The Star Snakes

 

The Star Snakes

The Light had shattered before it

Followed the Ash of the World-Seed

Throughout the once-empty Void.

Connecting itself to the closest

World-Seeds scattering through the Heavens

With tender bonds of Silvery Love.

The Shards of Light slowed

As they found a Resting Place

In the now-filling Void.

The World-Seeds danced around

The Light Shards that loved them.

In the Shards Eyes opened slowly,

Lit by Inner Flames and Love.

And so it was that the Star Snakes

Were awakened, and give home

To the World-Seeds that they loved.

The Star Snakes breathed across

The World-Seeds and freed them

From frozen Prisons of Ice.

Now warm and free the World-Seeds

Waxed impatient, wanting to be filled

With burgeoning Life.

Blessed by the Star Snakes.

 

Dissection of Elixir

ELIXIR of CREATIVITY

A Fitzgerald Acrostic by faucon

Of E

Elation is essential to a rebirthed notion,
or blending of mind and spirit
in soulful reverberation …

or simply remembering
of what has been afore
through instinct or Current draw,
or kiss of faerie-dew …

for if you lack capacity for awe;
or are unwilling to dance at dawn,
then no magick drought
will quench your yearning

On L

“To love life is to know life,”
or so echoes ancient halls …
and pulsing blood and creaking bones
has little to do with wisdom –

but the joyous reflection of a flower’s tear,

or sudden laughter of gusted leaf,

or whimsy of a stranger’s glance

can bring life to somber drear,
or self-inflicted desert of inspiration.

Else I

“I” is an important word to know –
though only relevant because of ‘you’,
for creation is only found in ‘we’.

Stand on my shoulders
that I might see the world through eyes
beyond the limits of ego’s attention –
and any seed of intuition
that I may nurture to fruition
must surely come from another’s hand.

X marks the spot

Somewhere between exasperation and expectation
is a spot of exaltation
as one sees divinity in being one and all,
without exception.

Cross my heart and finger hex
that any thought may become a poem,
and each person met a story told –

and I am but the pen,
and willingness,
and parchment scraped clean
through adversity.

I Again

One could wallow in indecision,
implicit intent, or even intemperance
as source of inspiration –

but one only need look back at self,
as reflected in other’s myopic perception
and ponder the inequities
of being other than you seem –

and then describe in some lyric form
that “I” and “me”
are but figments
of divine attention.

R us

These five steps of introspection
all have a common theme of risk;
a concept overshadowed by respect,
responsibility and reason –

yet, it is the willingness to fail
that is the true fuel of creativity –

and that you will take the risk
while others remain but critics –

thereby but in the audience
of the living symphony.

Musings on The Great Cosmic Egg and me

I used to have eggs, but a close brush with death, and a river of hemorrhagic proportions did away with my ability to create life. I laughingly told someone that my uterus was as extinct as the dinosaur, and in one day I went from being able to procreate to being a member of the no-utus-no-ovo-dry-vaga-skin-osuarus genus.

The ability to bear children passes for every woman, but my passage was medically imposed. The surprise of it all, and the ensuing sadness it created within me, rocked my world for a while, until the five units of blood that someone so sweetly gave found their way into my veins and heart, and brought the color back to my cheeks. By the way, blush does not look right on a corpse!

So here I am contemplating the Great Cosmic Egg, the infinite potential within, the yolk and the yellow of it all, and the masterfully created shell that hides the potential until something or someone “cracks” it open.

Tonight, I sit here, cracked open, oozing, and shifting, and trying to find the perfect place in the skillet so I may cook up the rest of my days.

That singular moment was probably the most necessary event of my life, for I emerged on the other side of the experience changed. Be it metamorphosis, or shape-shifting, or just a simple cracking of the shell, what lay within me can no longer be contained. I am like Humpty-Dumpty, and I do not even want all the king’s men to approach my brokenness. I do not wish to be “put back together again!”

I am happy to be in pieces, happy to have been forced to think hard about the wonder of it all, and happy to see my life taking shape in the skillet. I have discovered that there is no usefulness, without brokenness.

Now, I am able to nourish myself, and to also feed others from having been merely broken. I am like the great Cosmic Egg, life-giving, life- sustaining, and life- fulfilling.

So I say, here’s to all of us… eggs, indeed! May your yolk not break and life be sunny-side up!

frogita

Goddess mandala

Troubadour

Egg-zactly When?

