Tag: 2018

Evocation to the Morrigan (1/16/2018)

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Morrigan
Dark triple Goddess, you who make men nervous with your commanding nature,
Endlessly admired by women, powerful Celtic Queen of fate.
You who are worshiped before and upon the field of battle, and can turn the tide of war with a wave of your hand.
I hail to you!
May your many aspects of war, death, fate, and prophecy guide me through the battle of my life.

Morrigan
You who are known as Badb, the hooded crow, the grey wolf of destruction,
You who are known as Nemain, the eel of frenzy and venom.
Your Banshee cry making soldiers fall to their knees, attack their allies, or die of fright.
I hail to you!
May my ferocity and bloodlust match yours, and may you guide me to never be outmatched in battle.

Morrigan
You who are called Macha, defender of our lands and sovereignty
Ever-changing in form, water Goddess of fertility.
The watcher of the cauldron of regeneration, and guardian to the rivers and lakes.
I hail to you!
May I follow your example of courage when defending what is mine or those I love.

Morrigan
Celtic Goddess who reigns supreme during the cold darkness of Samhain.
Mistress to the night, you walk in a cloak of terror casting your curses.
You that chooses who lives and who dies upon the field of battle,
I hail to you!
May you allow me to honor you with fire and blood.

Witch’s Kit Bag (10-9-18)

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Her gnarled and wrinkled hands, long fingers like spider’s legs, nails like daggers, clutched the black leather bag and its two handles. It had served her well for centuries; larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, and only ever weighing hardly anything. It sat aerodynamically upon the tail of her broom and always match her dress. She set the bag down and unclasped its buckle, rummaging through its contents for the supplies she needed for her spell work. It contained innumerable items, both ancient and modern, used for purposes both good and sinister. 


Reference books and spell books and her book of shadows. Crystals and metals and minerals and gems. A portable iron cauldron, a broom repair kit, and charged water from a Solstice. Various bundles and satchels and jars of both fresh and dried, medicinal and poisonous, herbs and plants. Salt and honey and the powdered wood of various trees. Holy symbols and statues and effigies of Gods and Goddesses. Candles of beeswax in every color conceivable. A corn dolly, a voodoo doll, and figures formed of clay. Bottles of ink, and feather quills, and parchment for notes. Ancient rune stones, tea leaves, tarot cards, and a crystal ball. A curved boline, an athame, an axe, and a wand. Burlap sacks, a wicker basket, pruning shears, a mortar and pestle, Alchemist’s refining tools, and grain alcohol. 


These items and so much more. Each one having numerous uses, each one gathered and well-used in her travels. Some fear her, some love her, but most know her work by name. So many years. So many people. So many spells and remedies and ceremonies. Her old hands find each item where it should be, and she lays them out, preparing her workspace, and centering her mind. A witch’s work is never done it seems.

Grief [8-1-18]

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Today I drew the cards

And they told me that to flourish

in my writing, and in my life,

I need to allow myself to feel my grief.

Because it withholds me,

Cripples me,

Retrains me.

That I must stop concealing my pain.

Stop hiding my broken emotions.

Stop hiding my sadness.

My loss is my power.

My devastation is my fuel.

My anguish is my battery.

My trauma is my fire.

To use in my writing, and to write about.

But it hurts.

It takes so much out of me

To put so much of a broken life on paper.

I blanket and hide and conceal and distract

So my heart isn’t heavy.

So I can sleep at night.

So I can find happiness in the things that used to make me happy.

I have been told that I am a pit of misery,

So I stopped, and became something else.

But apparently I need to shed my skin,

And allow myself to feel,

To heal and move on.

Mummification [10-8-18]

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The sacred ceremony, meticulously documented for thousands of years. Texts of directions and procedures and specific step-by-step ceremonies of tending to the body of the Dead. The long process to prepare the dead, now done with this life, prepared for the journey to the next life. Soul and body would meet again. The Wedjat eye watching over all. The feather of Truth waiting patiently. The priest performing the opening of the mouth. Attending shabtis effigies packed along with worldly possessions. The tomb not a final resting place, only a crossing over, a trip on the journey to the next life.

