- Listen to the sun.
- Answer foxglove bells.
- Heed the wisdom of animals.
- Open a portal.
- Glimpse the waking dream.
- Grab a handful of magic.
Violets are blue my dear, roses are red
Henry loved Anne but he chopped off her head.
They called her a witch and a sorceress too
Her web of six fingers as proof it was true.
She swore her own innocence till her last breath
Yet slice of the ax brought her to bloody death.
Some say she still haunts us, more angry than most
All guests at the Tower, beware of Anne’s ghost!
There is an incline in the forest where bluebells blossom, dense as grapes, heady as lilac. I stretch out on my back. Green stems, like octopus tendrils, tangle my hair. The land shifts perpendicular. Down, down I slide, damp earth brushing my elbows. I land with a soft jolt onto ripe grass. The smell is beetroot, radish and earthworm.
Underground rogues, fey and trolls
guard hidden treasure
beneath marbled walls. They keep
secrets, bargain dark wishes.
From a fog, metallic as pyrite, they emerge. Blue skin, sapphire eyes that stare still as stone. One of them hands me a violin. Aged from wear and tear, its wood is warped, strings stretched. With a rickety bow, I play. Joyful noise spills from my fingers.
And yet. I do not know a single note.
Happy Summer Solstice! “Always go with fairies.”
He is our first strength
Paragon of protection, mentor and guide.
Not forcing but gently
Taking the lead
To help us
Across life’s bumpy, funky, troubled and complicated
To all the Dads:
A dark moon shines, dead of night, invisible to the naked eye. Mounted with power we wait, a quest of
dreams deep. There is a secret unspoken: The best creation comes from
in the sad reprieve, the fluttering grief of our darkest hour.
She is the first
pink smile, bright force, propagator of all
has but one egg, he a thousand sperm
and for that they place her
on a pedestal
to knock her down again and again.
She weeps. She bleeds. Endures
a maze of obligations in simple
Obscurity. Her work is the hardest, her task Divine
sandwiched between the pure Maiden
and waning Crone.
Not all are mothers, but all have a mother.
On this day, honor yours.
They fuse our vanity with imperfection, reflecting bone hair skin
undeciphered as we preen
fuss, adjust every eyelash every detail
fall prey to an astounding
Caught perpendicular, a grim imitation, false
passed like alchemy though glass, copper, halide
and silver, a vast shattering
We are not
what we Are.