On a Roll or something

2 08 2006

MaidenCrone (faucon)

This is the night –

the one foretold by burning feathers

and protected by the blinking moon;

and I have come to watch,

to learn and grow,

and be reborn.

She is unaware – complacent,

this contemptuous Baba Yaga hag –

for her Red Sun death ritual was undisturbed

by Koshchey’s ‘burning tears of rage’,

and her silver birch has calmed

the mortar flight and spinning house.

She will leave the protection of woven bones

and stagger to the hidden glade –

known to me alone save she,

and she knows not of me,

nor ever will …

I wear the Cuin Helm — carry the Aegis Shield,

and walk with slippers of faerie moss;

and cannot be sensed by any bound

to Earth and Elements of Attention —

and this Crone Goddess

is all of that and more.

She stands alone – as is her will,

to blend with crooked branch – a nose,

and gnarled roots – her legs,

and twisted vines and phosphor mold

for hair and eyes that mask her secret

to be revealed before her friend Bright Dawn.

A glimmer – a whisper of Light

a silent arrow of awareness

and it begins …

her detached hands are ‘soul friends’

that pluck and tear at her ragged form

as if to peel bark from a rotten log,

and nothing remains of this hag

of dismal myth and reputation.

She is free – by White Horseman release –

a glimpse of being ‘tween Midnight hush

and rush of Sunrise command …

a maiden,

who I will not describe,

as this image is my gift alone

that I might tell the world by knowing –

that man’s vanity allows he only believe

that each crone is of a maiden remembered …

not the truth –

for this maiden still pulses inside,

forever young and vital,

and it cannot be else but this,

less humanity perish

and there be no need of me …

but I live on because of thee –

Mother Crone;

ever a maiden

for eternity.





Ever then in Trust (papa)

26 07 2006

A chance phrase,
inspired by another’s words —

“and each women will be,
sometime in her life a Ferry Woman
for another — about to make a journey –
not a choice either, perhaps,
but a matter of being”

and I must reflect a bit …

I recently heard a story/riddle about a journey.A woman had to cross the desert to a city six (6) days away, but a person could only carry four (4) day’s water across the unforgiving sands. So she enlisted the aid of some friends who set out with her on the perilous journey. She reached her destination in good health, and no one died during the adventure. How many friends then set out with her to make the result possible?

One answer relevant here would be to take a horse as a friend, as it could carry her and twelve day’s water – but that will not be allowed. Skip the ANSWER is you wish to ponder.

ANSWER: Two friends are all that is required. At the end of the first day each will have three rations left. One friend returns home with one ration, giving the remainder to each continuing traveler, who now have four rations each with which to proceed. At the end of the second day each again will have three rations remaining. The last friend retains two rations in order to return home; giving the other to the traveler who now has four rations to sustain the remaining four days of the journey.

Now consider this to be a journey of the soul, perhaps inward to a new sense of self. This journey may be long and you doubt that you have enough faith (spiritual strength) to sustain you (substitute ‘prayer value’, ‘magick’, ‘luck’, etc. as you wilt) and must call on friends to support you as best they may. They will sacrifice some of their ‘presence’ to sustain your journey, and might even accompany you a bit on the journey – but the final stage must be made alone. This is what the Sisterhood is all about, no?

Yet, this problem is not solvable in the manner of rationing water. The length of the journey is not known – perhaps not even the destination. The ability to transfer, or your ability to accept, spiritual strength is an ‘iffi’ thing. After all, if these things were known this journey would not be of a ‘soulful’ nature, but simply a psychological exercise in value orientation or mental ‘housecleaning’ not requiring either faith or friends.

The key to this riddle, methinks, is found in a true understanding of ‘faith’ – complete trust that whatever you do to help another, or whatever assistance you accept in fine humility, will ALWAYS come back in multitude and quality (unto eternity). The friends that journey with you can gift ALL of the spiritual strength they possess, for their journey home will be replenished in ways unknown – but it must be so, in faith. When you are sustained by such a complete gift of spiritual self from another (and more), then where-ever you arrive is where you are supposed to be, and it must be so, in faith.

