There’s a voice I heard once
When I put my ear to that vase
A scream I thought at first
Then a whimper
A song that trailed into a prayer
Or the other way around
A voice I’d not heard before
Until now, remembering that vase
I hear the tides
The witches finger that tickled my earlobe
As they did that day
And I’m not sure if life was ever the same after that
Or if life stayed the same but my eyes viewed differently
Or maybe I just listened more
Because the more I listen
The deeper I see
And in those depths
The volume of silence gets really deafening
And as I loosen my grip on noise
The unknown unravels
And maybe that vase
Was the beginning of my unravelling
I just heard myself more vividly within starry stained glass walls
It’s all a little strange, isn’t it
No matter what I write
Is nonsensical to someone
So the upside down
Of the mermaids tail
And the witches breath
And the starry glass
Are all mine
Until I listen to a bigger vase.
Sister, I see you
I have done all along
I’ve stood under the stars you dream
Your woes are in my song.
I see the woman you’ve become
Perfection, that’s you now
No questions need to haunt your heart
Of when or where or how.
For all of that, the heavy doubt
The worries you hold true
Shall flow behind courageous blood
The sacred light in you.
For sister, you have hidden deep
A wisdom like no other
As from you born, not just a child
But warrior and mother.
There are days when I envision myself crawling through mud.
Being cradled by beds of clay and fertile dirt. My light depending upon the struggle, this intensity of needing to collapse into primal states feels more real than morning rituals.
Let the worms bury beneath me.
Let the woodlouse tickle my belly as they mount the mountain of me.
Let me be where theres no explanation. No why or how or whats next?
I am not enlightened here nor unworthy to call myself eternally divine.
I am not an understanding person as that sets me above.
No righteousness is homed within my marrow, cells vibrate with the waves of the ocean, no longer reacting to the 6 o’clock news.
I’m nothing recognised here, Im absolutely unravelled like the root of a willow tree. Above the water when the sun shines and submerged after the storm.
And in truth, I feel permanently sorry. Confusion rising daily, as the silence is broken by morning birdsong. I’ve forgotten what it means to be held by Great Mother and nourished by our Lords love.
So for all that is real in me, my blood that runs, let it run freely into the earth. Let that be.
My gift back, returned to Her. My life flow.
Words are constructed but my bleeding, a greater creation.
And if I could paint my face with this vibrant colour pouring from me, without outraged eyes beating back all that is natural, I would.
I’d crawl in the mud to the weathered rocks and bleed.
I’d no longer be littered with pollutive chatter nor my fins caught in wire nets, trawled to set an example or sacrificed in the name of conformance.
I am interconnected to Her, to Him, to the holy and sacred spirit. Ignited by the magic our ancestors hoped we’d comprehend, believing to be woven into our DNA. And maybe we do comprehend, more than we hope. We swim fully armoured to stay afloat yet all that is asked for us to remember the infinity of our soul is to fall. To mightily surrender to where it is only god who can carry our breath.
It would be with red on my face, bloody fingers painting so uninhibitedly that id crawl thankfully through the dirt I’ve been so desperate to clean myself from.
I hope not to be seen
By the knower that’s been
Nor the giver, the taker
The holy thou maker
Don’t ram with I think
When my life’s at the brink
‘It sure worked for them’
This rumouring stem
I hope not to be questioned
No shoulds ever mentioned
No rites to my ‘wrongs’
Fine tuning my songs
Don’t raid me with yours
Those outpouring doors
Fast halting the ripple
Black taping the nipple
Not my world, that’s you
Those rules you hold true
Keep them close, if you may
Your minute, your day