When I escaped from the Mines
it was the day before I entered –
or so it seems as I search for the Egg.
What I found was this poem,
that I am sure I posted somewhere once –
on a different journey perhaps –
well, rebirth is like that I suppose.

papa
………………………………………

Source and Life

Mystics seek it in a drafty cave,
wizards within an awesome tower,
and scholars in dusty scrolls and books –
but to find the answer
or perhaps the question,
you need only ask the mists of dawn.

Why am I here — what does it mean,
is there a heaven – why must I care,
religion a must or fearful trust?
So ease your questing mind
and give your soul blessed rest,
and ask a dew drop where it goes at noon.

You know within of the basic truth,
that you are one with Source and Light,
and that all paths lead home by right.
Don’t look within the stars,
mumbled spells or prayers.
Just ask the clouds what they see from there.

Abandon fear — walk with knowledge tall;
open heart and hand to one and all,
and live as if you bear a message.
Love is null by itself,
but one and one makes three.
Just ask laughing raindrops dancing free.

Where am I to — how stony the road,
when will I return — how heavy the load,
who should attend me – give me sure advice?
Of these you will learn
if your heart is prepared,
to trace the river down to the shore.

The braid is eternal — bound by Light,
each teardrop proof of recycled birth,
and trust and faith and timeless joy.
Find a perfect crystal
holding a speck of dust,
and know of creation’s gift of life.

In Search of The Ultimate Empyrean Cackleberry

by Anita Marie Moscoso 

This piece was inspired by those posts where people have written in and said that they don’t feel like their writing would ‘fit’ with the ‘theme’ of the Café Blogs.

Well, I was the original Square Peg here at the Café and I just hung and around and kept doing what I do when lo and behold people got use to me… I guess.

So I took Winston Groom’s advice, I couldn’t ’sing’ so I sang loud.

amm

 

                                          

In an ocean of emptiness a lone Cackleberry floats passed me and I think to myself “ that’s nice.” It’s pretty boring right now. Plus it doesn’t take much to amuse me. You should see my desk toys. My favorite toy is a pair of  wind-up walking feet.

I’ve painted the toenails pink and drew hair on the toes.

Poor old Cackleberry.

So, it doesn’t look like much from where I am. It doesn’t look like it has much promise at all.  Poor old Cackleberry I think to myself.

I could name it, I guess. I could lift it up and give it a home. But, who’d care? I’ll bet that if you set it next to a bunch of other cackleberries and held a contest it’d be out because it would be too small or look, it has bumps and God, what is that?

It’s even the wrong color!

Oh great, I could lift it up, dry it off, bring it to my friends and say, “ see what I found?”

Then they’d all look at me and smile, but it wouldn’t be a real smile. It’d be that smile that you see Psychiatrists give to someone before they whip the straight jacket out from under their desk.

Let it go, I say to myself…we don’t need that.

It would be best to let it go, I tell myself. I’ll just sit here and wait for the Ultimate Empyrean Cackleberry to just come my way on a tide of pure inspiration.

Sure it’ll happen…all by itself…all I have to do is wait for it.

And then in a flash my true nature appears…it comes out in high definition graphics and surround sound and it screams into my ear, “ Anita, what the hell are you doing? Get off your backside and pull that thing in. What the Hell is the matter with you? There could be ANYTHING in that Cackleberry. Anything! So will you move before it gets away?

I wade in and here I am standing up to my err, hips in goo. I reach down and pluck my imperfect Cackleberry up. In clear view of my TRUE NATURE I wipe the cackleberry off on my shirttail and wade back up to shore with it.

On my way up back up to the shore I name it Fang.

I knew a boy named Fang when I was a kid.

Fang’s adult eyeteeth came in looking like Fangs and his parents wanted him to go to the Dentist and have them filed down and capped.

He refused.

Fang was a great guy, he ran his car into the back of a truck when he was about 20 and died.

I make it back to shore with Fang in the palm of my hand and I’m feeling pleased with the both of us when I slip and fall backwards.

I hear Fang hit the ground and then I hear a crunch.

It takes me awhile but I find as much of Fang as I can and I make it back to shore with what I’ve got and then I do what I do.

 Write.

Riding the Cosmic Wheel

Fire from above, moist darkness beneath– from these my creative self emerges and rides forth.

 

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

Rebirth Sea

Still rush the waters of the moon,
Down to the waiting rebirth sea;
To meet the flound’ring ship of dreams,
Drug down by banacles of never be.

