When I’m Wrapped in Night…

I love the Fall… the way its dark forces us to see with more than our eyes, to feel so much more. Spring and Summer are glorious, but few things in Nature’s circular dance can equal the yumminess that brews out of the reds and golds (and indispensable grays) of Autumn. I love this season so much that my delight always seeps into my Muse’s bones. See?

wild blooms burn
crimson, as I wait
for the fall

When I’m wrapped in night,
my dream song is full
of your mouth and hands.
Can you hear my hips
dancing your touch home?

Some days, you must bite
right into the heart, if you want
to taste the sweet and sour
balance of pleasure.

other bits…
– If you’ve yet to read my “Felt Words”, do take a look-see. Then help me see where the story will go next. At the moment, our protagonist is being seduced by a stranger’s mind-kindling ink. I wonder… Future installments will be published on Fridays.
– I shall announce this year’s Witches in Fiction theme on October 1st.
I asked friends on Facebook to choose which poetic tale they wanted me to rebirth in October. It is only fair that I also ask you. So, which would you like, my Wicked Luvs, “Sexy, Dark and Bloody” or “Belle du Freak”?
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

…with Heart-Bits in It

I have always felt deeply (perhaps even peculiarly) attracted to trees and dirt and frogs and bones. Growing up in a farming village filled my soul (and brain *thank goodness for that*) with a sense of respect for the land (you truly appreciate Nature and her ways, if her moods directly dictate what you get to eat, where you get to go). In my childhood, no ritual was as natural or as important as those attached to the harvest of rice, coffee, and cacao beans.

In those now gone summers and autumns, I didn’t think of what we did as ritualistic. It was just living. We cooked the first cauldron of rice in the field (the growers always ate the first bite). We danced and sang as we roasted coffee beans (dancing and singing and laughter enriched the taste of the brew, the Old used to say). We did witchy things without calling it witchery. I didn’t use the term “witch” to describe how I relate to nature and her gifts, until I felt the need to help others understand what I did. Saying, “I’m a wild witchy woman” is much easier (okay, simpler) than calling myself a lover of trees and dirt and rain and Dark Moon nights and sex and dance and words and smiles that come from the gut and life…

I love sharing things in ways we can all understand what I mean (well, I try). This is one of the reasons why I changed my blog’s tagline from “Poetry, fiction, and other Dark bits with Bright in them” to “Poetry and fiction with heart-bits in it”. I’m not dropping the dark and bright tag because I think my writing isn’t exactly that… Not at all. I’m choosing heart-bits because the phrase does a better job at describing what I write.

Other Bits

– The delightfully bastardish Facebook idiotic Team keeps on marking most of the links I share (from my blog) as spam. I have asked about it, and it was suggested that people who follow me (or who follow others who follow me) are labeling my blog links as spam. This makes no sense to me… Why would anyone follow a person whose work they don’t want to see? I mean, just stop following me. Or, unfriend me. Or, ask whoever might be sharing my posts with you to stop doing it. I will continue dealing with it (for a bit). Any advice?

– If we are friends on Instagram, you might’ve noticed that I’ve changed my URL from @magalyguerreroindarkerwords to @wordsbymagalyguerrero. This shouldn’t affect our interaction, but I wanted to tell you anyway… I’m feeling rather rambly (and adverby).

– If you’ve yet to help me choose the direction in which “This Lingering Maybe” will go, please visit the 55-word tale and choose 1 of 3 paths. I’ll write the next chapter tomorrow.

bits I’ve shared on Instagram
because… why not, right?

My id is a poet
in love with strange.

Love understands wild,
weird and me.

bee, the one
keeping things blooming
bright and wild

Passion Me Weird

Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.
~ Federico García Lorca

(an English translation, by moi)
Run away moon, moon, moon.
If the gypsies were to come,
they would make of your heart
white necklaces and rings.

.
In his eyes, uncertainty and old hurts fight to murder want. I touch him with words, let language lick the startled curve of his lower lip, taste sun and moon in grape juice made spirits by drum and dance… And I whisper, “Passion me weird. Relax in me.”

He runs, runs, runs from me, screaming of storms and heart rings… then returns (mind-spooked but smiling), extending a cautious fingertip towards the dark that feeds my pen, adding living red to my blackest ink. He takes our story in his mouth, and his thoughts spell, What about my storm and your weird, our pandemonium?

I guide his inked finger into my heart, ask him to write himself in me… And I whisper, “Without your storm, my strange is lost. Can’t you feel it? For you, (my love of loves, is) my imagination and dreams, my unseen desires and black lace, the Me only You read.”

wet petals,
wined in fantasies
of summer

.
the wee notes…
– Before I grew to love poetry, I had already fallen for Federico García Lorca’s writing. If you’ve never read Romancero gitano, La casa de Bernarda Alba, or Bodas de sangre (Gypsy Ballads, The House of Bernarda Alba, or Blood Weddings), I invite you to give them a go. You might fall, too… or, at least, stumble into a wondrous world of words.
– This poem swallowed five of my visual poem bits. See them on Instagram (here, here, here, here, here). I love crafting wholes out of pieces, writing things where they belong.
– Linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 368