Mabon and the Autumn Equinox

autumn equinox

Enjoy this time of balance and abundance on this the Second Harvest- Mabon. The Autumn Equinox brings with it the lengthening nights and a time of inner reflection and stillness. Below is a poem I wrote to capture the essence of the season. As you celebrate today, remember to give thanks, show appreciation, and open yourself to the changing of the Wheel of the Year.

As the Light Recedes

And now the time has come
to find ourselves
at the balancing of the light.

Perched upon the edge
of a silvery blade.
Sun and moon made equal.

With Great Sickle in hand
The Wise Crone reaps
the ready harvest.
A time of darkening has come.

He is changed.
From Greenwood, to Corn,
to now the Dread Lord
of Shadows.

She is changed.
From a Maiden in youth, to full
and heavy with child.
Now she must depart.
Return to the deep earthen wells.

We take with us
their power and life.
The bountiful harvest
they have given
sustaining us.

But they must,
as so many do,
make their journey.

Falling golden
and rust to the earth.
To be swept
along until they reach the end.

There to transform
and start again.
Let us see
in them the story.

Our Horned God
and Mother Goddess,
traveling from woods
so green and alive
to the dark cauldron
of the Underworld.

Great time of balance,
mystery, and lore.
Give us space of remembrance.
Thinking on their sacrifice,
their Death.

Through this cycle,
ever onward,
let our hearts
and spirit be strong.

Gifted sustenance
and fertility
which will carry us through.

Through the Dark of Times.
Through the Waning Sun.
Through the Place of Night.

To come through again
And rise as the Sun.

New but the same.
Changed but forever sure.
Reborn.
Renewed.
Rediscovered.

 

For more on this wonderful holiday, see my previous posts on the Autumn Equinox and Mabon.

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A Prayer to the Lunar Eclipse

new-moon-1

I had forgotten about you.

But you were always there.

Still,

a speck of something that never

went away.

Maybe I forgot

about you

because I was too afraid

to face the darkness that still lingered

behind my closed door.

You don’t serve me though.

You don’t make my days full

or wondrous.

And so,

upon this time

where the Moon’s bright face

is shadowed,

I ask for the strength

to let you go.

To move through

to a new place,

a wilder, freer place.

Even as the black falls across

the White Orb as full as can be,

the constant

guiding light of our Mother’s Nighttime Face

is ever there.

Bright One, Shadowed One

who asks that I look deep,

bless upon me

the Truth,

the Magick,

the Power.

I am ready to face you,

to see you for what you are,

to let you pass through

me.

Sweet Moon,

I heed your message.

I face the closet door,

and I see the Shadow,

and I am One Light

too strong to be diminished.

Blessed Be.

Death Like Raindrops

Death like raindrops falls upon the Earth,

washing clean a surface of pain and degeneration.

Death like wind blows gently the waves of the ocean,

rushing toward far, yet familiar shores.

 

We will stand upon it. We will walk the pale

beaches of lost knowledge

and find again what once was laid deep

in our bones.

 

We will rest upon the foamy water line,

seaweed and life tangled in our hair.

Till we rise and walk down the horizon’s edge.

Sharp like a knife it will cut our lives apart.

Letting what should fall away

be cast down into the pool of the Creatrix.

To be made again with purpose and skill.

 

And if we find that we can balance,

on the wedge of the Great Womb’s Divide.

We will walk on to a new realm

of knowledge and communion.

 

If not,

we will teeter.

Back to the World’s Shore

and find again our chance,

our responsibility,

to cultivate our simple truths

and forget

the false anchors that fasten us.

 

Till we know again, as we always do.

That life breathes death breathes life.

The hoop of vast chaotic energy

of We.

A Full Moon Calls to Me

Rising bright and fair, it calls to me.

I must go running,

leaping into the night.

 

Wind rushing behind my heels.

Breathe life, freedom.

Power galloping through a monochrome landscape.

 

Freedom dance beneath a pale, white smile.

 

Run, breathe.

Run, breathe.

Fly.

Sight Sensing

My eyes are brown.

Like moth wings

with awkward cream spots

floating around the center.

 

When I look close

at the edges and valleys.

I can see spires of rocky, brown landscapes.

Mountainous, spiraling curves which dip

and duck and flash

as I blink back

droplets of imperfection.

 

What would it be?

To live in my eyes.

To explore the crevices

and get lost in the black cracks

between bark-colored crags.

 

I do not know

the heart of my eyes.

I have never been there.

I see

them only from distance.

A meteor passing

by the foreign world

of my optical orbs.

 

I know what it is

to touch

a moth’s wing.

To have your hands

and fingers sullied

by the powdery, flight ash.

 

Would my eyes,

my own means to traverse the world,

also leave dust

upon woeful travelers?

Dusty remnants of unoccupied roads.

Found deep within

my moth-wing sight.

Seedling

Gray squares obstruct my light.

