So far, soft enough, warmth comes

Pricks of starlight frothing from the formidable sky. Grey clouds smothering the moonshine. Down warmth from the old fur knitting. It’s just soft enough to sleep soundly.

Blue sun rises on frosty plains. I wake and begin the day. Warmth coming and kissing the ground. Softly melting, and bringing a hope for spring.

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Little ritual comforts

Three stones in a row

Little leaves cut off at the stem to prune the tips

Three breaths in and out

Cocoa in a hot red mug set

Dreams wrote down in a comfy book by the bed

Dancing with the birds in the morning

Wabbling dogs walking in the evening

Patterns of ritual I remember and forget

Allowing the thoughts

I’m allowed to feel bad

It’s a personal thing

Not to block out that thing that was mean

Parking it isn’t the theme

We gain more life from letting it seed

Grow from my sadness

Grow from my pain

Grow in the garden

Enigmas grow again

I’m allowed to feel bad

It’s a personal thing

Not to block out that thing that was mean

Parking it isn’t the theme

We gain more life from letting it seed

Grow from my sadness

Grow from my pain

Grow in the garden

Enigmas grow now again

Snake queen and the devils

Flames of the devils have come among us, first tickling then stabbing at our every pore jarring it future open. Blistering blood floats to the surface bringing with it further heat as if it’s been equally possessed by demonic charge.

—-

Tightly she squeezes, the serpent of winter. Sucking all the heat from the land into her body like a black hole, scaring the landscape with her frosty tendrils, and taking with her the heat. She will lay an egg mid winter and the devils will find it with their heat and incubate it, when it hatches again her daughter will scour the land in her place. Her death and corpse will lead to spring, and be turned to ash in summer. One day though, her body will not die, her daughter will not be born, the devils will not come back, as the frost envelopes the land allowing her to suck all heat forever.

Lacertae II

Ducks. Moons. Eternity. Tamed memory.

Little things I keep alive in my mind.

Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had. It’s still hard to find anything that will ever replace.

Eclipse. Moonshine. Moonstone.

Pentagram, in a illustrated book.

Never, ever, even being.

Your words that saved me. And these little things I do. Again. Again,

Pain gone? That’s a comfort. For some.

I’m trying. Trying to be worthwhile. Again. Again.

Desolation in the empty.

Insidious clouds empty snow. But they are fleeting. Dissipating.

Worthwhile? What is that to a tiny snowflake? To a duck on the lake waiting out the rain? The life that flows through us, it’s trying always to escape.

The world, the essence of it, comes from our little bits of time.

Yours, to brief.

mine still lingering

I ask why

Crosses in cloudscape

Two eggs, laid down by the corridors

Sure as mortal days escape by the west coast

Rolling boulders feel the way of the mocking birds

Roasting legs dripping starlight onto the verge

Up in my estimations, high sky crosses the absurd river of ice

Titanic served salmon on a bed of white rice

With such luscious little smiles, scales and forgiveness in the rails

It’s the day of the cowardly snails

Acacia’s in the morning, autumn weather present

No one thing has ever really described the Acacias in the morning in autumn.

When they flower in springtime, that’s when people see them.

Big yellow pom-poms hanging out egg yolks, fluffy but when wet a yellow painting that’s leaked over the grass.

It’s hard not to miss that. I suppose.

It’s in the autumn I think their best beautiful display is out, because no flowers, but they always seem a bit greener. Like they have all summer stores the green and now it’s overflowing into their leaves.

That green, it’s the best green. When the frosts come and slivers of ice melt on the leaves, the green comes out even more somehow. It’s the green of life. You can see them hold it. Store it.

Then as it matures it turns yellow and grows and they let it out with the yellow flowers, letting it spill across the country. Letting the life out, all over the ground and into the grass, the other plants, the animals and then me.

I know though, the summer will come then. The heat and rains will fall. The life will be stored again, in the acacias, the wattles. If it’s not, who knows if it will last all the winter.

On paganism and being transgender

(Most of my essays on dreaming and paganism were archived with my older blog. This is the first essay I have posted on this blog, probably not the last.)

Being both pagan and a transgender woman can be a very harsh road. As I was working out my gender identity, I learned some of the hardest people that existed in my community.

There are still Pagans who are followers of a belief that only women who had experience of a period could be “true women”. Forgetting how ableist this is for a moment, it is often explicitly directed at exclusively. Usually paraded in the name of historical accuracy, which if you ever do your reading in neopaganism you know for sure is complete bull shite.

