Defenses

I wonder if I manifested you out of the chill mist that creeps in during winter. Leftover remnants of a feeling of longing, so familiar, yet so long away. I feel as if I’ll wake to a clear cool morning, this version of a dream god embracing me turning out to be nothing more than my own fancy. But the sensation of this electric schism doesn’t seem to obstruct my view. How can I love an apparition? A shade I feel is just a memory or future chasm of thought.

Is this what it says? Is this the way it was written? Meant to be this abstract and magnetic polarity that has grabbed onto the atoms in my being? Or is it merely a wisp of cotton cloud gliding over the sun’s face?

Do you have a face? Eyes that demand gazing, lips that demand poetry? Are there spiders of longing building webs in your hair? Do your dreams weave with me into a realm of ice and heat and floating orbs? Are the words really present? Is it someone I know breathing twilight against my skin?

I kept the secret of how I built my defenses, how I kept everyone out. And how someone gets in.

My walls were built of blood and bone and ink. Carbon elements as hard as diamond along the perimeter, as soft as graphite in the in-between spaces. Dry, parched paper desperate for a drink of liquid language, and bits of my own neural activity made the mortar. All it would take to break through is observation on the part of the Conqueror. One has but to look at the joints and fissures and cracks to know how to get through. I have but to exist, and the one who knows would know.

Of course, the life I grew inside my body, my womb, she morphed and evolved knowing this already. She helped me build this fortress. She reached up with budding fingers and hands and clasped my soul hiding in the dark, hiding in the swirling nebula of embryonic fluid. She gave me new life, and helped me build the fortifications to keep trespassers out.

And then the dreams became lucid. I saw the unseen, communed with the Mother God of placentas, birthing lava out of the mouths of infant mountains. The dreams became my sustenance, my life force. I became this disc of rotating plasma, entering the world at will.

Still my walls held. Still my armor deflected surges of control, fear, and hated storms. But my light was dim. Weakened by self neglect and self defeat.

And then your words appeared before me, in front of my eyes, demanding I take them all in, take them in and let them build to a crescendo of heat and lightning. I want to come because I can. I want to rend the air with my wilfull voice, I want to know what this feels like from inside my physical spaces, I want to let you in. I want to move against you, a dance that knows what Love is, a dance that does not hold expectation or judgment or betrayal.

I want to trust, and feel newborn stars committing themselves to friction release inside the both of us.

Take me, because I give myself freely. I am here, opened to your poetry, opened to the point of shattering. I will be destroyed. But I want to feel it.

I want you to tear down this wall.

+LJ

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Into the Wilds

I began to dream under the same raw moon as the tides that bare down on fragile flesh, the flesh of my forefathers. There’s blood in the apex of these stones, calling us to stitch the wounds of our own callousness and fleeting desires.

I wandered into the wilds, under sand pine prophets and oaken kings; I lamented on the nature of our odorous civilisations, our war machines and dogmas of oppression.

The egret and ibis heard my prayer and came to see the stranger in their midst. A creature of sorrow and sickness and greed.

But I wandered aloud, my footsteps bringing me to piles of rubble that once stood the test of time… and time is now mine under the stars of my newfound fortitude, this reckless keen edge of awareness budding to life inside my sleeping bones.

I was wary, once, of travellers of that forgotten golden realm; longing to hide in the shadows, a conscious observer of the night flights of those fighters, the fighters wringing the life out of the pockets of creation.

And I stood there watching while the memories came to dance about my head, spiders spinning webs in my hair to trickle thoughts of liberation into my brain.

I thought once of you, the way your eyes would move to judge the very fabric that weaves our flaws together. I set that memory free, and again turned to the wilds that so lovingly called me home.

I followed a deer growing thick with fetus in her belly, asked after the hymns that so wind their way around and through beast and tree, and she told me to listen.

So I listened to the gathering dusk, the crickets’ music transforming my soul, and then I was no longer afraid of growing old. So I climbed into the crook of a giant’s sheltering limbs, and I ate nothing but what I could catch in trembling hands.

I sacrificed my self into the hunt for this wealth, this need to resurrect what once was a feral heart. I stopped playing prey and found sanctuary in the blood of the earth, the blood of reptile skin and spear pointed teeth. And I became a solitary predator.

I dug into the midnight soil seeking a space to sink my roots, to wait and trap any form, any trace of food for my thoughts.

