taught that they bear the scarlet letter,
Who can show them the beauty of the darkness and the light,
And teach them to love themselves once more.

Saturday, the Psychopomp

We walk the silver mile on the shadow road,

me in my princess dress,

and you in your blues.

I am on point and on cue when I stand

in the fields where only the marble and granite grows.

The sun blazes across the middle world,

the faint head-turning of ghosts long forgotten,

as a pastor clasps his hands together and leads the congregation

in a few lines of chorus.

But I’m holding open the circle

and weaving together the spiral offerings to the underworld.

Here in this field of the dead, I know my place.

And rise gloriously in my own power.

Flowers for the dead become tokens for the living,

whose grief is eased by the sweet scent

of community and service.

Love flows triumphantly from the cup, chalice and cauldron

of the bloodstained earth.

The earth has been freshly dug,

and tears slowly run

Into the vast chasm of sadness,

as a child tries to understand the infinity of the eternal sleep.

Cast me to the winds

The silence of winters cold embrace,

shivers through my bones,

cuts diamonds from old stones,

and hangs them in the night sky.

Pieces of me,

pieces of my past remain,

waiting not for me to return;

For I never will.

Instead waiting to be treasured by others,

whose paths walk them to the same place.

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.