Saturday, November 11, 2017


Dark, distant images
indistinct, not a sign.
Or a sign of indecision,
others’ visions, or mine?
Silent, stagnant river
won’t reply to my tears.
Cold blood, frozen limbs

no longer carry on from here.  

Friday, November 10, 2017


Desperate to feel delightful, levity.
Weight of desolation keeps inner space,
outer demarcation, oppressive, deadly dark.
In sunless depths, shadows can not be seen for reasoning.
Icy breath, unable to penetrate, offer calm effects.
Longing reach for elation, elevation, spell of illumination

-- loving touch of smiling stars.

Thursday, November 9, 2017


Cosmic powers, inhale starlight, eternity.
Release mortality, from root to falling leaves.
Move out, above, beyond denial’s bond.
Visions of boundless darkness call, catch hold,
carry like song, an endless sonority.
Wrapped in skeins ecstatic and fine,

guided past destiny.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017


Wilderness encroaches, but not that natural friend. Cold, no encouragement for motion, loner’s frigid emptiness. how was a prison made of ambition to widen wisdom? Where went that golden prize promised to the bold? Old inspirations, imaginary wilds, heroic rambling tales of bravery betrayed – River runs ‘til dammed, then festers in its own demise. Ogres’ tale sold to deny extrication from stagnation.

Tuesday, November 7, 2017


Hold pattern sewn so deep within, rip to open. See, infection seethe, angry demon nest. Deathgrin infestation decades in screams destruction, roils, licks with pestilence. Breathe, smile to invite connection; tightly hold, rip out and close.

Monday, November 6, 2017


Dream dance surreal city stage, above skylights, twinkle eyes of play romance, swingtime love. To feel explosive-ecstatic alive, swirl, swoon, dive, with grace and awe. Twirl akimbo in free fall, no walls, no floor -- air embraces. Smiling Moon face beams in stasis, gleeful spirits dip and sway a’flight this enchanted night.

Sunday, November 5, 2017


War exhumes murder of that other you the bad wolf child who mother banned Banshee fled to far-flung lands seeking freakish friends, fiendish plans for revenge, memory enemies to stomp, squeeze, bleed. Where were you when she died inside you?

Saturday, November 4, 2017


Judging character by outward attributes: words for their letters, men for their skin, women for their pulchritude. Long, dark robe obscures; eyes fixed on mis-painted sky, false light of convenient ignorance. When he who decides is he who profits, packaging rules.

Thursday, November 2, 2017


Summing, coming to conclusion, studying illusion. wisp ghosts grasp without touch, lick viscous tears, slip, drift, dissolve. Obscured signposts, numb of cold insists: There! hope for succor, for warm reception – just a silly scare a sullied scar, a bully war, a stab of sorrow. Better sums tomorrow, less confusion ... more resolution. jupiter, saturn and pluto in circular reception Barefoot in the snow icy roads winds so strong I could not make you hear. I thought you were my destiny. Crazy thoughts, far from clear; but I believed song lyrics from Saturnine deities would not lie, leave me dying, fading into winter's grey drifting clouds, endless sorrow endured for naught. Lost on this careless corner, dreaming of oblivion, intent on visions like rain tapping against eternity's vast windowpane. Scenic serenity. Nature's gradations of green soothe tired eyes, trembling nerves, throbbing veins. Slivers of moonlight reflect in withered refrains, unearth secrets embedded in song effervescing through cool pure air cleansing the uprising nestling set aflame resurrected tempered mettle, pure, wise, tested engorged with the will to rise" astral vision Mystery mists of history holy crescent lightening sky Calm anticipation early pinks crescend from eerie violets Thunderous Jupiter twinkles like a happy kitten, tummy extends for adoration Omens, prophecy, hope for endless happy returns quests into/out of space/mind (without gravity, how can we fall ... or love?) Aching for stars, planets, dreams, silent assent that means all is promised I touch a cosmic peak breathless at such altitude Winter born, Saturn ruled, not a saint nor a fool, Capricorn. Discreet ascent into deeper truth. Saturn, an old friend in the way that long relation is often contentious, I have been seeing her as something of an employer, demanding with dour countenance her tasks to be done yet in some wee hours letting her hair down for quiet intense talks about what really matters. taking on colours Plutonic, ambient dark encrypted in the depths of Father Saturn as in in death (and the meta) Old enemy a friend in waiting -- teaching if I will but listen instead of running, silent screaming, beating my breast from within, re-breaking, re-breaking a heart so shattered, not to reset but to bleed and then, a whisper: "yes, reset, remember with new respect for who you have always been but feared to see" This ally silently screaming within my deepest heart, my darkest dreams "Listen, love and revere this wild child who laughs at whirlwinds and dances to life's changing, challenging melodies. Be free to sing along without inhibition or internalized mockery. This is our time, yours and mine, to be wonderfilled."? It Is Written I stand, open and defenseless, Waiting for Pluto to overpower me, Take me where he will, Suit me to his purpose. Or, is that my sister Hecate Coming to meet me, Coming to embrace me, To set me free? Wondrous are the ways of the shifty, glamour-ridden mind. We peek out through rainbow slits Onto a sinuous landscape. Slippery bits of meaning slither along Hissing out of forked tongue Oracular riddles. "Oh, yes, my love awaits me. In the tall grasses we will twain. Great fortune is to befall us. It is written." And rewritten, and rewritten On and on through the fever. Burning molecules, organic fuel, Dancing, wildly, within a fiery pentagram, Within channeled schematics, Ignited by a living passion. I am beyond words. Tumbling through shiny bubbles And iron-wrought hieroglyphs. There is nothing to depend on But pure will And the ability To suspend belief. Pluto Transit like a hurricane like a natural disaster wind and rain lay waste to my life. tossed, torn, left astray and a stranger in the way, or at least not accepted norm. a sad wastrel adrift in tempest’s storm. sing my wanderers' song tonight. let callous wind carry fading melody off onto gale whipped ports of call. my breath's been carried out to sea nothing left to become of me once the hurricane has passed into the day the foggy, rainy day . . . I gaze upon the ragged sea.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