Thus spirit joins with troubled mind
On the rocky shore of the soul;
And both will smooth the sands of time,
Polishing gems of thoughts and all.

In the gristing of Goddess tears
And crusted fears and dwindling hopes,
Will rise a mist of most simple faith
That seeds the rain and launches ships.

faucon

Thoughts from the Cosmic Egg

It’s so warm and peaceful in here. My belly button is attached to the Goddess of Creativity, and through this umbilical cord she feeds me with images, concepts and ideas, creating highways and byways through my brain so that the time comes when my fingers begin to twitch and feel the need to hold something…a pen, a pencil, a needle and thread…it doesn’t really matter what it is, just so long as it is a conduit for the babies this baby must birth. The nest my egg is submerged within contains more eggs than mine. The Goddess has created many soul sisters and also a brother through whom she feeds all with her rich juices of fecundity and fertility. We are both separate and one, each displaying our own individual manifestations of the Divine Feminine, while also emerging from the one womb, the matrix of creative life. We are creative beings, the daughters and son of the One Who Is, who gifts each of us with a vision and a dream of what might be, and perhaps of what might already be if we could only learn to see it as it is. But to do this we must each discover our own way of sloughing the scales from our eyes. For some of us we do this by meditation, for others by prayer, and for others through a myriad of creative and loving acts. It doesn’t really matter how we do what we do, nor even that we do what we do; all that matters is why we do it. I hope that I burst out through the boundaries of this egg shell to a world where I can add to the force field of love which is the beating heart that lies hidden in the belly of the Goddess.

‘Come oh Goddess of Love and Creation and midwife me from this cocoon of heavenly bliss. Send me forth into the world with eyes and hands wide open. Teach me how to see as if for the first time, and through seeing perfectly to loving compassionately, and from thence to creating, with heart and soul, works of dreams and visions.’

Soul Sister

Just Grand

I was explaining to Emmie about this Mining adventure,
and she asked if I had written ‘Just Grand’ for this project.
“No,” says I, “I wrote that in response to Lorijayne’s
story about divination at the Gypsy Camp.”

“Seems more suitable for a quest than a campfire!”

So I post it here also.

papa
…………………………………………………………..

‘twas a bit of climb up ta ridge to Grandie’s place, but he managed at nigh on a hun’ert, so I recon I wouldn’t be breathless long. Seeing as he was s’post to have ‘The Sight’ I didn’t send a message ahead, but brought a sack of goodies fer hospitality. Didn’t take any magickal divination to bring chocolate chip cookies and smoked oysters and sweet pickles. I threw in one of those new fangled combo pliers ‘n foldin’ tool gismos just in case. Them what have the ‘gift’ never charge but shore be likin’ gifts and carin’ – or so I’s been told.

Thar was a body scarce when I ‘rived the shack, but smoke still curled from the fire pit and his jug was by the porch rocker tellin’ he was near by. There was an axe honed mean stuck in the choppin’ round, with half a pile of kindli’ on one side, and a pile of chucks ‘tuther. I set my sack in the spring-house an’ savored a dipper of cool delight on my neck and sippin’ swaller. ‘twasn’t work, really. I get’s simple pleasure from choppin’ wood – an easy flow of muscles and getting’ done – the finished pile rightfully larger than the startin’. When I got done and looked up ole Grandie was a smokin’ in his chair, like he been there all ‘long and I just didn’t see.

“Glad I could do that fer ya,” he smiled. That puzzled me a tad as I’d been thinkin’ I was doin’ it fer him. Then I realized that while I was a choppin’ my thoughts had kinda come together ‘n I was more prepared to ask ‘n listen. “Yer pa’s leg still painin’ him?” Grandie asked. This was done jest ta rattle me, I’m sure – seein’ as I had never met Grandie and my pa was settled eighty miles ta north.

“Thanks ya sir fer askin’,” says myself. “He’s off dem crutchers now but complainin’ jest ta get attention. I be thinkin’ he’s anxious ta get back ta his place at the mill – kinda worried ‘bout the young sawyers without his beady eye a trainin’.” I set on the top step ag’in the shaved post so to look up at him – seemed proper. “Been visitin’ my Aunt Mod down Pine Hollow way ‘n thought I’d come by to ask the truth of it – ‘bout this divination stuff ‘n magick ‘n all. Mod t’was sayin’ I’s got a bit a healin’ gift ‘n ought to be learnin’ more. Don’t rightly know.” Then I just sits ‘n listen to the jay birds.

