Poems that mean something to you

I will cast a circle
and only those with eyes to see me
will be invited in

I will take all the parts of myself
which have been deemed to be unloveable
my sensitivity
my voice
my rage
my grief
my unworthiness
my too-muchness
my not-enoughness
my loneliness

I will lay an altar
decorated with rose petals and dried sage
I will spread it with the finest Indian silk of midnight blue
and lay upon it stones of raw malachite and lapis, lace agate and tiger’s eye
and wooden bowls filled with sea salt, bark of cedar, beeswax,
storm water, a red ribbon, dust,
oil of mugwort, a lock of my own hair,
a rabbit’s skull and the wing of a hummingbird moth,
the golden bells which were gifted to me by the old woman on the mountain
and the small pebble which I collected from the seashore at sunrise
on the midwinter solstice

In the centre of my altar
I will place an empty bowl
deep enough to hold
all of the things
which were taken from me
and all of the shame
which I was expected to carry

I will light a fire
and dance around the flames
and the earth will be so delighted
to feel my footsteps
that my dancing will turn
lead into goose down
and poison ivy into sweet water

And when I have finished reclaiming myself
and when the last of the flames have died right down
I will pour honey and dark elderberry wine over the ashes
and I will cleanse myself with smoke and salt water
and I will watch as hyssop and wild thyme and poppies sprout
from the embers.

~ Caroline Mellor
www.carolinemellorwriter.com

Art by Mary Feywood
www.maryfeywood.nl

Ooh beautiful ❤️

Watusi

I sail by passive
and go straight to aggressive
my polite clap
more chilling than
any war horn
at dawn

Picture this:
my blood smeared face
smiling at the wreckage
the carnage
my dancing feet
twirling
over the broken ground
no dance sweeter than
the watusi

My humor is a lash
and if it does not draw blood
it is not funny.
I am my own favorite
punchline.
Please, admire my flair.
It is the brightest flower in my bonnet

Do not try to placate me
I am not the moral
of the story
I am the foreboding clouds
the ominous roll of thunder
the ssnk ssnk of the scythe
felling the wheat
the held breath
before the arrow flies
I awaken
to crush dreams
and burn down villages.

Picture this:
A smile so sharp
it can draw blood
a flash of
anger is all it takes
to light my
finest summer bonnet
aflame.

Run.


a poem by  Hunter Bloodmoon formerly known as Hunter Hall