I wanted to grow wisdom. I wanted to relearn that Mother tongue of soil, muscle and memory. The language of the land’s savage composition.

I wandered the forest, aching to be found among the palmettos, a dying breed of mystic, planting seeds and craving all things that a human craves when burning that all to cinders and ash.

I buried myself in the darkness among cypress knees and Spanish moss. Letting nightcrawlers sing me to sleep. I wondered then what it would mean if I chose to stay, if I chose to let myself forget to be human for awhile.

So I tore from myself small strips of regret and tied the cloth of those sins to a dogwood tree. I cried at the wrath of the earth calling for my explanations of falling off the edge of this world, so long ago, now, it seems.

I entered the badlands of buzzing insects, leeches and steam. I let myself go back that way again and found the answer to that riddle:

 

I was never really me.

Love was an Old Brick Road

Once we carried wishes in our mouths, our bleeding hearts choked up on poetry and whiskey, the nostalgia of childhood dreams.

When romance was the ocean calling us down to the shore, we ran in rhythm to the pulse of the waves, and stripped down beyond our naked vulnerability, plunged ourselves deep into the indigo of what we thought we’d have.

When love was an old brick road, we danced in rhythm to the beat of the setting sun, kissed his feet goodnight and worshipped the moon as she rose.

Love was an old brick road, but somewhere along that path our travel plans unraveled, and I ended up walking alone.

.

.

.

+LJ

To remember

What is it to hold memories? What is it we feel when stepping silently among the graves of people who once felt what we feel, who once loved as we love?

As the light half of the year is nearly gone, I seek the spirit of truth among the trees. I seek the enlightenment, the means to remember the calling that stitches itself to the strands of my DNA.

The need for flight and otherwordly observation is budding within a body which longs for transcendence, longs for a memory of where she’s been.

Mysteries are buried in the stone, and it’s a difficult thing, ignoring the fluttering of thoughts jumbled together within a mind trying for solitude. The dead offer peace, tranquil cerulean dreams. I seek within the shades of the earth, and find myself attached to this meaning.

The meaning between Life and Death and everything woven within.

And Then September Crept In…

August flew by at an alarming rate. And it was an uncharacteristically cool August the first couple of weeks, which usually never happens. The Earth’s cycles seem to be changing. It’s a secretive and subtle change, but I can feel it. Even in the Florida heat, I can feel it.

The first two weeks brought the rain storms. I’m hoping the remaining hurricane season is lazy. But the whole month of August was a quick one, albeit with low pressure systems lazing about in the tropics; not the kind of lazy I wanted.

Hurricane Hermine hit as a Cat 1 early last Friday morning. Even though it was a lazy hurricane by Andrew’s, Katrina’s, and Ivan’s standards, it still left a hell of a mess. We were without power for four days; some parts–especially where the eye came ashore–were completely washed out. Lovely St. Petersburg had a hell of a storm surge. Some places up to seven feet.

But as us Floridians know intimately, cleanup commences and life goes on. Only two more months of hurricane season then we can let out our breaths.

But August was a memorable month…

My little fireling started kindergarten this year, and before the start of school we were crafting and playing and creating. Those first two weeks of August gave us comfort and the underlying feeling of change over the horizon. My little girl would be starting a new journey, as would I. The time we’d had those first two weeks of August felt almost like it was in-between, holding still, and hanging in the breeze we were so much enjoying. I could smell opportunity in the wind.

We celebrated our Ancestors during Lughnasadh as we made bread and fruit salads. We crafted wands, lanterns, faery houses, and we planted new garden babies.

I spent some time with my mother and discovered an unlikely friend in gardening right down the road. I was welcomed into his garden and was gifted with a beautiful bounty. Lemongrass, mints, three varieties of spinach, baby papaya trees, and patchouli for Spirit journeys through Earth. I’ll be visiting him again soon, with ideas of writing a bio on him and a story about his garden and apiary.

And here we are into September already, recuperating after Hermine, falling into the rhythm of Florida fall. Last night’s moon is a reminder that all things turn and change, ebb and flow, constrict and contract.

As for now, I have much to keep me busy. I’ve got a few students whom I’ve been tutoring, a couple of writing contracts, and too many plants that require daily conversations and TLC.

The light half of the year is so close to the end of its cycle, the Autumnal Equinox is right around the corner, and the Celtic new year to follow. So count your blessings, make room for more, and welcome joy into your home. 🙂