forging a book of spells

Macabre danse, dark leaves in high wind. Swift time to ask that boon of wizardry, to recite or seize at magic’s will or mine. To speak, demand, one must first understand or stand under what’s to come from ignorance. Breathe leaf and wind, their essence; skillfully dream peace and blessings; dance lightly within the danse.

Saturday, October 28, 2017


Far sought, darkest, deepest dreams so far, long departed before consciousness rewakes ghosts, impure images, whispered wraiths may haunt beyond sensory acceptance vague nauseas, involuntary shakes, subtle odors suggesting graveyards in rain and mist and pain yet never really say where forward leads

Friday, October 27, 2017


darkening clarity, pixels come together posing form ghoulish, still sincerity, nightmares are potent dreams, after all night tells tales, whispers that scream raw from silence not easy to discern, discover truths of brutality or viscous lies here, in deep disparagement of violence, small stabbings take widening toll bloodlines reassemble, prophetic fingers tremble – see their glory, lightning bursts, cosmic debris

Saturday, September 23, 2017


It’s not the Gays, the Jews, the Whites, the Women, the Muslims, the Aliens --
it’s the people in power to whom influence and means are everything who destroy us.
And I understand:  the world is scary, full of uncontrollable danger, so many ways to die.
You want to control in every way you can.  You might even believe your goal is good,
a better existence for all who survive because survival demands only our best --
so of course by running the game you prove your ultimate worth (we get what we deserve).

Stories that speak to us through us

“Peggy and Peter go to the Moon.”
Renata and Rory go to the School.
The whole crew brainstorms, makes art for play
on the fumes of unformed stories, like robots undone
by entropy over millennia while a planet regrows from
the ravages of short-sighted men now self-extinct.

Conversations to listen in on.

Process assimilation
a simulation
for stimulating

inner interplay under Pisces Progression

“And ye harm none” – and if you can freely do what you will,
why would you take the bother to harm when you could be
playing your heart out, doing you with pleasure and grace?
We need to harm when we feel cast out or closed in by rules
that deny our nature in favor of ordering law.
Show a depraved monster, raging, foaming with poison,
twisted beyond belief.
I see your reflection.
The answer decodes the question
a higher order includes us all

kind of like jazz
"I can't stand that screeching; where is the melody?
This crazy music doesn't speak for or to me."
But listen:  and find that voice you so clearly hear,
that tells you all you've ever yearned to be told.
Poetry is not one (or even several) cryptic tone and form.
It is playing with language to say what everyday q and a
or mumbled dialog cannot hold.

