There is a Place

There is a place in my hair where the wind riots, whispering its secrets into every tousled tendril. 

There is a place in my bones where thunder reverberates in cacophonous rumbles. A place where lightning boils marrow to action and rain drops clear my foundations.

There is a place in my blood where fires blaze, where female laughter rolls through the smoke of simmering cauldrons and the dance of the wild woman beckons.

There is a place in my throat where sirens sing. The chronicles of my truth, the soul songs, the knowing of what came before and now will come to pass.

There is a place in my heart where wolves roam in perpetual autumn trees. Where sunlight, golden and waning, illumines all connections and amplifies them through my veins. The place of mother hugs and emotional remembrance, the well of love that never runs dry.

There is a place in my womb, below the raging of red feminine seas. Cloaked in the velvety darkness,  the primal pulse of woman percusses, undeniably strong, beneath the bedrock of my making. This melodic thrum cracks and tears me open so that I may discover, learn, and heal.

There is a place in my mind where temples throb and a crown rests. It is a circlet of sight allowing me to see and perceive everyone I meet as sacred and necessary. In this place, I see the web connection to all things, to sisterhood, and to the circle that rings us each in our unique human experience.

All these places exist in one whole, a deeply rooted tree with riotous branches winding skyward. And as they sway eternal, so I celebrate the medicine within you and the medicine within me. One spirit, one heart, ascending in divine grace through the potential unfolding of the present.

The Chalice and the Warrior

diverting scent of man long grown musty,
husked caress ended abruptly on skin
aching
to be turned, molded,
quenched
with masculine handling.
This divine feminine mollusk
spirals outward
grasping at the hasps of the man,
unbuttoning bladed intentions,
slithering silently into belly,
tentacles breaching the heart,
palpating a beat that speaks the truth,
the emotion of this male beast.
Arms retract, chalice intact,
fortified by this warrior's surrender,
a piercing light, sun strong.  

Hewn Bows

I lay my head down in this chapel of stone,

a glowing masonry hewn with my blood and bones.

Imbrued with soul intention the framework holds fast,

faithfully molded to my awakening worship.

I sit beneath the holy arches,

the sacred place where rib bones meet.

Quietly, I keep time with my heart’s steady beating

as purpose divine radiates ever outward.

This collective hymn of vibration

reverberates throughout the rafters of my thoughts,

as circadian rhythms etch the song of my essence

onto every surface of this hallowed space.   

I am alone.

I am fulfilled.

I am divine.

I am…

Communication

It's so frustrating when you speak to someone and they only listen until they hear what they need, in order to do what they want. It's a ridiculous somnambulist stunt, that I think we have all been guilty of at some point.
 Do you remember when listening was important, listening to others fully and completely, taking in context, verbiage to fully derive meaning before replying, before expounding, before just waiting for your chance to talk. Remember when listening meant life or death?

The soft stalking of a nearly silent padding of a predator's footfall as it tracks you in the dark. The way the air changes and affects you like a barometer, telling you what the weather is up to? The way animals grow silent when danger approaches. Any one of these instances can be considered a lost art of communication. Most specifically listening to others though, that's where the chain is rusted.

With the growth of technological communication and the inundation of mass media marketing, our attention spans have shrunk considerably. We are no longer content to listen and imagine a story, we now want the "quick" version, to skip to the end so that we can concentrate on this innocuous status update, or returning the text message that popped up while typing said update. We sit right next to the people we love, like, or maybe even don't know that well, and we ignore each other to communicate with others who aren't present. Guess what? Neither are we. "Getting to know someone" means something completely different than it used to. I know that we can never truly know every nook and cranny of a person, all we know is our perception of them and they of us, but when you don't even ask the questions to get that much, what then? We bond over T.V., film, and opinions, but after that initial knowledge, where does the effort go? Everyday we are different, beautiful, moving creatures. "Knowing" what?

Poetry Dervish

Roundness unfolds heavy with the light crinkling of life’s bounty.
Belly burns pleasantly, enamored in breath and the humid presentation of fluttering opportunity.
there is a seeker and in that same sinewy vein a destiny found;
a life living out each fiery raging breath
in a syncopated rhythm
of spontaneous choreography.
The twirling dervish of never ending discovery.

Reaping Womb

Red crescents drag with dogged ease,

release of silt,

rich and encumbered flows through valleys,

ripe,

with aging seasonal fruit,

left rotted on the weaving vine. 

Trembling turmoil extracted,

through bountiful whirlpools of creation,

the filtered light at the end of this lengthy way

quakes in hues of red,

caps of darkness.

Hooded vessels reign,

bathing in the primordial essence of female.

Spoken

Waving, weaving,

a gift in the resistance.
The well-played tune,

 all enmeshed in fillings of fire,
soul’s purpose born,
raging,

a confluence of unknown beauty.
Being,

lightning incandescence struck on flesh,
to purpose reactive,

this truth a sustained beast of ingenuity.