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.


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.


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