Midnight Sun

I poured the sun
out of your squared bottle,
and drank it in circles.

I freed the sun
from your monochromes,
washed it in rainbows,
ran its rays down my spine,
bathed my hips and thighs in heat…

I loved the sun at the witching hour.
It was hot,
hot and summer-sweet on my tongue.

 

This was an accidental photo. I’ve no idea what it might be. But the moment I saw it, I knew it was meant for my Summer Solstice post.

Linked to Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and the Imaginary Garden.

 

Eyes Open and Wants Exposed

We started in the mud,
after rekindling Beltane fires snuffed by everyday rain,
the Maypole still wet.

We invited flesh and spirit to have their way with us.

“This only comes once a year,” I said to me then.
But that me (all covered in mud for May Day,
eyes closed and opened wants) she forgot,
she forgot everything that didn’t come
with him in it.

Thoughts of him are all over me now, always…
his words on my hips, always, always
him…

in the evening, on the dining-room table… him.

When reason is smashed to pieces
and lust is
neurosis dominated by love… him,
that is all I see—

his mind…
in
me.

This year, if rain won’t caress my Beltane fires, I will
spill wine in the dirt to make a bed of mud. To have him
all over me (eyes open and wants exposed), that is all
I want to see—

in the evening, on the dining-room table… him,
always him, neurosis dominated by love… him,

his words…
his mind…
in me.

 

borrowed from Trancetral

 

expanded from this slighted mad-looking acrostic blackout poem
(you can read a bit more about the blackout itself here).

 

– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

 

Under Winter’s Shroud

The woods wear brown, hints of green, and a scent I can never describe to anyone who hasn’t tasted snow as it melts under the sun… My toes dream of dandelions and grass that know blades are manmade nightmares. In my blood, Nature sings her everchanging song.

fall’s bones rot
under winter’s shroud,
feeding spring

.
the wee notes…
– Many deliciously wild souls, in the Northern Hemisphere, are celebrating The Promise of Spring (or Imbolc or Brigid’s Day or… a few other names). Persephone isn’t back from the Underworld yet, but… spring’s coming.
– for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and Poets United.