Dixie denied democracy -- and still does..

Most people, sometimes good
sometimes not so,
getting through life as best we can
amidst social and biological

Embrace radically "conservative" leadership based on guilt and fear.

Problems belong to those with power
to implement change.
No power -- no problem; just pain.

Going through the motions
Doing as the program requires
Nothing left alive to reprogram, change
wiring, make use of the doing,
the motions ever going,
machines never knowing or complaining.

Relax, play
go with the flow
so in the future go-go-go
you know how to fall, glide, swim
but mostly float -- to enjoy the view.


Friday, September 1, 2017

race of humanity

whenever one ascribes to race what is really just ignorance and projection, one is perpetuating racism
all lives matter (or not, depending on your philosophy)
yes, I understand the desire of people who are suffering for a false dichotomy to want to be heard, acknowledged as suffering, healed by retributive justice
but you are perpetuating racism every time you do not take the opportunity to make clear that people acting badly is not about the race or the gender or the identity or the ethnicity or any other attribute of those acted against, but is entirely about the bad actors
"white supremacy" only exists because we honor it
people say shit/do shit all the time
we would do better to treat them as what they are:  undifferentiated bullies unworthy of honor
Stop telling us we are racist
There is no such thing as racism or sexism
These are only socially acceptable excuses for putting people in boxes marked "not me" into which to pour our self-loathing
I think it is counterproductive to attempt to instill guilt and inculcate an assumption of privilege based on race.  The real privilege is based on the conveniences of wealth.  Better that we instill a presumption of respect for all of us, that we may speak freely of our own experiences and work together for a world we can all be privileged to inhabit
“Because there isn’t that culture of collective care..."
instead we have many mini cultures of mutual dis-care
we seem to think it is so important to divide ourselves into interest groups without the eyes to see that it is in all of our best interest to care for each other
if All lives matter, if even only Blacklivesmatter (because we gotta get our material back from those slavers -- and what about today's slavers who don't limit by race? --) the important part of mattering is to matter to each other as fellow travelers on this mortal plain instead of pre-creating Hell through meanness, cruelty, indifference, war
concentrating on whiteness/blackness is focusing on problems, not possibilities
we each have limited energy/resources with which to make a difference in the world that matters to us
the world is moving too rapidly, too many moving parts, today for giving over our resources to recriminations
yes, understand that there has been a long political tradition of divisiveness, that a great many of us have been wounded (many killed) for reasons that have nothing to do with reason
but don't stay stagnated in blame
find real work that needs doing, that progresses our collective world viewed

Thursday, August 31, 2017

when the rains came

like a hurricane 

like a natural disaster 

wind and rain laying waste to my life. 

tossed, torn, left astray and a stranger 

in the way, or at least not the norm. 

a sad wastrel left adrift in the storm. 

sing my wanderers' song tonight. 

let the wind carry my fading melody 

off onto wind-whipped ports of call. 

my breath's been carried out to sea 

nothing left to become of me 

once the hurricane has passed into the day 

the foggy, rainy day . . . 
I gaze upon the ragged sea.
Rainstorm howls,
sends tidings, murky repentance and
beard for tears.
Savage rain tip-tapping
rhythms and blues.
Barrels for dipping, for ritual
washing, for tribal hydration, replenishment.
hunger, health, hygiene.  Sordid rain,
ashen water, terror, pain, diluted
Storm warnings advise caution.
Cover yer windows and blinds.
Hide in cellars and pray.
Find salvation in fearsome company.
Oh, Hell – give in!  Cave into slippery ground;
swallow and be swallowed.
The rains came, carried fortune to further shores
and supplicants. 
Long into unspoken tomorrows.
I’ve got rain.
No words.
No fancy maledictions.
Pounding drips against
my inner scream.
Out in the valley,
obscured by smoky haze,
gathering armies.
Bright polished armor.
Weaponry clean
beauteously shines,
stars behind dark clouds.
No roots to cling to.
Flood water rises,
drowns fire, air, ability to
speak of sorrow.
fall unevenly
through seeping valley.
Steady chilly rain of
irritations, builds into pools of
rage, a sea of tears.
Paddling, that old canoe splinters through.
Dreary, filthy floodwater, always needs bailing.
I am sore with life,
bruised, blood-stained, a sorry sight.
I cry out to Gaea’s strength, brutal acceptance.
My body aches to mend in healing
bend and release,
graceful hypnotic
undulation, deep breaths of puissant sea air.
Expanding horizon beckons. Waves of welcome
extend hand to hand,
beyond gravity. Fragrant allure of serene
ease.  Feel the moonlight,
gently embrace, then,
twirl me grandly into cosmic glee.
Exhilaration, peace beyond compassion,
beyond evidence of empty space between.
Ebb and flow.  Drought and tsunami.
Guiding beacon, or oncoming train.
The underworld is flooded; rotting
stench escalates to outrage.
We on the surface busily scramble
to survive.  In this torrent of madness
float keys to magical caverns beneath ocean swells.
It is a fine era for purveyors of diving gear
and we with will to learn
new methods of breathing.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

