Long Nights Feed the Muse #writing #foundpoetry

When mid-September arrives I feel the anxious pull of letting go. As autumn calls forth the fire of summer in one last quick burst of color, I can’t help but feel a tug of melancholy watching life give way to the elements of the season. Then winter plunges life into a deep freeze and somehow I relax into the slow pace of darkness. It is is the season of the writer and the poet. A time to give way completely to the magic of night and let the imagination travel where it will.

Millie welcomes a warm lap beside the fire

The inner fire kindles alongside the hearth fire, both ignited to keep the “home” warm. Outer distractions lesson their draw as the cold calls the body inside to keep warm. These days my daily walks with the dogs are brisk and quick, unless I give into their appetite for gnawing at “stick-sicles.”

First snow

A pause allows the sight to expand and sometimes eyes meet in acknowledgement.

“Tree Eye”

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live in a place without clearly defined seasons. Perhaps I would get used to the extremes of a nearly endless summer or winter, but it is more likely I would feel restless with waiting for change. The body and mind get used to cycling and the ebb and flow it offers. Growth wants to circle back to decay before new growth occurs. As a writer, I rely upon the seasons. Summer gives me permission to turn outward and enjoy life unconfined. To take a reprieve from the page waiting for words and give way to the sun’s joy. Fall, in turn, prepares the nest for the enveloped life.

An autumn chickadee prepares for winter

Digging into the folds of darkness is much easier in winter. One must welcome the night or perhaps go mad trying to ward it off. Then spring arrives just in time to awaken the sluggish body back to life. Winter is long here, but not quite too long.

The cat disagrees

It begins for us with my daughter’s birthday, which falls in early December. Soon after, we set up the Dicken’s village and fairy lights are lit inside and outside the house. Even though my children are no longer tiny, the season still feels magical.

Soon after it is set-up the village is rearranged by Millie

Although I do miss traveling, the colder weather offers an excuse to hunker down and stay put. Most days I’m content to sit beside the fire and create even when it’s not always in the form intended. I seem to be at another impasse with the WIP, not quite sure how the protagonists are going to cross their paths again and when. As I wait for them to tell me, I turn to other endeavors.

The coloring books and pencils have reappeared, another WIP

I have friend, a fellow Indie author, who is encouraging me to grow my Instagram presence. She tells me I can’t simply post pretty photos without relevance and so I am urging the muse to try new directions. In the process, I’m finding short poems through erasure to post. The eye searches for words that pull while the hand blackens newsprint. It offers a strangely satisfying means to create something new out of what already exists. Rebirthing text in new form, I often find myself inside the process.

Today’s found poem

What I saw this morning #poetry

Photo Cedit: Pixabay

I saw you in the moors today

your hair wild like milkweed

blown free

with she who waits

standing in the valley between

The wind, beckoning a caress

upon two faced turned upward in joy

Water, cleaving the breasts of the goddess

at your feet streaming the memory of stars

The renewal of spring lapping the hillside

like a newborn lamb, and you standing

beside her remembering it all

Two hands clasped in reunion

opening the womb. The body

becoming formless, ripe, orange

walls pulsing the mother-beat

winged emergence breaking

through stone. Guardians

fortifying the chamber vibrating

your song as you become the light

of rainbows, again. Isis

enfolding and opening

lifts the veil to the path of stars

spiraling to welcome the dragon

descending, running the water

gold

Healing Gifts

Photo Credit: Pixabay

For Sue

The opened body becomes the vessel

of healer and also receiver

And so I find her in the Seer’s circle

cloaked in owl’s feathers, anointing

those who come to give

Here, in her beloved place of heather and stone

time and space unfold into the opening

and I can feel the press of her lips between the brow

ūüźČ

Seven days brings us back to her circle

to witness the winged soul ever giving

feathers of bird become the butterfly

“Look closely,” she tells me. “See.”

I watch membranes divide

into notes. Hear the music of cells

holding the song that is life

Enraptured until form turns slug-like

and I question the pull back to density

reluctant to notice what is soft is also strong

vulnerable, yeilding

the snail enters the body’s chariot

A tiny spiral opens

into infinity

and suddenly we are in the place of stars. Vast

Limitless

Suddenly, the serpent appears

pulling us into its arbor

above the farmer’s field to understand rebirth

Density becomes a head of stone

fixed as though immobile

“Each is a piece of Her. A brain’s repository.”

