Our pens scratch
at simple words,
we share them
in everyday silence.
Yet here bread
is still broken,
wine ever spilt,
and poetry made.
From the outside it looks as if I’m cutting my life short
but from the inside it looks very different.
From the moment I was born I knew I was old enough to die,
for death seems to be my very purpose.
Living in order to die, I am amazed at how much
life and death seem to complete each other.
As my individuality grows so does the idea of suicide,
for until I choose death I cannot choose life.
It takes courage, I found out, to choose the ordeal of life,
to continue life knowing what a horror it is!
Some choose life because they are afraid of death,
some choose death because they are afraid of life.
Three moons shine deeply above the bed
where she lay alone, her eyes silent as ever.
While I, in my black robe, wait endlessly
until consciousness is brushed to one side.
My hands are untied by the dark Mother
who awakens to embrace me once more.
Each night I place myself upon her altar,
yielding to the Mother’s lustrous voice.
Although I cannot see her light, wet body
I lift mine higher as Witch and Soul merge.
Later, after she plants her seed inside of me,
I give her everything and more, and more.
Amongst the roses in flowery field
the ancient goddess Demeter roves,
holding close her golden pentacle.
Mother to all the Earth’s children,
every tree, creek, being and flower.
Sacred divinity with healing hands,
far from thought, devoted to body,
my earthy, pagan queen draws all.
More cultivated than fashionista,
she wears sophisticated clothes,
appreciating all finery and wealth.
A lover of luxury and lavish fare,
artistic with ample creative gifts
yet grounded in every moment.
She who looks before she leaps.
She who holds greatness of soul.