spinning

She spin dark brown clay, forming body and mind into soul
She spin her child into bird and lion and dolphin and mermaid
She then place clay inside her womb and fire it into human,
mixed with everything Earth and sky,
gift wrapped in gold and silver glittered orange box
and purple satin ribbons
She fire arms and legs, limbs strong and supple,
eyes wide and dark, mind sharp and ready
She fire child until colors vibrant and set,
a female child she dreamed of, dreamed day and night,
until the clay find its way into her hands
Then she spin and spin until something form
something for Earth to remember
Until she feel her womb igniting furnace heat,
heat to fire clay, fire night, fire light, fire life
She fire her child into existence, from wanting, from love,
a new creature now landed on Earth
from spaces inside a body fired to create life,
fired to let there be life,
and there was.

the witch of the aegean sea

I want to tell you a story about a short stout woman who lived on the island of Lemnos in the Aegean Sea. She fished barefoot next to her shadow just before the sun found her copper face and presented her to the world. By the culture’s warped standards, she was not pretty. But she was a clever moonlight witch with a cauldron for each day of the week, including a special Sunday cauldron meant specifically to raise something dead. She knew that at the rate the world was going, she’d spend many Sundays searching for the left tooth of a hippopotamus and the right hind leg of a field mouse, the primary ingredients needed to raise the dead. Then there was the distilled water that could not be purchased in plastic gallon bottles from a supermarket shelf. Those were tainted. They’d been sitting too long and around far too many fearful souls who believed in too many gods. The energy was all wrong; so she, Alda, had to distill the water herself, a process that took several days and a large beacon handblown by a sad naked virgin with butterfly tattoos covering most of her body. Alda had watched the process many times before and sometimes joined the virgin, her clothes tossed over chairs and tables in solidarity.

(to be continued)

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mortal words

i’ve decided that i don’t want to write, not with my hands anyway.

i want to think words onto paper and screens and leaves and stones and skies. i want words to fall onto the sand and clay soil, carved into ice and cave walls.

i want words to appear on my skin, spinning stories of a life lived and yet to be.

i don’t want pen and ink. no, that is not enough.

i want the words to manifest, conjured from my soul and eager to find themselves atop anything that is not immortal. so they can one day fade, fade, fade, then join the ancestors.

i want my words to live for a million years then without warning meld into the akashic records that house everything we have ever known and ever will. yes, even the words must leave here.

mortal words seeking immortality.

so don’t ask me to write with my hands. it is not enough. it will never be enough.