River Tweed Bed

The train just passed and whispered your name as I lay in my river Tweed bed.
I keep wondering why you’re not here.
I see your smirk in the desk top mirror,
though I’m looking at my own reflection. I prefer your face.
Especially when it’s near mine.
I want to Velcro my parted lips to yours and not have to let go.
Shall we run away together someday?
Seize time and collect postcards from every place we feel those three overused words?

The triad bursts from my mouth like fireworks and I expect my tongue to burn.
But I just taste notes reminiscent of jasmine pearls.
I’m tea stained, soaking in your warm arpeggio of tears.
A shower of pelagic pleasure dissipates the fear that your embrace will one day disappear,
like dream-work condensation in a drought.

I’m blue tonight, though, because nothing seems enough.
I just want to hear you whisper my name as we float in a sea of tangled limbs.
Your hands in mine. My lost soul is seeking an unerring compass
to the path that bears to your deepest heart.
I am a flood of desire when it comes to you.
I often find romance hopeless, but I’m threading my lyrics of love to create for you a blanket.
It’s kind of ragged, but it will keep you warm.

When the train passes again I’ll be on it.
And when it sweetly sings your name I’ll hold my breath.
The tunnel will come and I’ll pray for a light at the end
That comes with dream drenched sleep.
The sight of your beautiful face.
Until then I’m in this beach house, listening to the crackling wind and Sufjan,
Curled up in my water woven words for you.
Let this love not unravel.

The rains are coming and that’s the time to breathe you in once again.
Upon the dark spring we'll lie in, together, until we float along Orion.
Those perennial three just may point us home.

Autumn Equinox

I am settling into a place that is intuitively my own. 

Under a sacred tree, leaves are observed dancing in the wind,

Shaken and released by a sudden change of season.

Immediately plastered to the ground, like the inevitable mosaic of a bittersweet symphony,

The leaves are still soaking up the healing warmth of the sun’s rays;

As am I. Like the fallen foliage, I have found myself in the dirt,

Trampled by a child trying to find his way in the dark.

We can all benefit from the light.

I have now experienced the darkest depths of my psyche

And I don’t want to go back.

I was so certain I would not make it out alive.

Fortunately, no matter how trampled I may appear and feel,

I am surrounded by growth—mushrooms, moss, and monarchs.

At the base of the magnificent tree, protecting me with its shade,

I will eventually meld into the mother’s dirt and commiserate with the unseen roots.

Together we will communicate the truth of the depths

And discover we cannot ever die. We simply let go.

A squirrely creature leaps my way unknowingly and begins to dig.

Pulling me out of the earth, this new companion suddenly carries me upwards to its home. My refuge. A nest resting on a sky rise branch,

Creating safety for its feathered friends.

I was once trampled, but now I am soaking in the energy of the setting sun.

A chorus of chirps and sighs burn through my veins to revitalize me with new 

Purpose—an indescribable energy that transcends my own.

From this new perspective, I am aware of the horizon.

I receive clarity that I will always be okay.

The Autumn Equinox is upon us. 

Light banishes darkness like a tender blanket on fire. 

And even when the radiant sun sets, there is a light to hold onto.

The pure orb of night that makes dreams possible.

The Lion and the Wolfe.

“It’s about looking inward and blooming outward. It’s about navigating the world as a woman, balancing strength and softness and connecting with the divine feminine. It’s an incantation and an offering… what do these songs stir in you? What do they help you remember? What do they awaken?”

-Chelsea Wolfe, regarding her new album Birth of Violence.

These illuminating words were sent to my email today, along with further information on Chelsea Wolfe’s new album. I recently listened to this, along with an album by a group I cannot recall, their cover art like a sky full of fractals, and the newly released album “Fear Inoculum” by Tool. This was an intense, ego-shattering event in honor of the September 13^th Full Moon.  Going in, I thought I would be compelled to write; instead, I died. The creative energy did not seek me out until today.

When I say I died I don’t mean it figuratively. My human self immediately desired the sweet relief I’ve believed death to be, but my soul wanted freedom and fought for the human experience to continue. My soul was in crisis- a void of nothingness. I tuned into the frequency of pain I feel in my dreams when the shadow man appears, then successfully kills me. A wrenching pain that I hardly know how to describe. A searing pain that crawls up my spine and can be felt prominently in my upper back, neck, and heart. I leaned into that feeling and stayed, not wanting to, but needing to. It fucking hurt and I thought I might never get out of it. Most of the music is a blur, lost in the moment, until Chelsea Wolfe’s lyrics filled the air like a huge sigh of relief.