Dead and progressive slabs,

Cover my feet and block my path.

The light bounces furiously,

With no soft place to land.

Where once there were carpets of green,

Now only slate, hard, cold tiles.

Breaking, fighting my way free.

Reaching for Apollo’s face,

Green hands fly up.

One small triumph,

A step toward my Mother;

In a world of metallic giants.

Walking Home NSFW

I walked down
a road of dirt and gravel.
The ground rattled
and my thumb curved toward County I.
The rusty smell of road kill
filtered through my nose.

Dry mud flaked
off my pants with each step.
Half a bottle of Jack,
a pack of Red Apple cigs,
and my lucky
black lighter.

I met a man in red flannel.
“Goin’ to join the hippies.”
His rough voice dragged
through my ears.
I shook my head,
took a sip of Jack.

It was ’92,
what hippies?
Must have had the IQ of a dishrag.
I wished for his innocence.

He wiped a tear
on his shirt.
“Gonna miss days like this.”
He was talking to the sun.
“Looks like God just stirred up the sky with a stick.”

Stick echoed in his throat,
as he squeezed the trigger.
Even after his blood hit my face,
I thought he was god.
The hammer of the gun
was the only sound for miles.

Turned

I wanted to break the rules with this one. Most professors and poets and people will say that in a poem you should not use many adjectives. I dislike this rule. Adjectives are my favorite. So this was my way of saying, “I do what I want.” Also I like vampires, so there’s that in there too. Clichés and too many adjectives, take that poetry rules!

Burgundy, velvet drapes

dusted the ground

near the high round window.

Breathing cobwebs

hung in shadowed

corners.

Jumping water

echoed off the marble

floor.

Chocolate wood

lined the frozen

walls.

Each rhythmic ping

took longer

than the last.

My mind strained

to hear the next

expected

drop.

Sleeping lights

would not shed

their glow

on me.

Emerald eyes

stalked

in the distance.

Rough

breath scratched

on my throat.

My wet, bare feet

slid on fierce,

marble floors.

My drugged body

fought for safety

from the intoxicating

poison.

Cold, strong hands

grasped my unaided

arms and hurled

me into the dank,

solemn bedroom.

Short breaths escaped

from my lips

and icy sweat

dressed my brow.

Smooth canines

pierced the skin

by my clavicle

and strong lips

sucked out my blood.

Warm, liquid rubies

caressed my skin.

Cold no longer stung

my eyes.

The dripping water

trembled in my ears

and my arms went slack.

New vision filtered

my sight and ghostly

shapes took form.

No cold, no warmth.

Only the still

sound of water

on bloody, marble floors.

Necessity

An unsung song,

a piece of life that is still.

The unbridled flow and churn of its essence.

Needed

and birthed

by each flickering spirit.

The remedy to what ails

and cause of what burns.

Mother and child of pure, unadulterated joy.

A blooming son that reaches for the sky

with every breath.

Life like the hidden and buried earth

beneath layers of cold reality.

One in all,

all devoted to the One.

Needed.

I need it.

Mine, my very own.

Rising my day,

And setting my night.

I revolve around you,

my celestial center.

Needed.

Giving in to your grace.

Releasing into serenity.

Joyful,

anxious,

ready.

Needed.

I have it.

You.

Goodbye Girl

The latest poem post! This one does contain one curse word, so head’s up. Otherwise, enjoy.

I know that mole

on the back of her neck.

It hid behind her hair,

like a brown period.

Or maybe it was part of a colon,

and the other half was too scared to play.

She once cut her hair

just to show it off.

It still had me surprised.

That wasn’t like her.

I slammed my hand in a door

and she didn’t see the black,

purplish bruise for two weeks.

She was always caught

up in her own shit.

Even now as we sat at this table,

in this crusty, smoke-filled bowling alley,

she couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

I was trying to hide.

Why did I care

if she saw me?

After the night

of faceless sex

with her.

Still, dignity wouldn’t let me

cry in front of her.

It was no secret

neither one of us really felt attached.

I could go home

and she was there.

But she wasn’t my first thought

in the morning

any more.

Now her hair had grown

over the period.

But it was pulled up,

in a dying, black scrunchy,

and the mole lay ghostly

behind it.

A brown ring

from her glass of coke

stained her napkin.

She had ruined

my favorite book that way.

A faint, broken circle

dressed the cover

of Love in the Time of Cholera.

“Annie Get Your Gun”

played as she got up

to “powder her nose.”

I knew where this would end.

I would try to make her feel

better, but she wouldn’t feel anything.

I wanted this situation,

this relationship,

to end.

“That’s unexpected,”

was the last I could hear

of Squeeze as I left.

No notes or words

would help or hinder her.

There was no sorry

that either one of us wanted.

I reached into my pocket

for my keys.

Which still

sat near her basket of fries.

A piece of napkin

lay on top of them.

“Goodbye,” her curvy

handwriting bled

in the condensation and coke.