I’m confident that such history, is ultimately flawed, even reconstructionist pagans can never hope to have an entirely accurate depiction of what the pagan cultures they reconstruct. Many modern and ancient cultures though had more than one gender, and our binary two have not always been a strict line that is followed. The whole idea of two-genders an exclusively Abrahamic idea, but it is a duality that historically has been used by those purporting to such religions have used to their advantage.

Almost all reconstructions of pagan beliefs hold that their is nothing to be done about the parts of history that have humans harming each other. Pagans were systematically persecuted for centuries. Conversely, when the pagans were in control of the government systems that did exist, the same was done to the Christians. It’s unfortunate but true. The other thing was that the pagans who did get more modern practices, those that survived to the point of the Christian church’s reach over the Roman Empire, believed that sex and gender were more fluid than those coming from the teachings of Abraham and his followers.

I’m not looking to open old wounds here. I’m looking to compare. LGBTI people often find sanctuary within the neopagan community. The idea of sex being scared, life itself is scared, and these are qualities that many LGBTI people find attractive against the raw, often strict monotheisms, though there is an issue of being excluded. Transgender and intersex people still usually are. I have seen the way too many a pagan ritual or pagan woman’s group that has said I have to have been “born” and or “blood” or have experienced it. I have heard of similar men’s rights that require a penis, or the ability to ejaculate. I think we also shouldn’t go into the “cakes of light” stuff from the often pagan aligned occultism. How LGBTI people can fit into some of this is usually a big question that some of these paths answer, others never even consider, and some make explicit that LGBTI people are just not yet welcome.

So I exclude myself. Work only with women who see me as a woman. Who actually know “biology” is far more complicated. That “Mother Nature” is a fallible woman. That many animals exist in the single-gender environment, swapping their physical gender due to temperatures, age, status etc. The gods to some pagans are infallible just like they are to the Christians. Such a thing seems insanely dull to me. The gods are changing, movable, malleable, and almost every mythology tells of a god or goddess changing their mind or forced to due to their situation or needs. Strict rules are often bent, broken or in some case just plain ignored. Why then can us supposedly fallible humans not be the same?

I’m hopeful myself that these things are something more of the pagan community sees as sacred. The ability for the changeable divine. The transgender divine even. The gods are always going to have to change as we do. One day, maybe we will find how to change as quickly as they.

Murcury is not dead 

Kill the message.

Kill the messenger. 

Murcury is not death, though

His is as deceiving as any one can tell

A theith and a lair, Larunda will not tell though

For cutthroat Jupiter hastily cut out her tounge 

You may think, that Murder has beseeched the messenger of the gods

You forgot they are just as tricksy as us if not more

But what else is a god, but the very hardened psychosis of us poorly mortals 

Impart said the speckled frog

Impart, impart, impart 
Said the speckled frog

I’m walking in this soft moist bog

And a Willy wag tail squeaks 

Be curt be curt be curt and cerful, thicker bushes

I squelch and simmer in the heat and avoid the bushes 

A duck startles me 

Map! Map? Map! 

I check and see I’m indeed of course 

Onwards to the swamp gums on the bank a kookaburra yells

Crockcrockacrockaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

I hasten my retreat and avoid the area and get to my destination

Their in a little clearing is a old wise serpent whom I’m sure will tell me more I need to know

Limit of a string (a spell)

Every string is concerned

Don’t believe me?

I’m not surprised my love

This is why I tie you up 

In these binds

Listen to my voice

As you know how to trust me

Learn how to trust this truth
Feel this loop it is the roots they are strings 

Tighten blood bonds on your feet 

You walk on these 

Boots
Reach into the trees leaves, 

More strings 

Careful caressing will reveal 

Touch as swoon you will, to you hair the 

Breeze
Phantom of my life, atoms are all

Strings tied into little balls

Tie into strings connect

A little lonely

Fletch
Fishermen in a lake, and yours is great

Little liquid form

A thick string to plumb the depths 

Rope that’s now 

Wet
Dismal bloods, beads out like water

Watch and see it thicken

It is sap from the tree

Thickens scabs that the strings can be seen 

Ties 
You see the boots walk on the roots 

Winds blow you stringy hair

Tied by the fletch 

Wetter by the lake

Ties again with the blood
Strings are connected together my love

Just as you are to them 

Wattle Road

Shine on that spring sunshine 

I’ve got that green and yellow on my mind

I taste the air, I take my time

Down wattle road, see the sign 
All those suits, give into the grind

I’ve never seen people so blind

The wattle road is very kind

Flowers green and gold for all their lives 
I’m taken by this weekend bold 

The frosts still grasps at being being cold

I’m not going anywhere else in the world except wattle road 

The facilities of a rose

Do not forget the power of a rose

It’s wise words to those who know

The rose comes with not thorn, but prickles that I can assure you do not tickle

Should you come across a wild thickit; I advise that it’s not a place where in to play cricket 