health policy options

The reason most of us even bother with health insurance is that we assume our human bodies will not be forever healthy, that there are diseases that could left to their own devices kill us.
If people whose bodies are already not healthy cannot readily afford health insurance, there is really no reason to have it at all because basically it is not a service but a con -- you only are entitled to the benefits while you don't need them.
What is needed is to bypass all the politics and develop healthcare affordability for everyone -- perhaps better insurance options (I think a Medicare buy-in option could easily get the health insurance industry looking at better ways to serve their customers), better treatment options, many more healthcare professionals (trained in whole patient care, in active listening, in looking for the most practical options for their customers), community healthcare centers with sliding scale fees, and generally thinking these issues through without being tied to what hasn't been working.
If we really want immediate relief, and not an ongoing bipartisan debacle on national healthcare insurance coverage, why not legislate a simple Medicare buy-in for all option, sliding scale based on income, continue payroll tax but without a cut-off and at a lower rate to keep the buy-in cost low; those without means for any buy-in get government subsidy. Private insurers who want to continue in that business can give better service/coverage beyond Medicare or whatever they think the customers will buy from them with whatever conditions they choose.
Since the Medicare infrastructure is already in place, it could more quickly and easily work than a whole new scheme. This scheme could be a job booster by putting more money into low income pockets (people most likely to spend) and giving small business a break from the drag of providing healthcare. Medicare would have even more volume for cost-cutting clout and a greater income stream to stay solvent.
Still, we must continue to work on the underlying problem of high medical cost: seriously look at best practices both medically and fiscally and better promote what works, including treatments that are considered nontraditional in this culture; expand access to medical education (on all levels, not just MDs); expand efforts to educate the public generally on positive health practices and self-treatment options.
The true conservative solution would be to encourage massive entrance into the healthcare professions. Flood the country with drs, and real competition would kick in. In the meanwhile, having real competition for the healthcare insurance industry from the so-called public option (maybe a better name would help -- how about nonprofit option?) is in fact a free market conservative solution.

Saturday, August 19, 2017

eclipse mania

between the eclipses
with necessities of success
lost, adrift in prophecy
A confluence of ripples
scoops up objects of prophetic reclamation
(seen smaller in the glass-eye of science)
readies to set off more forceful expression
Elemental reaction
Metamagick metamorphoses
any body’s guess
Smooth glide out of cavernous hiding
into buoyant seas
Gala release to navigate (no hesitation) past history’s
sunken shore
— to explore, forward
— captivated, not captured
Fleet from soul to feet, swim enraptured
immersed in the only delightfully lighted path
Form flows with function
at last, riding unprismed waves
gracefully, recreated
as dance
before the eclipse
before the dawn
before we are given our missions,
sent forward in time
we must be ready
without map or guidebook to prepare
we must rise to the challenge
endure the patience to exercise
control over every capillary,
every synapse,
every atom of our being
it’s not in the believing, but
the seeing
a better world needs a new kind
of ware
be a ware
for peace, for change,
for consciousness
before the wake
Liminal Spaces
Twilight, the wee hours,
the dark of the moon
liminal spaces,
places where magic reigns,
crossroads, crises, cusps.
There is static on the radio.
A song
my voice was singing
taking flight to surround me,
the sound of music,
a comforter of down
to ease my soul.
I’ve been trying to define a taste,
a sense of bittersweet and salt.
I’ve been trying to find a trace
a footprint in the desert,
a sound, a scent,
a memory.
I’ve been trying to find a trace of me,
a piece to fit the puzzle,
my contribution to the grand design.
Seeking in the shadows,
the space between
myth and matter,
those places words
cannot define.
On those insubstantial plains
of myst and awe,
the stuff of dreams,
threshold of wonder,
creation begins.