After the more aggressive, masculine energy served by the first group (and then cemented by Tool’s percussion), the soft, haunting voice of Chelsea Wolfe emanating from the speakers took me back into my own body and brought me to the divine feminine- the place I want to be. Before that, I was gone, and death was surprisingly real and final. I must have sobbed from fear and pain for at least an hour, the entire time with my arms holding onto my fetal positioned body as tight as possible. I dared not let go.

“The lion and the wolf. Gnarling at eternal sleep. Let it burn. Hear it groan. Restrained desire. Cast it down. I cannot stop. I want to be all things. I’ve got to let it go. I want to be all things.”

These lyrics chill me to the bone. And in that moment, they were my refuge. The beginning of the song Be All Things states, “Walking the old path turned me towards death” That’s what I faced. I have tried to enter the realm of my shadow several times before, and in my own way have succeeded, but I was unaware of how deep I could now go. The man taking me through this experience, a figure of wisdom, safety, and love, was no longer that for me. This time he was a catalyst of chaos. My eyes burned looking upon him and I thought even just that action would surely kill me. I was in his fortress of Hell. He had tricked me and was getting what he’d wanted all along- to murder me.

“What the fuck, I’m truly dying right now?!” my soul cried out in anguish. “Please, no! I’m not ready to die. Why? How could you?!”

I was outraged, then sad and silenced. I let the overwhelm settle within me and suddenly the end came. Never again would I smell the fresh rain. I wouldn’t see the Full Moon gleaming through the tree branches; the sacred tree I always notice from outside the window, with its blue painted eye, always there, and always aware.

My love would forever burn alone.

I experienced four deaths.

First, immense pain in the dark underworld, an alluring cave of wonder alight with red candles, red velvet, and raging flames. The man was a spiteful liar, a vengeful leader, a demon or angel, like Lucifer, so radiant in appearance, but hateful in his presence.

Second, drowning, unlike ever before. There was no calm, peaceful release. He pushed me into the depths and held me there. I could not relax. I could not take it. The water stung my throat and chest.

“When anger turns to honey. In moments like this, I can understand you, for pain is the great connector.” Chelsea’s words ring through me as I write.

Third, death of feelings and emotions. I was reconstructed as a robotic figure—a metallic being distinguished by the inability to express myself. I was still my soul, but trapped, never to be an eccentric artist again. Surely that would lead to a death of the soul.

Fourth, complete silence. I no longer registered music. I would forever float in the void, nothing to see or hear, no experiences to be had. Time and space did not exist. That must have been when Tool nearly finished playing, after the stimulation of chimes, gongs, and sound bowls.

When I heard the rawness and warmth of Chelsea Wolfe’s voice, I experienced the joy of simply hearing and feeling again. I wrapped myself into a cocoon of safety with my own healing energy, ignited by the goddess, and comforted my fear with compassion and love. Divine feminine energy drove out some of the darkness, like a blue ribbon tying up loose ends. I was made whole, body and soul, and submitted to the strums of the guitar as I settled into my strengthened bones. My delicate skin. My home.

The words “I want to be all things” resonate in such a heart illuminating way. I can’t be everything. I am a woman and a daughter, but not a mother. I'm not ashamed, but sometimes society makes me feel as though I should be. I crave deep connection and vulnerability, but hesitate because it’s painful. I want to live expressively, but oftentimes I find it safer to pour my words into a secret jar that I keep hidden, even from myself. I hesitantly choose to lean back into the pain from earlier, once again searing, until an earth-shattering storm erupts. Thunder and lightning. I observe myself curled up in my own womb, fragile but safe, not yet cracked open. I can be that again. Just because I had to break does not mean I will stay broken. The divine goddess energy is a reminder that I am still alive and have more work to do. I’m strong enough for that.

The folk-like sound ends and shifts to a new sound and new voices; actually, not new, just different, and all too familiar. I hear: “Dark red. Light years. Brought near. Cold gone. I want to lie in.” Beach House, of course. This band's music seems to follow me. My body finally feels like my own again and I just lay on the padded floor, inspired to stay awake and just be. The man hands me a clear crystal to hold tightly in my right hand. The light from the still flickering candle hits the opalescent fragment perfectly to form hues of blue and yellow. Lemon glow. “The color of your mind” sings to me in a trance.

Time passes.

11:11 hits and I am still in a trance, pressed against my stomach, limbs stretched out. “I just want to take up space”, I think to myself, perhaps for the first time ever.

“Love is you”, whispers to me.

Eventually the strength to go outside came and I was not prepared for the emotion that would arise from seeing the Full Moon—a glowing orb of hope. Officially Friday the 13^th, the time of werewolves and spirits. The moon stared me down, and though I thought I might go blind, I could not look away. I stood in the middle of the street sobbing, the air inviting and healing, asking me to present my pain and then let go. A storm of emotions caught up to me and I became an expression of sorrow, then elation.

