May 25, 2017

She was…

May 25, 2017

Truth can hurt…

May 25, 2017

Haunted House

May 25, 2017

Knock-knock –
who’s there? –
You Know Who –
You Know Who wh -!

No more fire-opal October light.

twist-tied to neglected dollar store
cobwebs – slow-decomposing leaf hammocks,
cradles of plastic skulls long ago
graves of fairy lights, paper hearts, sparklers, solstice-markers
now unglittery, lately unelectric –
one misfit roof tile acting alone might tear all decorations down
and toneless skeleton-tree operettas hound again.
Even in struck dumb snout and dusty ears cocked
spider handiwork.
Tell me again, how came we to live with candelabra antlers,
glass eyed mortuary beauty spellbinding
our hallway?
We never understood clocks,
so hung a head where the clock belonged.
Mama, did you deaden that deer? Distraction did, dear –
he crashed through the wall and just sleeps there. Till real suns rise
and shine him up come spring.

Miranda Field


May 25, 2017

I do have a seem
and you see it, there for you
to pull, a chrome zipper,
a hollow from belly to thigh,
large enough for your
puncture. Pull apart until
muscle, sinew and organ are
awake in your room. Woman,
with plump thumbs,
woman I’d fail for –
careful seamstress, you
stitch my selvage as it frays,
but do you know how
to be thread, spooled through
here in the center of my chest, or strings
interlocking throat to sternum,
or there is only a hole, barely
opening. Come soon,
my halves billow open, and
right there, pulsing
within reach, woman
with slender fingers –
hello, you needle in my sternum –
you know how ragged I’ve been,
and why I’ve always wanted
the sewing machine of your hands.

Jamaal May


May 24, 2017

Repetition of the sun climbing and a golden clementine.
Bend to a task, learn to unclothe a clementine.

He said, “Let me into your life so I might, in sweet
time, know you.” It begins: intimacy of a clementine.

Here I might stroll, then I might lounge, and dream.
There is meditation in contemplating a clementine.

My voice jittered, a near betrayal of my plan.
Could seduction lie in sections of a clementine?

With my own eyes I witnessed ice-chunks drifting
down the river. Thin membranes divide a clementine.

Around a piano tuned just right, the duo sang.
The refrain circled round a girl—darling Clementine.

Mainly a winter fruit, they disappear in spring.
Stay, Patricia says, and linger long, my lovely clementine.

Patricia Clark

A good weekend read

May 24, 2017

Art & Magic

May 24, 2017

The ritual space is the mindset, the cave of the heart and the way consciousness views all phenomena. Once we reset our way of viewing these things, the whole landscape shifts. Either nothing is sacred or it all is. This is the shift in perspective the Goddess wants to bring now to humanity, to reprogram our warped perspectives that have been instilled for aeons and separate mind from body, spirit from matter. The Goddess offers us an embodied spirituality, one where we can own and celebrate all our sensations as part of Her Divine palette, and begin to live own our bliss. It is our natural birthright and the ecstasy that flesh is heir to is our way of experiencing the Divine play of Goddesses and Gods. It is our way to touch the hem of paradise.

How these marvels got to be designated as shameful, sinful, and profane is a crime against nature and the ecstatic state of being. We have been trapped in a dense materiality by these precepts and robbed of our ability to touch the skies and live in a world of magic and unbridled potential. It’s time to reclaim our sovereignty and our right to divine resonance if we are to have a future in this Eden called earth. When I co-wrote and illustrated, with over 600 drawings, the Sexual Secrets, The Alchemy of Ecstasy in the late 1970s, it was with the intention of sharing an enlightened and liberated view of the field of eroticism and sexuality. I wanted to share my discovery and revelation of a well-established spiritual path, which was inclusive of all this rather than exclusive. It was such an amazing and freeing revelation for me, so I wanted to pass it on. My own inner intuitions now had context and community. I felt confirmed and connected and wanted others to know there was a path for them out of the imposed tunnels of guilt and shame. A shining path.

Penny Slinger
Interview with Zora Burden for The Wild Hunt

Forget Me Not
A curse full of regrets made with no regrets

• A poppet or representation of target
• A jar or container big enough to contain the poppet
• Rose petals
• Strips of paper
• A pen
• Candles

Pre-make poppet (this is a curse poppet so please make accordingly). On each strip of paper (and there should be a large amount) write “Forget me not.”

• Have all of your supplies on your workspace.
• If you usually cast a circle, do so now.
• Light however many candles you want to. They’re mainly for dramatic effect.
• Kiss the poppet (sweetly, if you can manage).
• Now place it into the container. With each line you say, place a strip of the paper you wrote on into the container with it.

Forget me not
Forget me never.
You will regret this mistake
Now and forever.
Cross me once.
Cross me twice.
Now that you have,
You’ll see I’m not so nice.
I whisper to you nothing sweet.
I whisper to you nothing kind.
But you’ll always remember me.
I shan’t fade with time.
You had me once.
You had my favour.
You threw me away.
Now not even the gods can help this be over.
Forget me not.
Forget me never.
You’ll remember me
And regret forever.

• Once this is done, close and seal the container. I recommend doing something like blowing the buried poppet one last kiss before doing so. It will never be opened again unless you want to break the curse.
• If you cast a circle, close it now.
• Put the container somewhere hidden or throw it away. I do not recommend breaking this curse.

Source here

Hyacinth Girl

May 23, 2017

From her mouth flow apple seeds &
hyacinth blossoms. Her long legs bow
when she climbs, maniacal –

to the treetops. To us, she is so
much longer up there. We fear her
rough fall and we beg her to return.

And she slinks down to earth
from her treetop, past cups of sweet tea
made from hyacinth leaves. She stops –

pressing her palms into the cool earth.
Her long fingers dig down.
Fingers that once fashioned clouds

to discs, words to poems, and pointed
us toward heaven. Her hands are shovels
that dig her way past normal into

the earth. Beneath us, she cannot feel
her fingers. She cuts them off, mantles
them under a tree’s roots. Her lungs fill

with chestnuts and autumn. We follow
handprints she left behind, deep
depressions of palms into soil. We beg

her to return, call her name in earth-coloured
whispers. She calls back & with each breath
a hyacinth blooms beneath our feet.

Laura E. Davis