The moon is blue and dreaming Cry all my children to sleep In conquest dreams we deem to rule In darkest halls we plot in torment In empty caverns we deify glory Dance, again, dance for freedom Dance my children to sober dreaming Of valor and honor and color and pain Dance and cry and strive again To hold a mass and state the Name Call forth my demons from sleep The songs of old and runes of yore The empty words we've learned to score The high and low and even Listen and you'll hear them moan It's dark and dirty here below The emptiness can drive you To a place you ought not go You'll die in horror screaming Cry all my children to sleep The moon is blue and so are you You'll hear its song so clearly And discount it all to dreams And when you wake, you'll wonder Why you're screaming Why you ache in places you can't feel Why your work and world don't seem so real Why the voices in your head are screaming And you'll count the phases of the moon And wander in the night without direction And keep a silent vigil in your secret heart And turn quickly round the corners, Lest someone see you And when the curse is cast, you'll hear it spoken Without bothering to look for the absent speaker And when the moon has turned its face To other dreamers You'll see a vision overpower the sky And answer . . . when you ask it "why?" The moon is blue and dreaming. Mushroom teacups sail in stardust withered laurels snap in dustwhirls tethered horsemen roam the skyways soldiered remnants hiss through brushwoods All is soon made clear.
Blind old seer, wizard, holy prophet
stumbling over rocky hillocks
toward the sun
beseeches, sings, ululates
opening passage, veils, gates
free to breathe, drink, be absorbed
London Bridge is burning, burning
The towers are struck and fallen down
With time and tide a'turning
What was lost may still be found
In a world of lads and lasses
Hale and strong, brave and true
Joined in singing,
Raise our glasses
And do as we must do
Red Dragon glorious
Rising to flame
Cleansed of tumbling towers,
poisonous pits,
no refuge
Caustic breath invigorates
Hard smoke billows out challenge
Burning gloriously
ember threads
seer's memory
Standing askew as the inexorable boot commands
squeezing out gems, polished and pure.
Paid in bread and circuses.
Bathed in raw entitlement
dreaming of ravaging, raping at will
drinking bright blood doped with
ecstatic thrill
casting lot that promised reward
be assured.
Cold, this world.
Shadow sans Sun.
Listless lapping at sparkling carbonation.
Sinking below matter and form
into terror stories;
taking warmth from smoldering coals.
As tomorrow continues today
your dissolving heart
dispersing pearls of wisdom.
With a word, the stranger gives a hand
An image stronger than the sound
Water falls upon the land
A smile peeks out from a frown
An eclipse returns dark to noon
As men's minds walk upon the Moon
Sun and Moon embrace
as one
for brief eternity
all mystery within
Black and White
create gradation
radiate kinetic energy
We can achieve
believe, begin, begin, begin
Gardeners, planting flowers,
planting food,
planting souls in
nurturing soil
perceiving wounds
to be sewn
relieving loneliness
revealing pain
held in, denied
twisting ardent toil
admiring their wards
finding with them
questions, keys and doors;
realizing history is only destiny
when explorations cease;
invitations from space and time
come complete
with choices
A choir of voices
from softest spark
to fervent blaze
Troops of effervescent players
drums at dawn
Inspiration and instruction
carried forth through song and stage
vibrant murals painting onward age to age
Taking up the challenge of the tale
that twists, turns, meanders
providing kaleidoscopic opportunity
ever to begin again
Where’s the fun
in hiding in the eye
of the hurricane?
I want to be bodysurfing
the storm,
madly dancing in the rain,
cast off from restrictive form …
I want to taste sweet grapes
break crisply;
Embark on a journey of ecstasy
to be all I have
thought to be;
yet safely reside
in a place deep inside
away from the prying norm.
I want romance in the sense of
sensation inviting and free.
I want a chance to believe in magic.
And I want what I want to be
crazily in love with me.
Accept (I am as I am)
and flow
silvery sediment
Grand glowing Sun
eclipse on the river.
Caressed by satin water
hot and cold
element controlled, ever free.
River journeys
more sensual than air
more loquacious that Earth
more secure than fire
We can discover,
transmute along the river
never noticing how everything
has changed.
River run true rumination
murky, long flirtation with mysteries
we are born to yearn for.
Consummation may be our last reward.
When none (not even I) observe —
that’s always when it happens.
Feel safe, alone or in good
company. The river loves
in her own fashion.
Jump! Jittery. Nauseous claustrophobia . . .
l e t t i n g g o s l o o o w
Whoosh leap faster than my breath can catch me.
Dizzily, half-blinded, out of focus,
slant view along tree-strewn path.
Enchanted forest?
Smoke curling upward.
Gingerbread cottage in the woods.
Do I rest here, recoup my losses?
Savory soup simmers over tender hearth fire.
Shadow gloom occludes unswept corners.
Yet the center of the room
is surprisingly clean, radiant.
I sit, mantra embraced.
Nestled by magestic silk wings.
Outside winter is falling.
When I awaken from my trance
planting season will begin.
The wild rains of spring
have caught me napping.
They catch me up in torrents,
swing me along,
a cradle in the sea.
I descry mazes,
wondrous pageantry
woven into stellar stories.
Celestial spray anoints me.
I commence secret ceremony,
believing the Earth to be my home.
Purposeless circumstance
wears and weakens

