Wounded Feminine

On entering the tunnel, I see her –
pallor a notable shade of ghostly

Tattered, her dress hangs in billowing
folds of transparency; she beckons

No words pass between us, but
her haunting gaze begs audience

So, I bear witness to her tale –
a gruesome re-enactment of her death

Slow and agonizing, her femininity
scalded and tortured till flesh festered

and infection drove her to madness –
no solace offered, no medicine rendered

No more than a child, I now see –
a tragic retelling of innocence turned victim

Do not look away, her spirit commands,
the suffering continues, and I will haunt

Till justice recognizes the crime
and restitution restores balance.

(Reena’s Xploration offered the opening line, and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt – notable– added to the narrative. This apparition appeared to me in that tunnel between waking and sleep, begging that I share her story. Image my own)

Dreaming Archetypal

She rises from the river –
a culmination of my prayers
and tears, I suppose

Eyes glow with a ungodly hunger
Is she predator or night prowler
I wonder, frozen from fright

Disinterested in ego, ignoring
perfection, she multiplies
her energy frenetic

I try to harness her,
tame the primal, raw force
fear I cannot house her

But she is no one’s property
moves with fluidity, a shapeshifter
mythical in her stride

Like Eve, she is original sin
searching for deeper meaning
beyond this man-made paradise.


(Image and poem originated in a dream. Not sure I did the message justice but it begged delivery.)

Black Madonna, Revisited

Remember that Autumn,
we drove up to Campbell River,
like teenagers, skipping out of class –
a cackle of women, spiritually forming?

Felt as if we had bided our time, willing
this union to occur – high on anticipation,
giddy that our routine femininity had
been strewn across the barricades
of our socially contrived existence.

We were like lesbian lovers, unafraid
to explore our crevices, our souls
hungering for release…

We were researchers, reinventing masks
adopted in formative years, stretching
our capacity to believe…

awakened by the crones amongst us,
sisters united, standing in the the flood
of our collective herstory, shedding
the padding of our religious upbringing,
teetering on the brink of a lost divinity.

Weavers, once paralyzed by the guck
of patriarchal dictates, fear of ascension
retreating, we broke free, immersed in
Goddess splendour, felt the ecstasy
of true abandonment, were wild women
unrestrained, catalysts for change.

How is it that the passion faded so abruptly –
that motherhood and responsibility, and
the rigours of competing in daily life stripped
away the afterglow, smacked me back into
this rigid self-definition, prayerful, thankful,
yet lacking the empowerment of the island?

Have I stored her somewhere; is there even
a space within me capable of housing such
expansiveness, open to wading once again
in the waters of a lunar deity, wiling to sacrifice
superficiality for the compassionate mystery
of the Black Madonna haunting my memory?

( Black Madonna first appeared here in November of 2016.  I resubmit her (edited)  Art mine)

Mystical She

Like silk

whispering across my skin;

a gentle mist

kissing my soul;

kindness unburdening me;

warmth, and cinnamon spice;

She comes.

 

Of the Earth, is She

whose heart beats with mine

a rhythm of life

renewal

and deepest bliss

 

Her essence luminous and night

shimmering at the water’s edge

or pulsating at the core

of darkness

Alive.  Very much alive.

 

No fanfare proceeds Her,

No choir of angels.

In stillness, know Her.

In openness, receive Her.

She is here.

She is here.