No longer undone, I took a deep breath, then released.

The Dark Mother

The clock strikes 4:00 a.m. and I can feel Death.

It sits beside me in silence.

I wonder what it’s thinking.

Though I dare not ask, for I fear the pain of it.

I dare not run, for in my weakened state,

I may fall, and Death shall not catch me.

I'm sure it will press its foot upon my head, bend down to meet my gaze,

Then blow my eyes shut with its numbing breath.

In its seething presence, I feel isolated and silenced.

A smoke infused breeze comes in through my window and gently pulls the white, 

lacy curtain away from the windowpane.

Alien lights, resembling an aurora, delicately remove the darkness 

exposed by the sage moon.

Blue and green shades blend together in a collaborative frenzy, 

like pastel charcoal masterfully drawn across the canvassed ceiling. 

An eruption of sunrise skies fills me with joy, and then a deeply stirred peace.

Death is my friend. My companion. My lover.

My sensei offering a critical lesson.

Death covets and honors me. And then, vanishes.

Now is not the time for us to embrace. I must not ignore timing’s pace.

So I acknowledge my dark companion’s truth. Death is not to be feared, nor asked for. 

I close my eyes and let the sounds of the wind fill my mind.

As though in a dream, my body starts to meld under a blanket of stars.

The wind becomes waves. Water in motion.

My metamorphosis from girl to sea, 

I’m suddenly flowing down, down, down, toward the undiscovered me. 

A grey beast stands near this aqueous, indigo rabbit hole, howling at the moon.

Death is a wolf; an opener of the underworld; an expression of the wild instinct, 

showing the way to creative healing.

I have seen these depths before. In the presence of Death,

I have experienced emotional and physical pain and release.   

By drowning in the waters of my faith and the blood of my ancestors, 

I have slowly risen to the surface to breathe in new life.

I feel the changing season ahead and a spark of inspiration.

The shadow returns.

I finally look Death in the eyes because no longer can I ignore it.

The site is grotesque and beautiful. I dare not look away.

The Death I sit with is the goddess of the Autumn Equinox.

She can be seen naked with three eyes and hair undone, 

framed by a crown as golden as the sun, blood dripping from her stuck out tongue.

She lifts up her right hand and forms her long fingers into a symbol.

The mudra for “fear not!”

Death is Kali. The Dark Mother. She is the womb of the universe.

She is Time itself.

A destructive force from whom purification and peace are possible.

She loves to create, just as she loves to kill.

Death is a divine paradox.

Now I ask Death what she is thinking with a tremor in my voice.

A soft whisper from her bloody lips tingles my skin, like the truest form of ASMR. 

“Your initiation is not over, for it has just begun. In order to understand life, you must first understand me. Put your ego to rest and pick up a pen. You are still a seed, my love, born to create. Drink more water and rise once again!”

Discovery Under Neith

I am in the process of determining who I am meant to be.

I wonder to what extent the result Is up to me.

When I take a deep breath I see a Banyan tree,

Aerial roots extending from Earth to sky, a star stained night, the moon’s light cast.

In order to understand and see, there is much that I must look past, 

Even more I must look within. A nuance of grey shades I mustn’t ignore. 

Another identity is reflected by my eyes, too often rejected and despised,

Drowned by an inner battle against self that God implores be spared,

A shadow coiled inside of me that I often dare not share. 

She is trying to break free. She is trying to thrive.

I’ve been dreaming about arachnophobia. 

Trapped by a web of thoughts, my senses are haunted by spiders. 

They lace my hair around my throat and discover home throughout my veins. 

I feel the spinners trickle down my spine

Like a broken faucet,

Thirsting for not quite human blood. 

I could be an alien. I’m crawling out from the mud.

When I dance alone in my room I instinctively move my lengthy limbs.

My arms and legs bend and twine in a furious trill,

A spiral maneuver, like octopus tentacles,

Forming a cephalopod sphere to make the outside world disappear. 

In my underwater freedom I unwind as I please 

Swimming in my own web woven tears, an unseemingly waltz, where comfort’s fear interferes no more.

As Sufjan composed curiosity pulses my ears,

I discover in my underworld an enchanted mirror,

The voice of Ascension upon me, I now look and see, ‘Tis my truest self reflected so that I can be free. 

A green skeletal mermaid with spider’s legs and the face of a deer, 

Goddess of Neith, her reflection both sinister and clear,

Her ancient mane of white waves flowing from beginning to end, ancient locks that frame her indigo irises, my own shadow’s mirrors unveil the pearl I’d dove to see, a widow living in a tree, with a web woven sense to mend.

