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...

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 16, 2019

When the heroes and heroines of fate have fallen dead to the Earth in a mess of red orange, and the icy wave has come and gone, and now Spring peaks aroused and almighty, laugh wickedly and stay with palms pressed firmly to a warm hearth.

Hear the voices of your ancestors calling from the warming stream that pools by a seductive faerie ring.

Push aside the cobwebbed layers of clothing that spell out memories on a distant branch.

Cast a glance at the way each foot melts into the moist terrain and grows like the trees into long porcelain proportions.

Your hands move in a melting motion like raw tapped syrup over your chest to hold the hallowed mountains.

Taste of the dewy oracle as your tongue passes over your lips.

Touch your skin as a...

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