Sunday, June 19, 2011

The Hands of Dryad

The souls of Dryad sleep no more,
The hands of Dryad caress no more
Now that the Phoenix flies and the earth burns.

They are traveling far, weapons in hand.
Of those who destroyed the realms where the ancient owls once roamed.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Lady Mantles

Lady 1


Here she lies within the sea, filled with images of the sun and moon and the twinkling stars. Once she emerges from the sea she realizes there is much work to be done.
Magic is strongest when one is young.


Lady 2

Pondering while lying in the grass and climbing trees.
Here is the dept of expansion in the world of learning and dreaming.
What will I be when I grow up?
But for now, who wants to grow up?


Lady 3

She dances to a rhythmic drumming and the wind that whispers incantations in her ear.
The calling of autumn, the smell of bonfires and the skies painted with a somber glow.
Mystic forces have taken hold.


Lady 4

Captured..
The first frost of responsibility begins the subtle death of freedom.
But it always lingers in the forest, the ocean, the desert and the heart.

Lady 5

First love and heartbreak, Is love really sublime? To love and lost, to cry and rejoice.
She has no time for toads or malicious princes. Only noble hearts who love to laugh and ride pink elephants.

Lady 6

To give birth to a child, An idea of a distant dream? Pursuing the passion of one’s heart. No women’s spirit should be held to the typical role of society’s box.



Lady 7

As the skin ages so the soul flourishes.
Becoming the crone, mixing elixirs or baking cookies.
Is there any difference between the magic?

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Pieced Together

I don’t own a sewing kit, no one has ever asked me to sew a button or hem a skirt.
I never mended the holes in my socks when I was older.
My grandmother taught me embroidery and the thick colors that hid each pattern,
It reminded me of her story telling, exuberant tales of religion and magic, her history that bleed a wild imagination into me.

Later in life, I took up quilting and knitting but soon lost interest of the quiet afternoons, the truth was I became bored. The patterns were set, but the colors didn’t weave stories or held the beauty of her face, there was nothing but silence except for the ticking clock and my breathing.

Sweet Spirit

At night, the stairs of this old house creaks Whispering to me, sweet spirit sleeping soundly during the night. The shadow movements, the ...