Mystic Writing

March 7, 2020

We are the Wolf Women of the New Earth.

Priestesses of the Sacred Howl.

Red Cloaked Magicians.

Shapeshifting Sovereigns.

Guardians of the Untamed Forests.

Oracles of the Orphaned Self. 

Grail Bearers of the Wild Feminine Mysteries. 

We stand, bare breasted and yellow eyed, scent locked on the dying corpse of the patriarchy. The will of a word inscribed upon fleshy countenance, and subtly falling aside as we open the way for the rest. There was a time when we would be poached for bearing our pelts so proudly, for fondling our own furs and letting our mouths water at a vision of our wounded prey. 

But nostalgia licks our sharpened claws as we tear across the land, bearing teeth and thundering in the deep cadence of our ancestra...

February 27, 2020

Alchemy Of The Dark Feminine

Sultry, slithering and attuned, the awakened hiss of the rising serpent. Brave and mighty in the sickest nausea of destruction. Bringer of the grace in shadow flames and sword bearer of autonomous Queendom.

She, the sweetened massacre of dogma and the long-awaited reckoning of rage boiling up from ages of unrequited respect. She who commands value and smashes the unbearable demands of assault. Violation. Abuse. Repression.

She who licks her lips with a bloody thirst for the wisdom of the moon and the corpses of those who have chosen to ride the coattails of their own ugliest demons.

She, the slayer of patriarchal nightmares which have women tied to stakes as worthless objects. She who wields her gifts...

January 26, 2020

There, fair maiden, the snowflakes suit you, just as the flowers do. And I see the way you have wrestled in the cemetery with the old bones of winters cold death. 

It is that careful skate, winding through ancient woods, which has you gliding into some luminescent fate. Do you see the way your destiny is inscribed on birch bark? 

You have arrived, precious soul, at the turning wheel. Where great fires burn, alight with bardic musings, the hearth of the Goddess.

It is time to self-dedicate once again. When you see that you are held, by a Rowan moon, and the divine light licks your forehead. Bow at your inner temple, for this is Imbolc, and your creative potential is protected and blessed by Brìghde. 

The musky cleansing has climaxed...

December 16, 2019

By the idol namesake of clove lipped cedar boughs, I light this waxen tor under the belly of the crones moon. This instant where darkness pools like the milieu of snowflakes, held only now by the flame which crawls its way into existence and then dances maniacally, severing shadow from sight. There is thick cinnamon and burnt orange peel laced into the billowing smoke from the woodstove.

I hear her wrinkled voice too, woven into the contained clouds, chanting some such wisdoms from the shrine of death. It is that most auspicious time when death mourns for itself and at the snowy grave a new life is born. The yule log is flecked with holly and crimson pointsettas, lit up by the impending arrival of the new born Sun. The icicles r...

December 6, 2019

The Scriptures of Sovereignty: Part Two

What does it look like to trust yourself?

What does it look like to reign reverence upon your own paved road, to honor the suffering as much as the saintliness, the aching imperfections and the deliciously autonomous moments of sovereignty? 

To rest your eyes for a moment on the pages which you never before dared to read. The ones which became blurred by dust and dogma and righteous ambiguity. The ones of those most potent books held in the haunted hellfire and liquid alchemy and blazing prophecy of your enchanted inner sanctuary. 

It has to be that it looks like the incredible beauty and the blooming rose with its erratic unpredictable thorns and alluring capacity for growth. It has to be...

October 13, 2019

“And the Wheel of the Year begins to whirl once more, whispering in the dreams of the dead visions of the Grail of Immortality.” (Shadowyn, The Crafted Cup, 99)

The veil is thinning dear one. The whispers in the crinkled bark make shivers up our spines, the days darken, and the cool mist of grey rain makes for an uproarious inner awakening. Grief in its most raw expression creeps in like black mold on an unnoticed fallen fruit. The red orange leaves cackle at the tickling Mystery with every footstep. We are grieving the fading self of yesteryear as the veil slips off of curious starlit eyes. We have entered the time of the Crone. It is time to let go of all that was and seemed to be, to make space to receive the wisdom of our anc...

September 19, 2019

The beckoning moon mother cradles you in the fine flickering glaze of her benevolent aura. The harvest holds you with ripened majesty bearing a fruitful guardianship as you ground into the enriched soil.

Decorated with crimson hues of disheveled dahlias and ivy fringe, your golden crown sparkles with flushed rubies and your gown smells of burnt amber and patchouli rose.

There is a quiet opening through a torrent of wild winds and the days dwindle while nighttime billows over you with its hooded cloak. You are tousled by the long-armed embrace of the vulnerable trees and the sideways stare of a lurking squash spirit.

These ubiquitous convulsions of birthing into crone-hood sound like rattling bones on an old oak door. You are partin...

July 30, 2019

A fresh lull in a cool whisper, the first harvest licks your toes as your footsteps slow. It is time to drink the celebratory wine, brewed dandelions which have sat in purposeful acquiescence. Now protruding from the fiery spinning disc in the belly of your soul. Pause, sister, take a moment to lavish in the taste of ruffled icing, to sway in the soft glaze of new life which you birthed. It is now ready to take its timely walk out into the world. Stumbling or stomping, the ripening storm, onward and upward hoof and horn. Your flowering crown is ready to be adorned, and you know without a doubt, that all that dies shall be reborn. Yours is the great seeded symphony moaning beneath the Earth, the pregnant belly of the crisp red ap...

July 23, 2019

The Scriptures of Sovereignty...
What does it look like to trust yourself? 
To doubtlessly claim each moment, pounding through pages of vast secrecy, scanning sheets from the Magick books kept hidden in the bat threaded lining of your inner caverns. 
There where the violet crystal waters of wisdom leak through your skin and shine courageously through the porous portals of your flesh. 
What does it feel like to douse yourself in rose petal water, howling with a sound that rivals only that of the wildest wolf and caressing the curves of your own body with your practiced wrists, your callused palms. 
What does it look like to grasp a pen so tightly you can’t let go, driven by some undying force into rewriting your own herstory. Int...

July 13, 2019

Sister, you will know when it is time to bear witness to the one that slithers under your skin and weighs like a thick fog over your eyelids declaring worthlessness. You may be sitting in the bathtub sweating and praying through tears hoping that it will just evaporate from you. You may be screaming into the void of tortured memories of this life or another, and misplaced emotions trying to fit in place that fragmented piece of self. This is a poetic exorcism, a metamorphosis so excruciating that your heart must break over and over again, your ego must be humbled, and your soul must rise until all that is left is that sweet devotional nectar of divine unconditional love. This is the greatest awakening, to come home to your true...

Please reload

Please reload

​© 2020