A creative with such power, to no one would she cower,

This me from my past I never could show,

Undine now observed as both siren and doe.

My slow sensual integration I shall dare not let go.

A wake of unsought energy ensues as I make my way back

To the shoreline of home, where I wish to sit upon my totem’s throne. 

A sacred, sculpted symbol for my shadow’s impetuous, sodden soul.

I watch divine love patterned in all surrounding waters

And sense God’s eternal love for all of history’s and future’s daughters. 

I experience a sudden heat wave of golden fire.

As if with my lover enflamed by tantric desire.

My inner turmoil no longer aware,

My dance with shadow did cast out despair,

For my initiation with Undine and Neith committed yin and yang together,

A silver pair by God’s Grace, no awareness could be better.

The spider and eye have always been one 

To remain as our undying, holy sun, 

Who surely designed this path that is me.

Above, under, and inside, a thriving Banyan tree.

All of me all along in the soil. 

Upon this discovery I take another deep breath, release, and uncoil. 

Seven Stars

Seven Worlds

Seven Hands

Seven Stars

The number seven rings though my fingers.

One circle. One sphere. One sparkle.

Times seven.

What’s in my reach I never grasp.

I’m motivated by the above.

I’m inspired by the below.

The music swims though my ears.

The words tattoo my bones.

Heaven’s number draws connections.

Invisible hands to my head and my heart.

Seven things to count in all that I don’t see.

When I look up, Seven Sisters.

The Pleiades.

Our Moon

Everything has been connecting.

Each meaningful conversation that I have with others

Launches thoughts that I have had before,

Though I cannot recall.

An internal whisper, “Not only are you not alone, but the homeless woman

Seemingly alone on the streets isn’t either.”

In some ways we are the same. She has the goddess inside her.

I sense that she knows it.

She braves cold weather and has blusterous conversation with nobody,

Or perhaps a lost love. She screams in agonizing pain and in doing so

Shows a strength that I am not using. She is letting go.

Releasing frustration and anger. She is bravely feeling deeply.

I am walking in silence and refusing to join in expression.

I’m afraid.

She is too but she also knows what it is to be feared. Dehumanized.

I’m comfortable being invisible and she may not even associate with comfort.

I’m plagued with the desire for it, but I already have it.

I own a bed surrounded by walls that block out wind and rain.

If I need water I need only walk down the hall.

She engages her own being, made of similar water

Containing magic.

I bet she deep breathes more than I do.

She is whom she knows.

She is wild and living free from time and his constraint.

She is observing the world, aware of relationships, warm soil, sodden concrete,

And the direction of the moon and constellations.

She needn’t Google Maps or social media affirmations.

She dances to the beat of her own drum, which she fashioned

Together with sticks, broken hair ties, and a box of stale fries.

She emanates peace and openness to any kind gesture.

A smoke or change.

We all need a little change, yet we are often afraid to ask for it.

I’m not always willing to ask for the help necessary.

I put the burden on myself, and soak up other’s burdens.

When I extend a hand to help whomever, especially those I love,

I want to die when I’m refused.

Just let me carry your load.

Please accept this glass of water.

Call out my name and desire my embrace.

Validate me.

She more often than not is refused help and that empowers her more.

She just wants to live.

When a stranger or loved one does help, it’s never me. That I can’t understand.

As I said, in some ways, the homeless woman on the streets is just the same as me.

I either insist she take the nourishment I have on hand,

Even if she is allergic or suppressed of appetite,

Or I insist I’ve no change to spare,

As it rattles in my pockets.

More and more I see myself in her.

The Wild Woman.

I wish I knew how to properly connect with her.

I wish I knew how to look her/me in the eyes and confess,

“I understand. I feel your pain. I’m with you now. I love you.”

Disconnection and fear plague me. After passing by the woman, I stop.

Standing still I close my eyes,

Inhale the forthcoming winter air deep into my lungs,

And exhale silence.

I imagine a scream. It’s her.

The goddess resides inside of her and her within me.

She was never homeless. Home is with us.

I turn back and this time we make eye contact.
She was patiently waiting to be seen and heard. We are now connected.

It feels safe to approach her and in doing so, 

I spot a shiny flat sphere upon the pavement.

“Here”, I say. “Accept this quarter, won’t you?”

“I will not”, she responds matter-of-factly, and then continues;

“You found that for yourself, love. That is your moon.”

Somehow understanding, I then sat beside her and offered her my jacket.

Lone behold when I looked up, there was the moon.

My moon. Our moon.

Blanketed by velvet sky and accompanied by Venus, the sphere called to us.

Our names—the same name.

Wild Woman.

We responded in song; a prayer of howls.

Never had I felt so alive.