eclipse’s focus

Saturday, August 12, 2017

eve of Hekate

Stars’ Crossing
Crossed roads, slowly swaying
entrance beads from day to night.
Slip in between to become
for that instant of eternity
dancing gypsy calling to
Moon, to storytelling stars.
Embrace that mystery, train tracking
adventure.  Breathe forgotten fields,
lush or shriveled, dependent on water
and feed.  Let go of all but one brave
hand solidly grasped to the doorway.
Let go; let fingers fall reaching.
Second Star to the Right
Traveling beyond Persephone’s garden
on the etheric threshold
‘tween mortality and death.
Taking an oblique path at the crossroads
onto an accessway
along the axis of bliss.
It’s not a road on which
the dramas fade.
It’s not about a numbing block
to pain.
Drama unfolds —
my chemistry responds exquisitely.
Touch is just touch;
sensation translates information.
All the appointed tasks,
routine errands of the everyday,
little pauses along the bliss path,
allow me to breathe the scent
of endless possibilities,
as path and consciousness expand
blissfully aware.
Liminal Spaces
Twilight, the wee hours,
the dark of the moon,
liminal spaces,
places where magic dwells,
crossroads, crises, cusps.
There is static on the radio.
A song
my voice was singing,
rhythm of sound
takes flight to surround me,
a comforter of down
to ease my soul.
I’ve been trying to define a taste,
a sense of bittersweet and salt.
I’ve been trying to find a trace
a footprint in the desert,
a sight, a scent,
a memory.
I’ve been trying to discern a trace of me,
a piece to fit the puzzle,
my contribution to the grand design.
Seeking in shadows,
the space between
myth and matter,
those places words
cannot define.
On those insubstantial plains
of myst and awe,
the stuff of dreams,
threshold of wonder,
creation is spawned.
Crossing the Threshold
At the crossroads at midnight
My lady did swear
That she must be alone
To face up to her demons
“Please understand that I must
be aware of just who I am
and where I’ve come from.”
I sat by the bridge
as she set forth her tools,
her sorcerer lore, her alchemic runes
So she’d know who to honor, to break
and to blame
What she’d been made for,
her journey, her truth.
At the crossroads, past midnight,
just before dawn
My lady thrice nodded and
stamped out her flames.
She beckoned I join her out on the meadow
to kiss and rejoice
and reveal our true names.
Cross Purpose
At hours’ crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, scathe,
irradiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Wrested from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter.
“I could bite off that little thing — make
you squat to pee.”
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
“We’re right.  They are inherently wrong.”
“Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride.”
Against our better fate, sad race divides
along strict lines, by difference
nature devised to spawn us strong.
Simple acceptance.
The dancer with the dance
entering pre-dawn mystery.
Quiet interval, enchanting music.
Undulating reverie.
Alone in Hekate’s garden,
breathing in memory
of jasmine and spice.
Weary roads traveled
crossroad to crossroad;
the journey continues.
Weary days have found sustenance
in secreted hovels, dimestore romance.
Convoluted talk, empty gestures,
soul-less ritual
take up the stitches of time.
Some brave midnight,
if I learn my lessons well,
I will eat the fruits of Hekate’s garden,
dancing in piquant reverie,
leaving my tears and anguish
along the windswept trail.
Ebullient music
dances me
as the Goddess kisses
my tearstains into
Degree of my natal Hekate —
a liminal year for the dweller
on the threshold.
The search is for clarity,
expanding borders, introducing
elasticity as integral character.
To see, to feel, to merge and undulate
through; to discover, uncover, swim
in the glory of original grace,
ecstatic beauty.
To see, to feel, to breathe in
all exquisite luxury of prescience; to hold,
transmit as cellular energy.
To paint upon translucent canvas
subliminal etchings, private symbols 
generously revealed.
Sagacity gifted, re-gifted,
planted in potent fertility
of visions, of cantations.
The tinsel of starlight;
the subtle scent of conflagrated pain;
the feather touch of eternity.
I fall into velvet voice, enchanting form.
Move with the rhythm;
caressed within word and worlds’