He took a sip ta jug, but di’n’t offer none. I took out them pliers thing and worried a nail out of my boot. Then I opened a blade after searchin’ through a dozen wrong ones and started inta whit’lin’ this branch. Tired of that quick though and stuck that tool in the plank ‘tween us with a couple of foldin’ things stickin’ out like points of a midnight star. Then I drifted to the spring ta bring back lunch and ignore the tool was gone. He had laid out some jerkey ‘n pan bread ‘n apples – ‘nuff fer blenin’ into a fine spread with my bringings tumbled out. A canvas- wrapped stone bottle of cider was drip coolin’ from a peg, while he stuck to his jug o’ sweezings. Still say nuthin’ though, but din’t send me away, which was enough.

Bye ‘n bye he starts in askin’ questions. “Yer leanin’ agin a roof post – tell me ‘bout it – what makes it special?” “On the path up ya heard the tinklin’ song of a waterfall – what did it say to ya?” “In a bit of a glade behind the house some of my kin are buried – how many, ‘n how as they died?” and more … Some answers came easy as I was mountain born and kin ta the forest – leastwise always thought so. Never bathed ‘cept in a stream ‘re rain barrel. Always et some gift of the meadow every day: berries, wild onions, nettle root, ‘re cress – just like mom dun tol’ me. Never kilt nuthin’ I didn’t plan ta eat and could tickle trout …

Tellin’ of things I’d never seen was different, but I spoke right out. On my first try I was jest faerie guessin’ and Grandie called me up right quick. “Be startin’ with what ya know fer sure. Then ‘low yerself to be in my shoes and look fer the balance of things – knowin’ what be right fer peace and utility.” He never told me if’n I be right or no, but I began to sense a kinda glow ‘bout him when I ventured some ‘extension’ – leastwise that’s what Grandie called em. As I be readin’ these as indicators of true er close guessin’, I began to describe things small first ‘stead o’ tryin’ to grasp the whole imagine. When I sensed the glow – better with my eyes closed – I built on that. When his “truth reflectin’” sang low ‘re quiet, I tried agin with no fear atall. Thirsty work, though – cider mostly gone. Grandie’s jug was down ta dribble too.

“I talk better walkin’,” he mumbled while creakin’ outa that rockin’ chair. We drifted gentle through the woods, pacin’ some old trails and discoverin’ new – passed a mossy busted still and ‘nother cabin burnt down. He told me stories ‘bout these ‘n other glimpses of past folk gone long. Some were not fer believin’ but fer makin’ a point. Others seemed to have no meanin’ atall but ta be anchors like fer other mem’ries and musin’. All the while he was a movin’ his hands and shiftin’ his feet peculiar like ‘til I caught on. His body kinda moved ahead of what he was sayin’, pointin’ where his thoughts were goin’, and whether he was plannin’ to feed me some dream tea. Then we came upon this broken bridge never fixed, as a log fall now served fer one ‘n carts never came by no mo’. Ole Grandie wandered around a bit, but din’t say nuthin’. My turn.

I started in tellin’ a story ‘bou why the bridge had been built, and by what folk, and how it came to be broke up, ‘n the tragedy of the place and what lessons were to be learned. I took clues from where he had stood, ‘n how his hands twitched while a ‘memberin’ how it had been. When I didn’t get any glow clues I talked about little things I saw – knew to be true like a patch of wild flowers ‘re the way a tree had been chopped – ‘til I found a bit of truth to grow on – then I storied what I thought up seemed ta fit the flow o’ things. He didn’t say nuthin’ durin’ the tellin’, nor move from the stump ‘cept fer puffin’ on his pipe. Finally, I just kinda ran out a thinks ta tell.

“No body coulda saved her, you know. Twasn’t yer fault none.” You’d a thought me the old man and him but fourteen from the tellin’ it so. We chatted some there by the tumbly rocks with both of us aged somewhere in between – jest friend ta friend, ya know. I won’t tell ya where he picked up a new jug, or how I knew who had left it fer him. Ya already be quessin’ that this twisty walkin’ stick I use now be the one he gifted me that day, ‘re that it took him twenty years to carve it. ‘re that it was meant fer his son. It isn’t magickal to know such things.

All it takes is bein’ alive – and knowin’ that ya are,

and learnin’ to listen to heart ‘n hands –

and a watchin’ fer the soul glow.