Perfumes and oils. Resins and linen and medical surgical tools and Papyrus texts. Gold flake paint and incense burners and sacred God-headed canopic jars. Walls adorned with hieroglyphs and burning torches. Natron, layers of cartonnage. Evisceration and embalming, and the mask of a jackal. the heart and the kidneys remain inside. Liver, lungs, stomach, and intestines, and the four sons to hold them; Human, baboon, Jackal, and falcon. washed with wine, and water from the sacred Nile. Sutures and a beeswax ceiling incisions. Amulets carved and imbued with spells. Tens and tens of days of wrapping of the body with anatomical precision. Body cavities filled with aromatic plants and herbs. Eye sockets containing replacements of onions, stone, or glass. Elaborately decorated burial masks made in the likeness of the deceased. 

Honeybee Sonnet [5-10-18]

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  • Weather is beautiful, the sun is out
  • These two honeybee hives are bustling.
  • They have searched the whole farm, flown all about
  • Their endless work ethic is becoming.
  • They find pollen, nectar, resin, water,
  • Their buzzing can be heard across the yard.
  • Pollinating each and every flower,
  • Flying heavy and crooked like a drunkard.
  • Red orange yellow gold, white and black and brown,
  • These are the many colors of the hive.
  • Ruling them all, a Queen in her golden crown,
  • Millions of years, they’ve known how to survive,
  • Meditation and a calm state of mind,
  • Make these honeybees a friend, and most kind.

Ancient Kingdom [5-15-18]

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She ruled her kingdom with grace and wisdom, fairness and mercy, but also with an equal iron grasp of vigilance, order, and power.  The people loved her as a Goddess. They were in love with her as a woman. They adored and feared her as a Queen. The enemy kingdoms and otherworldly daemons were no match for the ferocity and absolute loyalty of her armies, and the men within them. Each of them would die many times over to protect her, for without the Queen there can be no hive.

The days were sunny and cool, and the sweet mead quenched her in many ways, but not all. The neighboring King had kept a peaceful distance; never challenging her authority. He followed her wherever she went, appointing himself as her bodyguard of sorts. His eyes followed her more closely than his body, although he wished to lose himself in the ocean of her divine. She entertained the idea; He would head her armies and lead her heart along a path not oft walked by a God.

The wind blew her way, and on it was carried the smell of happiness.

Observations at Grand Central Station [4-3-08]

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I would find it smart

When looking for help in a transportation station

Of any sort,

To ask the man with the cleanest

Shiniest

Most reflective shoes.

I figure that a man with time enough

To spit-shine his shoes everyday before work

Really takes pride in his job.

Helping people like me,

Is why he wakes up in the morning.

I am overwhelmed by the fact

That out of all of these people

Passing through Grand Central Station,

Surprisingly,

I am the only one wearing something

That isn’t black or brown.

I wear yellow,

The color of the lights adorning the walls,

And of the stars painted in the ceiling.

The room is filled with

Cops and business men,

A skitzo and numerous car operators.

They all have started up conversation with me,

Numerous times,

But not about the stairs I’m stretched out on,

Where a very obvious and official sign,

Prohibits my doing so.

Candlelight on Imbolc [2-2-18]

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The nights were long and the days were short,

and both equally cold and dreary.

The worst of the winter was past

and spring was right around the corner.

But the ground was still frozen,

And the food stores were running low,

And the sun still remained hidden from the land,

And the animals weren’t ready to give birth.

So they stayed together in their homes,

warm by the fireside, praying together.

Hoping for a break in the harsh conditions

and the relief that sunlight would bring.

So they lit their beeswax and tallow candles,

And wove their Brigid’s crosses,

And supped upon the last of the milk and oats,

And gave thanks for their health and their families.

And they waited, and hoped, for the return of spring.

Laboratory [10-5-18]

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This is where I was born.
Cold stone and metal were my womb.
Electricity was my mother, and my Father isn’t one.
I travel this world tormented and alone;
searching for answers I’ll never get,
and companionship I’ll never have.
I yearn for understanding and peace,
but I’ve only ever known fear and pain.
Am I being punished for the sins
that belonged to the men that I used to be?
I long for the day when I can put an end to that monster of a man,
the one who bestowed my hideous being with life.
I feel as though I have existed for an eternity.
I fear I may never make sense of who or what I am.
I search in vain for my creator,
and for Death,
and I am terrified that I may never find either.