Black magic

I have seen black magic.
You have, too, if you know the signs,
The dark marks of a modern cursing
Born in loathsome mutters across the airwaves.

For you see, the black magic that poisons us is not transacted with
Chicken blood or
Eye of newt.

No, the incantations of black magic today
Tell us that we are ugly
That the shape of our bodies is wrong
That we eat, drink, sleep, dress, and play
Wrong.

It drains our pockets and our hearts
In the pursuit of an unattainable lie.
It promises glory with one more lipstick
A two-in-one mascara
A stream-lined car
And rock-hard abs.

The belly is meant to be soft,
Home to vitals and bowels,
Breath and blood and digestion,
A place of comfort and warmth,
The womb.
Black magic casts it with shame and demands that it and all other soft and warm and lovely things be sacrificed
upon an altar of stone and steel.

This is the black magic of our times,
The incantations that coax and coerce and cajole and convince
That we are not divine.
We are not already in the image of God or Goddess.
It isn't okay to be a little overgrown, a little lush, a little wild and untamed.
Black magic says that.

Safe place

I dream of a yurt in the woods
Shaded by trees as old as my faith
It's walls the colors of brick and blood
Warmed within by a pellet stove.
Its roof gathers rain and dew
And its floors are covered with rugs.

Wooden bed with woolen blankets
Sheepskin slippers and cedar bookshelves
Drying plants adorn the beams and perfume the air

While a Maine Coon warms herself in a sunny spot.
A carved wooden staff  against a wall
Serves as a helpmeet while I journey between the trees
And stands in token of the man I cannot yet picture
Accept-admitting into my sanctuary.


Sunlit hills are hidden through the haze of green and brown
The canopy and undergrowth
Surrounding an easterly field of green and Good
With goats and chickens and a great black horse
A frame for the rising of sun and moon.
A shed for feed and straw and herbs
A home for nourishment and healing.

Henna red hair shines like new copper
A color that comes from my soul.
Out here I can go barefoot
In soft grass with no rocks
Squashy leaf fall with no thorns
Til my feet are black and calloused
So they can feel their strong way without fear.

The perfume of fir and redwood, bay laurel and earth
Covers my hollow like a lover and a friend
Lupine and poppies
Virginia stock and golden grass
Or new-sprung buttercups and clover.

Here I weather all storms
Here I recover from storms
Here I am, with in my self in all my complexity
Here, I am safe.

To overflowing

The Lord dug deep until I was empty,
And I said, "Lo, I am a vessel.
Fill me."

Say

Say what you are or what you
have to offer and trust that it's enough
for others to find attraction--no elaborations
needed.  Trust simplicity.


Trust simplicity.

You work best within it. It
will care for you tenderly.

Garner Trust
Let it carry you.  It is strong
and its arms are reaching.

Trust that others
will be attracted
to what I have
to offer.
My heart is open and my hands
are kind.
It cannot be forced or faked
and can only be used
to heal.