Tag Archives: writing

in progress: the only language that matters

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Orange peels

A wise woman tells me,
make space, new ideas will come

and so I try to identify
what I no longer need.

When the world is burning,
not somewhere else but here

and collectively we know that it will be a while
before this dark is over,

still, it is only a small shattering
and maybe the specific path does not matter

maybe orange peels in a pile in the sink
don’t have to mean anything

and maybe when it feels like we are
living in a circular world

with no doors
or answers,

when there is so much fire
everywhere

inside
and out

when forward motion
feels better –

we keep moving
as if action is the only language that matters

maybe the hardest part
is always allowing things to die.

in process: speaking up, and teaching our daughters to do the same

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Speak up

This is the thing I want to say:
when I was young
I never knew that there was
more than one path open to us,
that we could make the difficult choice
but I want you
to know it.

Sometimes I don’t know how to do
the thing that I have to do,
the thing that I have chosen.

Sometimes my
skin feels inside out
and my body like it is in 12
places at once.

Sometimes I try to tell someone
but I am behind glass.

No one can hear me.
No one can see my face
without a blur hiding its detail.

Lately I am a calm sea
quiet, with slow, constant motion
but no release.

The small waves
are lulling me into a trance
that will take me through
the long days of darkness
and winter and waiting

but this false calm
cannot last.

I am ready now
to show my
true face.

I am made of fire and earth
and they do not hide.

I look around and see
so many others still hiding

and I wonder why we keep
trying to exert ourselves
over things clearly
so much more
powerful than
we are.

Blue Hour Anthology accepting submissions

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Hi all, My fellow editors and I have decided to open submissions for Blue Hour Anthology number 4. We are delighted to bringing this back and are so excited to see what everyone sends us.

So please send your visual art, poetry or short prose submissions to bluehourmagazine@gmail.com by March 15th.

We are responding to submissions as they come in so send them on over!

Thanks!

Mabon writings

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Dreaming of the dead and the not yet born

I am a gatherer of bones
Who finds stories and tries to remember them,

I have some of yours
Kept close

and now you’re gone from this world
and you were gone
For me
Long before that –
but I cannot remember why.

Sometimes it feels
like floating
Or flying
Or falling

but sometimes power comes
from giving in
or leaving behind.

Now I am afraid
but my fear and the
ever present eventual goodbye
make the creating feel more vital

and so on a day when the
anger is all
encompassing

I imagine them nearby
walking barefoot over rocks
and dipping toes
into cold water

listening and
waiting
patiently
for her turn.

And when I think I am alone
driving through the dark,
that I am the only one,

I remember that we are never the only ones

so when it is time to step away
I turn my back quickly
and even that
small movement
begins to bring relief.

 

Needles

The slow death of winter
comes

and though I try to remain distant
I cannot help but hope

so I lean in with a hard yes
working diligently at what I can control
and releasing what I can’t.

And when the only answer
is I just don’t know,
try to realize that
this is our beginning.

Speak it out loud,
and then
go outside
to play in the snow.

Maybe that is the first step,
to let out a wild and authentic laugh
as I sled down the long hill of our snow
covered backyard as the moon rises

and maybe clarity in something easy
will help bring the rest of the world into alignment,
back into the light.

Maybe we will reject these rules
and decide to make new ones,

maybe we throw away those old maps
realizing finally that we can make our own.

In process – messages to myself

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For weeks
I have been living
Inside a large ball of grief

Where pleasure and pain
And sleep and dreams
Seem to mix together
and its difficult to
tell top from bottom

And its many sources
Turn into one unintelligible beast

I have no words for it
Only a big dark hole in my insides
Full of dread and anger
And hopeless sadness
and so much fear
and I want someone to tell me
yes this is horrible
But it will get better
You will not always have this hole
It will fill with something better
Eventually

Just wait
Just slow down
Hold still
Let arms wrap around you
Let voices reach you
Just be still
And see if it feels any different
When you are quiet
If you can see another side
Or hear a bird calling
Brining you to another possible path
There are so many possibilities
Dear one
So many ways you cannot yet see

Maybe take a walk
Go up a hill and see how it looks from above
Change your vantage point
Breath the clean air
Speak to the trees, the ancient ones
With so much wisdom for us
Speak to them and then be still
And see if they speak back

Just try.
Even if it feels useless.
And when you don’t know who you can trust
And you doubt your own insides
Trust the trees and the ferns and the mushrooms
And all those ancient growing things
That belong to the earth
She is our mother and will not steer you wrong.