Of How I Bit Back

“Death doesn’t frighten me. It’s what comes after. [Besides, some of my best friends are dead, and they hunger for stories].” ~ Terry Pratchett [and me]

 

My world remains full
of what you left me—bones
on my altar, books and stones,
the calaveras that grinned on my handfasting
cake (you weren’t here for that)

I miss you…

There are new things
on my altar and living—hearts
from friends, a bird skull
whose flesh and feathers fly
to you (its grin and bone
stay with me)

I miss you…

Newest, on my altar, wild offerings
for you—peanuts and (not so shiny) metal gifts
from a blue jay, leaves and petals and lavender
and rosemary from a witch made of gentle fire,
a shot of spirits (I will never forget)

I miss you…

The world remains full of what you left me, but
there are new things on my altar and living—
life bit, bit, bit… chunks out of my chest, but
I’m fighting, fighting, fighting back…

next year, when The Veil thins
again, when Soul and Flesh get to glimpse
into each other’s mirrors, I’ll share new
stories, Little Brother, of how I bit back,
of how I won, of how I’ll always remember

I miss you…

 

the wee notes…
– last night, I spent a considerable amount of time cleaning the altar where I keep my Little Brother’s ashes, listening to his favorite music, speaking the tales of everything of importance (or trivial but humorous) that has happened to me this year. It’s how I’ve celebrated the life of my Dead for as long as I can remember, how I will add to their memory for a long as I breathe.

 

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.