Saturday, December 26, 2015
it was almost dusk when she arrived----granddaughter ---my own child of child-----christmaas eve-----she brought me a gift she made-----a cup for my coffee painted with a beautiful african scene by her----we sat for a while and talked of how ancestors from tens of thousands of years ago named the constelations that we gaze at today----connection-----we marveled at the magic that was given the ancestor who invented the wheel----those who told the stories on the cave walls----connection-----we went out to the magic house where the faeries and magic people wait for santa near the garden-----she helped me light the candles that signify the giving of the magic---the light that grows----connection-----the old horse joined us under the stars for a while----connection--- just as last year---in the rain--when the old horse was ill--we sat---my child and my child of child---in the barn and all of us watched the polar express with our feet on the hay foor ----connection----as the full moon rose high in the sky the treetops knew that the magic has grown-----and the whisper of the night sang----connection-------magic-----connection----blessings
Thursday, December 24, 2015
The Death Clans enter the spiral to celebrate the birth of the sun. Eagles, Badgers, Ravens, Owls, Lynx, Wolves, and Greihound dance the sacred for their people. The Mother moves their feet; they lift their arms awe-struck by Her power. Skins and feathers mix with guttural, rhythmic prayers. I drift into their dreamtime, Darkling Light prods me to stay alert, “Don’t watch the others, you stand for Moondog and Greihound.” I feel him stirring inside me like a wisp of smoke that rises from an extinguished candle. I watch it disappear. He comes again, growling, teeth bared. (I’m alert! I’m alert!). He licks my lips renewed to his sacrament. Grasping the need I stand for days, centuries, six thousand years, filling his tender belly with delicacies of my ether as he fills mine, dancing the rapture for all of us. Calvinist ancestors cover their eyes, others I catch peeking between their fingers, they realizing that savagery was never cruel.
Flesh Eaters nearly naked whirl in air so frigid the snow feels warm to their skin and melts into the Earth. Rhythmically they reach between their moving feet touching the soil, offering the traces on their fingertips to the sun, never missing a step, believing the magic will always work.
[Excerpt from Ancestral Airs].
Thursday, December 10, 2015
grandmother---look---what is that
is hope---child of child
but grandmother it looks like fog
si child of child---is because it is forming---it is begining---it is still confused---there child of child---beneath the trees there is great sorrow----humans are not sure who they are---so---this time---this season of transformation--hope waits here----for the humans have a choice to make----either emerge new---with tolerance and solidarity---in compassion and in hope----or humans can emerge filled with bitterness and fear---anger and violence----the cold winds will carry the decision of the humans across the treetops ----look child of child---there---in the darkness of night----a light----waiting----waiting to be callled---come child of child----we wait along with the future----soon child of child---soon you will be the present ---pay attention----for you child of child are both affected and the one who affects