art · change · creativity · current affairs · dreams · nature · poetry · writing

In Dreams, She Awakens

I dream of a woman
Mother-centred
grey-haired essence
oozing strength –
a vessel, rain focused
decoding political lies.

Leaders are locked
targeting anxiety
selective stances
patriarchal bedmates
ending unsafe

Rioters blow up
martyr consciousness
metamorphosis in throngs
chemicals insignificant
when innocence ignored
temples violated.

What is next?
A future gatekeeper
spouting personal freedom
recalling pleas, charming
ghosts of the past?

We need
discernment,
a woman
Mother-centred
grey-hair wise
leading the way.

(I dreamt of a goddess figure, and attempted to capture her in the pencil drawing featured.  Working on that dream, many things have emerged.  The poem above is just on example.)

 

creativity · culture · poetry · travel · women's issues · writing

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 (slighting edited) in response to Willow Poetry’s image prompt (featured):  What Do You See?)

creativity · culture · dreams · poetry · spirituality

Dreamers

While babes slumber,
calm, unconscious,
dreamers manifest

Goddess power –
pray for their ill,
harness a creator

an ancient dwelling
(ignore the presence
of trios – ascension

a slow plod) – choose
to honour the arrival
of beauty’s essence

the light of healing,
creativity expressed,
illuminators, artists

Grace encompassing
compassion, nocturnal
inspiration honouring

the aged, the ailing,
all beloveds, respect
for this blessed life.

(Image: Pinterest)

creativity · dreams · poetry · spirituality

Mystical She

An earlier post that seemed to be fitting to post here, in the spirit of “Black Madonna”.

One Woman's Quest

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.

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aging · culture · dreams · LGBQT · passion · poetry · spirituality · women's issues

Black Madonna

Remember that autumn
we drove up to Campbell River,
like teenagers skipping out of class –
a cackle of women, spirituality 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 careful existences – 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
among us, sisters united, standing in the
flood of our collective herstory, shedding
the padding of our religious upbringings,
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, willing to sacrifice
superficiality for the compassionate mystery
of the Black Madonna haunting my memory?

(Image: paradisefoundsantabarbara.com)

dreams · life · Love · poetry · spirituality

Goddess Love

Father’s voice is booming
full of patronizing shame;
the child cowers in fright
turns the negativity inwards.

Learns to doubt, to loathe –
self and others – pulls away,
adapts pig-headed criticism
finds failure in every effort.

 Mother’s voice is soothing
encourages self-reliance,
acknowledges individuality,
invites discernment, assures

the child that smart doubts
are useful, and that owning
the wrath of another only
disables brilliance; coaxes

relaxation, counsels that
outcomes are not based
on judgments of others, but
the results of determination.

Patriarchy instills a sense
of disappointment, begets
a cycle of insecurity intent
only on sabotaging progress.
 

Matriarchy has no agenda, no
use for disapproval, beholds
all life as sacred, exceptional:
to shine, the birthright of all.

 

 

 

dreams · poetry · spirituality

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.