The sunny maze I’d welcome in flower, from now till the dying hours

Piece of the rose, it’s wise words to those who know 

Coolabah seranade 

Changed and charged to the chanting of the hazy summers

Rising steamy visions of the mirage 

Eagle flying and searching 

Barely a cloud above the scorched red earth 

A creekbed just below his ancheint sandles

Waiting in this sunlit virtually brings you to feel hell

Then suddenly a whisper from the tree

The dance of the new rains will begin 

  

Endures, the Perl

Well that wasn’t even the justice of the curls in the system 

I’m sore as a whole bunch of petitions 

Piles of cheats and gassing hermits in leering metal boxes

so I hear they melted down the ox’s

Great beanie islands, sitting in a million times their volume of views

Ques, cues

I anguished. I stepped. I swore are you doing not the right sight. That true box of things that weels it’s place, seems to know more about your directions 

Curly, your just like them 

Grenadine, mixed in tears of a virgin

Lonely, like a oyster 

You will blame the system then the others

Never see the ocean of muck you are in

Is that your fualt? Your future?

I’m just a pearl

I’ve got no cleavage to cut with

I’m anguish, I’m hatred, down into the salty sand I will fall when your gone but a memory in the heart of the ocean.

I’m part of a potion

Coming into the second hands higher than thou attitude 

I’m just dirt. I’m not nothing, but it’s how some will see me. 

Carrion

Given into the dark

Rotting, slouches of flesh

Eating, crunching, mandibles slicing

Casings filling the remaining bits

Soil, aches full of the noises

Revving, is the true job

Dirty, dark, disgustingness is the frame

Really, you are just a nessasarry part of the whole 

Carrion, I salute you 

Haze of life

I walk the streets, feeling meek
A cloud above my head
Feeling utterly dead
What was that they said?
I’m not able to hear
Fear, hate, they are dear, to me
The haze of life around them
Their plastic lovesick pup and the leash they are on
At least they could try to see the whips of their barren masters
They are created casters of spells you cannot tell

I walk the streets feeling meek
The haze of these things in the air
I try to show them how things grow
Through the pavement path my children sowed
The path is poisonous though, it suffocates them
I still try
Maybe some hear my song
Sheltered by the tree one stands
She smells different
I see the haze has lifted from her eyes

One of them
The rest of the day goes well
Walking the streets feeling not as meek
Then I come back to where she was
And they, those sprits of plastic
Like a cloak on her back
Trying to re create the haze
She looks at me and sees me
No one has ever seen me for centuries

I tell her I am Jack
I have your back
Now you see
You will be free like me
And then there are two of us
Walking the streets, feeling not as meek
Maybe we will find more soon
My feet are so tired

Tree, a life of

Ground swallow me whole. Become my comfort.

Spirals form and twist me inside out. The wind comes and gently touches my form.

Ice falls and inside the moon.

My eye opens and three gardens of life form.

Clouds of stars above, striking the sky above as a blessed drum.
Punctured beats singing abound my head and captured for a moment by my senses.

In the morning my three gardens full with joy, open and sleep again each evening.

Breath takes my flesh like fire as a new garden forms. Again and again. Bare the old dead garden falls. It has had a good place on my form, I will grow others.

Drink the cold rain.

Endure the freezing ice.

Celebrate the new spring as I seek a new way. Send a message.

Send a new path.

The flowers grow, like my gardens but less whole, less lived. They last but a few settings of the life giving light.
But they are replaced by this feeling.
A new path is forming.
Not just one.
Many millions.
It blossoms. It rages. It aches me to our all the spring and some summer into these… Things. My body compels.

They are gone. One sunrise. I again store all the gardens joy inside. Wait for the cold.

Year and year.

Day and day.

Until I feel a prickle. A itch.

Then I am on the ground. It swallows me whole. And the former self reborn, I find myself starting back.