Eve of Hecate

As we approach the 13th of August
celebration of the Dark Moon Goddess
under shining Moonlight,
Faery Queen or fabled harlot
stirs potent night blooms, expelling myths of
what we cannot bear, cannot overcome
Feel in the electric falling starlight
Spells of renewal, of power to look back
upon our falterings, to find the seed now grown
yet changing still and ever, able,
willing, co-creating in the illuminated shadow
invoking the peace of dissolving twilight
of midnight's hopeful resurrection
of the hinting flame that lightens before the dawn
take peace into each breath, each incantation
from the strength to align impeccably
with your deepest truth
The transition to the transformation of death is a different kind of birth. Hecate would understand, the Goddess of birth and death and the spaces between, thresholds, doorways, crossroads, limbo. Goddess Hecate, I understand that I am in your realm for this duration, for this direction in which you are moving my consciousness. Bless me, Goddess. Give me your strength of purpose and will, serenity within the maelstrom. The future is one moment at a time. The time is always now. Who I am to become will amaze me, I’m sure.
Hekate Is My Cellar Door
I am in awe
I am prostrate in acceptance
of such power as you bestow to me
by incultation of your love
resounds in every fiber
I breathe you in
without resistance
My exhalation
is the stuff of bliss
Tell your sisters
to breathe with me.
I have been working with an inner image of Hecate, the underworld, ancient, self-empowered goddess of birth/death/life. As I am understanding, her lesson is about becoming one's true self, unafraid of social appropriation because not in need of permission to totally embrace one's own magick. To begin to find this inner core (unless, I suppose, one is lucky enough to have never lost it), one needs to go through, truly feel and accept, all the pain and miseries of one's life, to learn that these are not what life is about, not punishments, though sometimes warnings, but just an interpretation of what is. A very long time ago, on a cold and windy winter night, a friend told me: open up to the cold and feel it, don't resist -- it is really warm. On those nights when I remember and try it, it really is.
Hekate's Child

Child of Hekate,
sweetness and light?
Where is the mark
of your entombment?
Buried prematurely,
to strive for growth
in dark enclosure
striving for a breath
of the pompously negligent
of the blushing Moon
of the squabbling sons and daughters,
of daylight's pleasures.
Striving, tenderly
twisting around corners
aching for an unknown touch.

"Tell me, sir, then, how's it going now?"
Looking up narrowly from a tepid meal,
all at once remembering
playfellows on the schoolyard
running, out of breath,
filled with pride
a jolly good game.
Always someone begging
my attention,
but it wasn't really me,
just a story to steam off
or a butt to joke on.
All the silly give and take;
only time is taken
and that in big hungry chunks
of no tomorrows.

One long day
now the part all groggy
waking from fevered napping.
It wasn't supposed to be a tomb
nestled in Transylvanian bloodlines.
It was meant to be a child's cot,
freshly laundered cotton lace.
But the rats got in,
once the cats had been slaughtered.

Slowly wakening
I strive again to find my footing.
Learning to walk
was never as easy
as forgetting to fly.
Caught up in my Hecate role,
I feel the power of my soul.
Rain and wind and ice and snow
I feel you all from here below,
and revel in elemental energy.
I am the wind, the seas, the fire
I am all will and all desire.
It is me you love, and me you hate —
I am the master of your fate.
Yet I am hidden from all sight,
beyond the reach or need of light.
I have found my peace,
my place, my voice.
Take heed, O’ mortal,
create your choice.
Create it every day.