Mystic Writing

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...

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...

April 27, 2019

I am the mistress of the red door, which sits in waiting in the quiets of the vast desert. There embedded in the wild rock, a portal painted over through centuries. Over and over it has dried under the blazing sun light and cracks appearing like antique arteries reveal themselves.

I am the weaver of braided veins, a ribbon among those voices which rise into unison. I spread like the roots of the redwood through the most precious parts of shared ground. Each layer of bark falls away with the fidelity of time’s cryptic indifference. There are secret markings in the tracks of the footsteps I follow.

I am the red river in the moonlit hollow. There are carved symbols of planets and coded poetry along the length of the polished branch....

April 13, 2019

Deep in your womb lives a spiral, goddess. It is the subtle movement of memory where love made its first impression on your inner maiden. It is the curling rhythm of liquid life in the cauldron, moving through the thickness of years inwards towards understanding. This space is held sacred in universal memory as the goddess temple, when the shadows of sisters were dancing silhouettes against flame lit walls. The shedding of fragmented feeling falls away as the eroding walls of the oceanic cave. Each inspection revealing thrusts of mighty waves where memory is held like treasure in the dark of the dragon’s lair.

Deep in the spiral, sounds of chanting move in motion with hands held and wisdom interspersed with decided safety. Yes, y...

Please reload

Please reload

​© 2019 

WWW.THEWITCHESSPIRAL.COM

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED