abbreviated autumn

i was outside earlier, and i could smell winter.

not autumn.

full blown, icy, frosty, foreboding winter.

just that fast.

a week or so ago, i could barely stand to wear long sleeves,
now i'm chilled to the bone.

i can almost see snow on the horizon.

the strange thing is that i'm almost looking forward to the cold
and the dark
and the disappearance of the sun.

it seems i'm determined to glimpse what crone-hood is like.

it justifies my search for
quiet
peace
solitude.

i've been nesting with no promise of a baby--
at least no physical one.

hopefully this means true rebirth in spring...

inspiration

"...the holy ghost / and all those other covered women" ~saul williams

something in me wants to speak to that, but the words aren't coming.

there are so many "covered women" in the faiths of the world. so many goddesses made into sanitized saints.

fear of the womb is killing the planet.

this needs to be more than it is...

praying the wolves away

while on a pilgrimage, i had to pray the wolves away.

clear my mind
show no fear
hold on to the baby
(she didn't cry. not once.)
kneel, heartbeat steady
imploring babaluaiye
to keep his messengers from harming us

they were not hungry
or murderous
but searching for falsehoods and arrogance
somehow i seemed to know
and kept calling on sakpata

they passed us by...

reality

i have a serious thing about fulfillment. i am not a pleasant person when i am unhappy or dissatisfied.

i don't expect to be free of desire, nor do i see the absence of desire as a natural state--unless your desire is warped into addiction.

if and when i begin to feel dissatisfied or distressed, i'm learning to shift reality, to make things look, sound and feel the way i want and expect them to.

i think people get caught up in understanding that process in a negative sense, i.e., you have to hurt or harm others to achieve that goal.

you don't.
you do not have to universally impose your will to achieve your bliss.

the universe has created a space for you--you do the work to find or open that space.

the need to bend others to your will is a sign of weakness and laziness. conquering isn't the same as mastering.

i don't need to make over anything not worth my ashe.

i voice the desire, i move towards the space.

the worlds of work and drudgery will never act as mother.

the earth and the universe will.

jesus, mary and...

something from last september. just found it again...there are entirely too many notebooks lying around my house...

i, mary magdalene
seven sinned slut
of red hair and impossible curves
showered with my jesus' gifts
candles
fragrant timber
honey jars full of
anointing oil
and a map
to lead me
back home

you don't have to crucify yourself
and i don't have to hide my divinity
behind ill conceived notions of purity

we can build a villa
on the shores of the dead sea
bless the bathers from our porch
lay the foundation of new myths
when visitors attempt to classify
the sounds of our lovemaking

i can shake my shekere
while you learn the drums
wind my hips to your other rhythms
in ...inbetween-thighs time

...all the things
i miss most
when we're between incarnations

come and kneel

let
us
pray...

goodnight, moon...

it must be past my bedtime...

i need to rest, but i'd also like to travel.

drift into another level of being, something simultaneously separate from and intermingled with my self.

wander through rich, jewel toned dreams full of sweetness, kissed by the breezes outside my window.

maybe i'll get to fly.

those kinds of dreams need a soundtrack--stairstep voices facilitating travel between visions. sound and symbolism.

or maybe an old fashioned feather bed...high off the ground, set in mahogany, draped in snowy gossamer sheets of cotton and silk embroidered pillowcases. situated in an eastern bedroom filled with morning sun that eases through delicate french doors.

what would it mean to be wrapped in strong, brown arms on that morning, in that room, in that bed, after those dreams?

what i get for carrying on a conversation with u...

you travel my soul
godlike

exploring terrain with
fingers
eyes
hands

emboldened by the wisdom of creation.

about me...

there is something about me
that cannot be easily explained away or justified...

too human to be mystifying,
i am growing into an unrooted tree--
all the wisdom, none of the entrapment.

my energy flows in fits and starts,
'cause this place doesn't always give you what you need to run right.
but i'm remembering that i was meant to live with open eyes,
fully vetted in the ways of spiritual humanity.

there is no need
to train me
or point me in the right direction--
i will swim my way home, thank you.

my father is the bearer of lightning.
my mother is the sweet hush of the river.

the masculine and feminine meet in me.

heaven lies behind one of my mind's doors.

love

there's so much to say,
and nothing at all.

speculation is pointless,
and so are the visions that haunt me when i look at you.

you don't need me on your conscience.
and i don't need you on mine.

...the little lies i tell the part of myself that always wants a little more. the strumpet who's never content with just one.

there are so many dull, inconsequential meetings in life. it's a shame to waste the ones that could mean something more.

...that doesn't mean i don't enjoy monogamy. i do.
but i have a lot of love to give.
i want to share. it's a compulsion.

sometimes, one person's not enough to hold it all.

it'd be invigorating to have the freedom to say, "wait for me a moment, please, while i love this person a little closer to divinity. i'll be back directly. i promise."

i don't break my promises. i would return--and allow you to love as necessary in the meantime.

i'm sure it would only happen once every few years, at most.

but who could stand that?

i have learned that most people have just enough love for themselves--if that--and that, sometimes, they're able to squeeze out enough for the mates that come along. or the children that come along the way.

a paucity of love makes beings selfish, insecure. believers in lack.

i hate that fact profusely. it limits my movement in the world.

mystery

i seem to nullify creativity, suffocating it in layers of bills and responsibility.

an artist with no art, no fire under my feet.

leaps of faith seem to be beyond my understanding.

i keep wondering what it's going to take for me to be me.

how can i define my dreams? does a medium exist that can make sense of my visions and voices?

what's holding me back?