Look into the mirror of your soul,
come see yourself, just as you are!
For the hierophantic spark within
excites us to know ourselves well,
to discover our spiritual heritage,
finally become a magician of sorts.
Jupiter, King of the Gods and Sky,
heavenly witness to solemn oaths.
Inside our dreams the hierophant,
that heavenly channel of wisdom,
papal guide, takes us by the hand
guiding us to our spiritual wealth.
Where intersected keys are raised
to discharge each slumbering soul.
He who avows his quest for Truth.
He who recognises he is not Truth.
In golden crown and white beard
the Emperor sits upon his throne.
In his right hand the crown of life,
in his left he decrees self-mastery.
All father, he governs and guards,
ruling with rock hard domination.
Yet we kneel with solemn thanks,
for only the Immortals rest above.
As a sound, long-standing leader
he valiantly creates eternal worth,
showing the poet how to achieve
true individuality in the universe.
Willing to lead rather than follow,
the poet writes with new purpose.
He who has been there, done that.
He who wears armour to prove it.
Queen of Earth, sister of Heaven,
most peaceful, abundant Venus.
Each star upon her golden crown
merges her to the spiritual realm,
where her name is seen as desire,
flying on love, enclosed in wings.
A full and fruitful Earth Mother
who bids the poet her open arms.
Deeply female she loves to create,
bringing forth her ideas with joy.
Imagination, labours of true-love,
sit high upon her romantic heart,
where word-dreams come to life
and pulse within the poet’s yield.
She who is liberal with emotions.
She who affirms loving kindness.
Most sacred daughter of the Soul,
queen of the stars and high Eden,
she who tends the gate to eternity.
Deeply natural, the High Priestess
alone wears Hekate’s triple crown
and peacefulness upon her heart.
Under her left foot, waxing moon,
on her lap the noblest of all books.
Here we take an esoteric journey.
For after enchantment, only truth
will decide whether the poet gets
entry to pass by the guarded veil,
into the mystical goddess temple,
where dark foresights lay hidden.
She who surrenders to be herself.
She who meets with fate to serve.
As the poet takes her balcony seat
to see the greatest show on Earth,
the magician takes shape on stage.
Their eyes meet at the mystic table,
where each suit of divination lays
within mind, body, spirit and soul.
Merlin stands alone in white robe,
red cloaked before the table of life.
She watches him as his right hand
holds a wand raised heaven-high,
while his left hand points to earth.
“As above, so below!” he declares,
as grace, virtue and light descend,
transforming midnight into dawn.
He who quests to perfect his craft.
He who seeks spiritual excellence.
The poet reflects on the cliff’s edge
with a pure, inspiring naturalness,
her greatest journey about to begin.
In her left hand a single white rose,
granting her virtue, purity of soul.
Knowing she is protected by love,
she holds softly the faith of a child,
hearing not the whispers of others.
The artist who plays the wild card,
in search of liberty, love and truth.
She who steps out of the shadows,
her spirit in pursuit of open spaces,
spellbound by the sacred feminine,
a blank scroll of infinite possibility.
She who wanders in peace not fear.
She who leaves the past behind her.
At certain times of the year, mostly in times of battle,
two dry sticks rubbed together light the ancient pipe,
since this year’s suffering has nearly swept the board.
For even as peace burns all tribes are affected by war.
As smoke trails round, poetry turns my body full circle
onto dropped knees, until the door of my heart, sacred
shrine for the Creator, opens. The holy traveller enters,
seeking sanctuary and shelter for the light of the world.
As the poet goes up in flames,
the fire sways under the stars,
unfolding its tentacular arms
to hold tight the wooden box,
while, burning inside, embers
ignite the Soul’s cosmic eyes.
In the graveyard, kinfolk wait
with the hollow already dug.
Sad faces with twisted fingers
upturned to the shamed sky.
Dogs bristle with sorrow,
ready for the howl of death.
Words weave through
the tapestry of my life.
Travelling within the threads
lies a hidden language,
sanded under time.
It speaks to me
of a story I heard long ago.
History owns the language,
therefore, the storyteller.
To excavate truth I unpick stitches,
learn to interweave words,
revising them to my own speech.
And what of these woven words?
When I am ninety-two
they take me from my bed.
Dressed in my floral nightie,
I am more than ready to return.
Somewhere in the distance
I hear a blast of music,
as the song gathers itself.
It’s been on repeat this past week.
All silver and shining,
I wake to put pen to paper.
Still writing down dreams,
loving these croning years.
At 70 years of age
I give up work on my birthday,
to hold my partners hand
and dance around supermarkets.