Orange Hag

A unpleasant air makes the climb all the harder
For age has made these bones as old as the land under her feet
And no one will help her
Not that anyone is hear to
A lone pine sits watching her smugly from its permeant residence
Waiting to snark at her slow approach
Not one but many more steps before the summit is reached

The hag begins to wonder
Why do this every time?
For love?
For hate?
Because otherwise all like her will no longer be?
Maybe it would feel better if it wasn’t for that smug tree

When the sun finally rises she stops to rest
Her luncheon of nuts and dry meats
Consumed in teeth that hang on
Chomping as loud as she can
No one cares what noise happens up here

Up again and bones creek
It’s not far now
Past that pine
There is a pool
Full of summers last wine

She looks at her reflection
It’s older that she thought
She takes out a spoon and drinks
Sip by sip the memories of the summer past are drunk
At the end she feels a bit sunk
By all the memory in her full belly

Then it’s time.

A flash and she’s back to being all dark and mysterious, still aged but black and not orange
The Winter Hag looks at the empty pool and says
“Pine. You always keep the memory so strong. I wish I could keep such strong memory. ”
And as she walks a into a nearby hut, you could swear the pine was now somehow even more smug than before.

Mud

Given soil
Grey and wet and old
Silken or gritty
Mould to your skin so deep
Pithy and meek
Hidden toil

Sign to be written
Hands hope and given
Your given permission
One cloudy shape
Nods it’s head and makes
Gesture your to follow

Down into the mud you go
Open wounds, scared flesh
Burdened and blackened mess
Decaying, crying, hated, dying
But your ready for the mud

It’s sucking you down
Fear and fright comes first
Maybe something makes you fight
Struggle again, but you are so tired
And soon it’s all around
You find it doesn’t suffocate
It’s mud that gestates

You one day have healed
Your wounds no longer open are sealed
Up comes the sun and bakes the clay
Renewed by the Earth and day
Then you see your renewed

Clay doesn’t lie
So wounds of untruth, left there in a brick of clay
That, you will have to deal with another day
Physical hurts are gone
And those you will not mourn

Wheat eyes in harrow

Harrow, the wheat is wet by the summer rains
Slice and chop the chaff and crop every last grain

Upon my face the heat and warmth of the touch
Inside my heart the fire of the hate

Crop and cut and the burn the stubs
I can’t feel the same

The hill above is coved with clover and sundew and pain

I grip in my hands my mothers crown and perhaps fame
But am I my mothers child, or is it just her name?

In court we haggle, in offices we barter, we trade friends and play power games
Do they give the chance to those like me whom have not the brain?

No we crop the soil and tend the earth, when they bite on there good they thank us none the same

But the hill is always there, and the wheat. I am here cropping the wheat. A bug has eaten its pollen, and a worm has eaten the chaff. I will also be eaten one day.

Eaten, and consumed, like eyes on a perfect page of poetry that makes you feel insane.

Season

In the embers of spring I warm the cackles of my heart. My hair aflame, rosy red like fresh loam cut by a silver hand.

Black ash crumbles and dries in my hands as I spread it on the cherry leaves. The slugs that parasite it’s essence shrivel in the sun. I feel sad for then but know enough will survive to pass to the next generation. They will also have me to spread the spring ash on there leaves. I look and see the ever ripening cherries, I mutter a pagan prayer and bless the leaves in summer. Wind picks some of the ash and takes it far away.

Peace and the fog come in autumn. Both old friends together they blanket everything in their grasp. I feel as covered and comfortable with them as I do with my jacket and jeans. A freshly born baby in a blanket, cooing to herself. The bath water is warm but still.

Winter earthy frost. Still. Dark. Nights. Fear and truth walk hand in hand in a brothership of equals. The earth comes out of her ancient home and takes a cup to every tree and every animal. Some drink, some don’t. The old green man, her husband takes those who have-not drunk, lights little candle under those who have.

Then a fire is lit in a old grove. It leaves the ash ready for spring.

Sides

Inside they are

But our speaking has lemon taste

Thinking purple thoughts

Tarts on a smorgasbord of emotions

Split down a fine line

Interchange and find both

The path is not clear but is not distant

It’s a funny feeling but it’s not poison. So it is eaten.
The food tastes bitter. Hunger makes it like the brightest star on night of dark shadows and stormy secrets.
The path goes towards a forest.

It is forbidden. None can enter unless they are of a different flavour cake. The choice just a few minutes has consequences.

Purple thoughts rose into red dark eyes and splits the soul in twain.

One goes back and eats the other flavor. It’s silken milky drops from the eyes of a new born foal, it’s juniper ripe on a Sunday after the last summer rain, it’s strawberries slowly melting in a early autumn snow.

Then the split one travels the forest. It’s path is still unclear, but in its pocket is a treasure. A secret box containing the other.