Sunday, December 27, 2020

I dream of pesto (a failed poem)

The morning after

the day after

the day after

the night before Xmas

The killer awoke

put his boots on

and he walked on down the Hall

and he came 2a door

looked inside

and spake thus:

doc

ima gunna STONE YOU

--- I dream of making pesto with acorns by, uh... NUN E. MUSS


The Alchemist, Geoff, was in a purple haze. 



Monday, December 21, 2020

for #WhiteAmerica



The bread of continents,
the Blood of Africa was broken was shed


#erasure
#inclusive


#BlackLivesMatter

#Amen 

The Mother

 "Thus spake the Prophet," Maryam to the gathered children, dryad youth assembled under bearing branches of Her Sacred Oak in the Grove of Plenty. Rapt faces receive the light of wisdom, Herstory of Herwakening, arising on the wings of Phoenix from the ashes, Petroleum Aged.

Awakening to the Return of the Mother.

God is Love.

Mother love.

Goddess is the Mother.

Amen.

Sunday, December 20, 2020

Woman, you are Noise.

 Woman, you are Noise

in my life.


When She created the world,

the Earth so perfectly formed,

did she rejoice? No.

It was not good.


Some thing was missing.

St. Thomas tells the tale:

Long She considered

what the element could be

which rendered this perfect picture of creation


sterile.

Void

and without form.


Then Her other half, 

the Trickster, 

with Coyote cunning spoke.


Spake he thus: "Add noise."


And it was good. It was. Glorious!

Saturday, December 19, 2020

The Offering

I returned to the smell

of incense in the air

Her favorite from monks

in Italy


Did you throw incense in my fire,

I asked,

perturbed and wondering its effect

on the Seed to be roasted.


No, She said and I saw

by the bed

the small censer

with their offering


So I returned

to the fields

gathered murta and louro

and two times seven Seed

sprouted and not


And took in my hands 

the iron submitted to Her Will

Opened and placed the offering

of myrtle

laurel

and acorns within,

covered,

and placed on the ashes

of Her desire.



And in the fullness of Time,

O Patience! of Time,

they opened, the Fruits offered,

spreading wide their riven shells

to expose

the naked essence,

perfumed in Glory.



Friday, December 18, 2020

The Vth Chapter

He left his car in Ardrossan and took the ferry, crossed over.

Climbing slowly, stopping to enjoy the pleasant day, take photos with his Master’s eye. He listened to the bird song, smiling as he imagined their innocence, their free flight in the groves, their beauty, and the crunch of their little bones between his teeth.

The trail was quiet as he climbed, the day reserved for him, the Quiet One, to observe and measure, as was the Talent granted by his Master. That One waited as he climbed, pleased with the work in progress, with himself, looking forward to the festival afterward. So pleased indeed that he did not note at first, nor care when he did, the fog that rose with his ascent. It came slowly, inexorably, surrounding and caressing him, the faithful one, with the tenderness of a gourmand.

The Quiet One stopped, puzzled, a sound? A chuckle?

The mist cleared beneath him on the trail, and he turned, saw, the master, his Master, standing, a smile on his red, bloody lips.

Master, he said with some alarm, You startled me. Were you behind me?

I am with you always, the apparition replied. Well done, my good and faithful servant, he spoke with a warmth that penetrated the chill of the morning fog.

The Quiet One felt it then. The ground beneath his feet. Opened. And he fell.

Contract fulfilled, the Assistant smiled.







The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!

I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts. 

Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back. 


The Assistant's Outrage

Madness! the Assistant shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. The Editor looked up, blinking. I warned you, he continued, the man cannot write a cookbook to save his life! He is utterly insane! And slapped a printout down before Him. Cancel his Contract!

A pause.

Not yet, the Editor replied softly.  









The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!

I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts. 

Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.