I nod, understanding distance to be a ruse and watch

Wisdom circle the mound in the body of the serpent

collapsing time’s hold while the clock splits open

rising sinuous into the darkness

the serpent swallows the sun, transforming

into dragon. Now winged

returning to seed the waiting womb below

Light

splits the body’s veins

finding the path once again

Lavender Dream #Dream #Writephoto #poetry

dream
Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

Once again Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt photo has mirrored my dreams. It’s been a challenging two weeks. My computer died, again, and the resuscitation of¬† it was more laborious and disruptive than I had hoped it would be. Breathing into the letting go, what may be lost, what may take monumental¬†efforts to fully restore, has been a call to open the heart.¬†

Lavender Dream

I dreamt of the self starved

my body yielding to others, breathing

out instead of in. I will be there

for you, she knows the whisper as rote

memory so deep the threads bind her own

love. You can see it in her narrowed hips

breasts, almost pre-pubescent. As though

the body learned before it could fully grow

to turn inward upon itself. Preservation

in the outer yielding. I will be there for you

too, her voice echoes outside its walls

He brought the amethyst cracked open. Primal

rocks forged by the Mother’s fire

bumpy and dulled gray on the outside

Broken by will. He placed them around my neck

A lei of love. Her lavender heart

revealed itself in a field of green

 Love

returned

to love

 

#Soar #writephoto

storm-clouds-1
Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

Soar

I dreamt of the voice shuttered

tight against the storm. Words

held behind the clouded window, urgent

We are here!

Blue feathers lined in black resting

in sunlit trees. Impossibly large

No, they cannot be mine

I doubted the impossible

stroking the membrane of the quill

so many gathered stories filling

the space beneath, calling

through the echo of time

wondering why the throat

is like a storm cloud waiting to break

open to the sun. Wondering why

space needs to be confined and the bird

of truth lies in wait

for permission to soar

 

Once again, I had a feeling that Sue’s photo would echo my dreams. For Sue’s #writephoto writing prompt,#Soar.

Imagining A World Made New #poetry

IMG-1047

I’m trying to imagine a world made new

A riptide of dis(ease) softening into rebirth as seven

billion people grow golden filaments

around the darkness of our womb. At night

I claw dirt back into Her body

to know the heartbeat wrapped inside the winged

Release the tired shoulders, She whispers, you

who have learned to wear blades

 seeking to stretch beyond the chrysalis

To Breathe Whole

Arms, ready to release

the heavy weight of fight, trap

 the body collecting pain without permission

You wounded warriors of the light

stamp identity across the heart

pressing the false hold into a battle cry

lodged inside the forgotten throat

Open

the portal to the heart and allow the soul

to shout victory

Darkness is a demon

only if left unexplored. Let the cry loose

Let it soar through the shadowland inside

until it ignites the joy

that is life. Real life

Release those golden threads and weave

the memory

of unity

whole

#Together #writephoto

sun-on-the-sea
Photo  Credit: Sue Vincent

Together

At the edge of land the sand releases

back to the sea to be reborn

Oh to be one tiny grain tumbling into endless re-

union, pulled effortlessly back into the tide

waiting to let go. To feel a full surrender

to trust knowing unity awaits

after the pure ecstatic rush of release

Oh to be birthed, over and over

by love as day melts into night

 

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt #together¬†

 

The Global Heart #poetry

thailand-4737831_1920
Photo Credit: Pixabay

I cannot help thinking of the heart

and life’s breath held in separation

A viral wrap, searching for community

opening the return of the forgotten

goddess. She peers green eyes of the forest

through locks of fire. An earthen trunk

rooted to the life lines. Horns tuned

to the stars, bridging the divide

How everyone is feeling

the broken as fear’s seize spreads dis-

ease. Time, collapsing and morphing

twisting minutes too surreal to be real

Too real to be false. Lies breaking the voice

gasping for air through constricted lungs

while she breathes her return, softly beckoning

from the shadows. Can you see me now?

she asks. The key is held in your heart

and all

#Torrent #Writephoto #poetry

torrent
Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

The water cleaves the heart of the forest

opening the wound. Forcing its way to freedom

it pours the mud of civilization into her gaping chest

 beating a rhythm  faster than nature

We have forgotten how to move

with her river. How to beat the heart in time

with the flow and not race

speed. We, hasty creatures of greed defined as progress

lament the loss of the free soul. It cries through the open wound

A torrent of tears falling on deafened ears.  Angry men,

too white to remember the goddess inside

stand at the point of the sun and shout anger. Feeble

hands grasping power that was never theirs to hold

while she waits in the shadows, her breast

splaying wide their wound, dripping pain

The drain of life force unstopped

becomes the torrent of fear

and we, its helpless child

grasping to hold

love

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt, #torrent

The Memories of Stone #writephoto #memory

memory
Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

Some say the giants are still here

Their memories held inside the stones

They watch the movement of time

and grimace at our indifference

Some weep for lack of care

Borrowing water from the sky

Our eyes see inert bodies

ravaged by weather and not

the chiseling hand. Yet the eye watches

waiting for the few who wish to spiral inward to stir

memories beyond dimension. The giants seek

the seekers and wait. Feeling the press of footsteps

blindly walking. The push of restless bodies

Listening to “Hurry up.” “Let’s move on”…

to the next best thing. Whatever that is.

They watch. Eyes following too slowly to be caught

Lids, never blinking. Legs tucked into the land

who knows their breath. Their hearts,

held in Her hands pulse the music of the land

She, who never forgets her children

moves love through tired veins to spiral the waiting eye

Forever looking for the one who will stop

and remember.

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt, #memory¬†