The wonder then of a Ferry Woman is in both the selfless giving and the selfless acceptance; and the goal, or distance or vessel is nothing compared with your willingness to grab the oars and row in trust.





Breaking Away — AshleyShea

23 07 2006

Through a small crack I peer. The world outside my world is technicolor, so different from the black and white and shades of grey on the walls where I reside. A beckoning light shines through the crack. My nose picks up a faint wiff of fresh air. That slight sample invigorates my body. I’m hooked. I want, I NEED more.

I push against the walls of my world with all my strength. The crack widens. The view reminds me of Dorothy’s first view of the land of Oz — everything joy and sunshine. While I know this new world must also have its dark side, I’ve never seen anything as brilliant and amazing as its light side.

Pushing again on the walls of my world, this time I feel them pushing back. Chaos, rules, grey skies, finances, overburdened schedules — they all scream at me as I attempt to push them away. They tell me that the grass always looks greener on the other side. I’m safer where I am. It’s too risky to venture outside the safety of my caccoon.

I balk at their warnings. I know all about taking risks. Most risks I have taken have led me to a better world, a better life. I take a deep breath as I feel the strength rise in my body and I push away the walls of my world. I’m now free to step out and enter my new world.





In Search of The Ultimate Empyrean Cackleberry

22 07 2006

By 

Anita Marie Moscoso

If you can’t sing good, sing loud-

Winston Groom

This piece was inspired by those posts where people have written in and said that they don’t feel like their writing would ‘fit’ with the ‘theme’ of the Café Blogs.

Well, I was the original Square Peg here at the Café and I just hung and around and kept doing what I do when lo and behold people got use to me… I guess.

So I took Winston Groom’s advice, I couldn’t ‘sing’ so I sang loud.

amm

                                          fig_b08.jpg

In an ocean of emptiness a lone Cackleberry floats passed me and I think to myself “ that’s nice.” It’s pretty boring right now. Plus it doesn’t take much to amuse me. You should see my desk toys. My favorite toy is a pair of  wind-up walking feet.

I’ve painted the toenails pink and drew hair on the toes.

Poor old Cackleberry.

So, it doesn’t look like much from where I am. It doesn’t look like it has much promise at all.  Poor old Cackleberry I think to myself.

I could name it, I guess. I could lift it up and give it a home. But, who’d care? I’ll bet that if you set it next to a bunch of other cackleberries and held a contest it’d be out because it would be too small or look, it has bumps and God, what is that?

It’s even the wrong color!

Oh great, I could lift it up, dry it off, bring it to my friends and say, “ see what I found?”

Then they’d all look at me and smile, but it wouldn’t be a real smile. It’d be that smile that you see Psychiatrists give to someone before they whip the straight jacket out from under their desk.

Let it go, I say to myself…we don’t need that.

It would be best to let it go, I tell myself. I’ll just sit here and wait for the Ultimate Empyrean Cackleberry to just come my way on a tide of pure inspiration.

Sure it’ll happen…all by itself…all I have to do is wait for it.

And then in a flash my true nature appears…it comes out in high definition graphics and surround sound and it screams into my ear, “ Anita, what the hell are you doing? Get off your backside and pull that thing in. What the Hell is the matter with you? There could be ANYTHING in that Cackleberry. Anything! So will you move before it gets away?

I wade in and here I am standing up to my err, hips in goo. I reach down and pluck my imperfect Cackleberry up. In clear view of my TRUE NATURE I wipe the cackleberry off on my shirttail and wade back up to shore with it.

On my way up back up to the shore I name it Fang.

I knew a boy named Fang when I was a kid.

Fang’s adult eyeteeth came in looking like Fangs and his parents wanted him to go to the Dentist and have them filed down and capped.

He refused.

Fang was a great guy, he ran his car into the back of a truck when he was about 20 and died.

I make it back to shore with Fang in the palm of my hand and I’m feeling pleased with the both of us when I slip and fall backwards.

I hear Fang hit the ground and then I hear a crunch.

It takes me awhile but I find as much of Fang as I can and I make it back to shore with what I’ve got and then I do what I do.

 Write.





Cosmic Egg – Evolution

20 07 2006

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Evolutionary Egg,

Cosmic Mother,

Moves so fast,

Yet stays,

Protective and Protected,

Protecting.

Fear, dissolving

Cosmic Egg,

moves fast,

evolving, making, creating.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2006.)





Seeking the Divine Feminine…SoulSister

19 07 2006

Sensing Her presence,Hovering nearby—Soft breeze, gentle warmth,

Kissing cheeks;

Wide-eyed daisies,

Strain to see invisible worlds;

Leafy branches stretching wide,

Opening outwards, wanting to touch;

Roots reaching down into

Deep, dark waters,

Black river flowing underground.

Yearning rises from my belly

Taste the wanting on my tongue.





Heroine Egg

19 07 2006

I have re-written this piece from an earlier work to fit the theme

papa………………………………………………………………..

CHANT:

Now again and repeat once been

Noble life withered and forsaken

Shield as thyself from eye and sun

With staff and cloak become as one

No sight by right and silk and stone

Protect and carry pouch alone

In mem’ry’s hand bind shape and wonder

That no man crave almost yonder

A shifting in balance ‘tween expectation and be-ever’ told Aldesheen that the time was near. She settled in the natural haven formed of giant roots and broken granite dragon teeth. There was always such a place near by when a transition was called. Now again and repeat once been. Twice before she had been needed. Twice before the soft leather pouch had frayed and broken — its life withered and forsaken, yet noble for all of that. A new one was prepared by right — it had taken the maiden five years and more to finish. The waiting had been harder — and the fear. For Aldesheen was the third of the line of Worthy, and two more shifts would press her to find another Bearer. For now she could but prepare, shielding the Egg from eye and sun and greed. The ritual must begin.

Her cloak and staff completed the enclosure — less than perfect, more than was needed — yet legend told of a single ray of light — a careless glance. Well, you know the story. If not, ask your ancient grandmother of the Egg of Fittone, but only after The Bearer is far gone and was. The silk scarf was far older that the hunkered girl but served to bind the pebbles into the sockets of her eyes, ‘no sight by right’. By feel alone Aldesheen picked away the final scraps of ‘protection and carry’. Polish — caress — imagine! Then she knew its measure and the crystal treasure was nestled in this new home – a womb. Only now could she recreate the shape and wonder of the Egg between her facing palms. Its memory would be enough to sustain her for the next decade of wandering — or two. Faith had been restored and a true heroine born.

Myth held it was not spectacular in color, but no one who had ever gazed upon it ever wrote a song — just gone. Legend bespoke of light from within, and it might have been called a lens — yet it was always called the Egg — which could only bend and distort reality — creation. How then do we know? You should have guessed. I have been through the warp of the Egg and will make it so – more than myth.

The Egg is a portal, you see — but of course you cannot or you would not be here. To gaze within Fittone is a fixation — not of idea or thought, but of the creation. The Egg just stops, you see, and reality sweeps by in every imagined compass point and azimuth and rate of fury. Thus it can take you anywhere and in. Jump galaxies if you wish, or to the graveside of a friend. Distance is not the question — nor the answer, I’m afraid. It just is! What a wondrous gift. What an immeasurable wealth. What a curse!

Like many bits of magick found or held, there is a flaw within this heart of glass. Your journey can only be ‘almost’ there, my sisters; and when you almost claim success your vision and dreams shift just enough that now is still away. No woman can get what she wants and live, you silly lass, as I. It took me eighty years to return here — hardly called a life; and you would wish to hold this Egg? Quickly, let’s help the poor Aldesheen on her hapless task — and seek a slower way – another path to creation.