To curl my tongue
Around your name
Encrypt
My minds script
Saying I meditate
Is like
saying I exercise
What form
How often
What does it bring you
We sorted
Plastic macro
Charismatic fauna
Into acrylic bins
I don't usually
Blurt out my story
But when I saw your
Pearlescent fingernail polish
I knew
I was safe
Kayla used to be a priestess of Aphrodite, but she was such a bitch - all those lessons in love, including jealousy, heartache, misery, and despair. Now she is the Priestess of Laphrodite, Goddess of the Belly laugh. Laughter is the best medicine, but as far as Kayla was concerned, it's also the best lube. Reflecting a time of questing and questioning for our Baby Crone, she changes careers, discovers online dating, and fuels her passion for blogging.
Go out when the Harvest moon is full,
Cut yourself a slender switch by
Pruning the plum runners
- Those suckers of energy -
Remember to ask permission first.
Strip the tender green leaves,
Gently bend into a circle,
Weaving in, out, in, out.
Let it dry in the morning sun for a few weeks,
Until the New Moon is as thin
As a newborn’s fingernail clipping.
Now, begin braiding in your tales.
Dreamcatcher, pentacle, God's eye,
Or simply a spider's web.
Find your tin sewing box that's
Full of needles, embroidery threads.
Take the time to untangle
Silver, gold strings,
Satin ribbons, bits of knobby yarns,
Projects once begun, not necessarily done.
Measure out your silk cords,
Cut them like one of the Fates.
Begin to add the ephemera collected,
The spiritual smegma of the past:
Broken charm bracelets, lone earrings,
A tiny Aladdin's lamp, a tinier key,
Hummingbird skulls, raven feathers,
Your mother's beads, grandmother's pearls,
Antique buttons from your mother-in-law.
The helping hand milagra,
Other tokens of luck, affections past.
Maybe add in a wisdom tooth or
That first baby tooth your child lost,
You know you have it somewhere,
Take the time to find it.
Purest white seashells with holes,
Palest sea glass jaded by time.
A lachrymal filled to the brim with
The dried salt from an ocean of tears.
Use glue for butterfly wings, other things,
Of course, add some glitter -
Really, make it yours.
Don’t tie on the wishbone,
Remember, you have a backbone.
Choose instead snake vertebrae,
Relics of coyote found in the desert.
Keys that have been lost in the junk drawer-
They still unlock your imagination.
A crystal to reflect all your facets.
Don’t worry if it’s chipped,
It will cast more rainbows that way.
Honor all the elements.
As you work, remember:
Every bead, every breath,
Every knot is a prayer.
Tie everything three times while chanting:
In the name of the maiden,
The mother, the crone,
I'm here by myself, but never alone.
When it feels almost complete,
Or at least good enough,
Hang it above your desk,
In the window, the tree outside.
As the wind ruffles the feathers,
Makes the beads clink, bells tinkle,
Take in their essence,
Let them come out as stories...
Sit now, here in this sacred space,
The corner of the kitchen table,
Cats meowing for attention.
Write down in your women’s notebook,
Ubiquitous journal, book of shadows,
Every memory, every symbol.
Because, you know, as they say...
Witches
Spell
It
Out.
Right now, besides for a few tatters of gray mist,
The sky is empty, gently sun-kissed,
Streak of salmon in the west,
Peaceful blues paint in the rest.
Even the red-tailed hawks and gulls are gone,
Not a spout or a sail out on the horizon,
The ocean seems empty, flat, glassine,
Teeming with life only in the depths unseen.
The field below is quiet and clear,
Except for the scuttling of rabbits, quail, and deer,
Buzzing bees, ravens, the squawking of jays,
Hummingbirds coming to visit the velvety sage.
There's just a circle of chairs in the chapter room,
Filled with a scent of Easter lilies in bloom,
Deep red roses, white daisies and baby's breath,
In the center is the altar honoring life and death.
My cup is dried, bowl washed and put away,
Floor is swept, the bed has been made,
Nothing to do, but enjoy this sacred space,
Think I'll call it, "My empty place."
If the angel deigns to come it will be because you have convinced her not by tears. But by your humble resolve to be always beginning to be a beginner- Rainier Marie Rilke
Beginnings, successes, and failures. I chose to be a beginner when I signed up for the children's illustration class at Cabrillo College. I know my artistic talent needs to be developed so I enrolled in watercolor classes as well as online drawing classes.
The online classes were complete flunk. I read the essays and watched the videos, but never did the homework. What a difference it makes being in an actual classroom with an actual teacher. I remember taking the nude portrait class at the Corcoran in Washington DC, my senior year of high school. We laughed as the model did a headstand and we had to draw his danger dangling straight down his belly.
I felt so inept then, still do when confronted by some charcoal or pastels. I completely fail in realism, something my art lacks unless a photograph. My art feels childish more than cartoonish, immature rather than anime, and I comfort myself by saying at least it's mine. At least I'm willing to put it out there.
Still my inner critics says it's no good, has no value, and in my dad's voice, it will never make any money. Maybe my art is primitive. It certainly is inconsistent. What is consistent is my pattern of doing something a hundred times, then stopping, just like the batik silk scarves I made to earn money for the Global Walk.
Or the Herland crafts that I would make after hours - stained glass boxes in the shape of pink and black triangles; decoupage cigar boxes lined in burgundy velvet repurposed from the thrift store; simply scanning objects and adding a pithy quote to create mugs, bookmarks posters. Magnets and more, who knew what you could do with a laminator and a pair of good scissors.
Some sold and did make money but there was always a feeling of falseness. It wasn't real art, especially any collage work, using somebody else's images, cut from magazines and old calendars as opposed to just doing a google search and downloading an image. Although in this day and age of AI scrapings, whether mixing music or images, who’s to say what is art?
These days I struggle with colored pencils, I’ve used up all the pastels, I muddy up the watercolors too often. I’m going back to painting with acrylic. Wonder if I do better with oils. We'll see after the next hundred little canvases bloom...
I choose to be a beginner. Not quite the perpetual student, but certainly willing to flip from medium to medium. Never mastering any modality fully, but least feel comfortable getting my hands dirty. The page and the coffee table now splattered as I spray liquid confetti from the ends of an old toothbrush across the page.
As she continued her story, I laid my hands on her shoulder blades, sending Reiki along her spine, her angel wings. She was using the blue, pink, and purple sharpies on the clipboard paper to outline her letting go.
In therapy we say you know you're “over it” when you can speak about ”it” in a normal tone of voice. Or I think about Marianne Williamson forgiveness does not mean what happened was okay. It means it no longer affects you.
So I forgive myself for not following up on the health insurance today, or watering the backyard, let alone mowing. Since at least the laundry’s in the washer, not quite ready for the dryer, I give myself permission to write down these few lines. Closing lines. Clothes lines.
I'm sorry for being so tired.
Sorry for being uninspired.
Sorry to not be motivated,
I simply feel inundated.
You have to see, please understand,
This is completely out of my hands,
Not enough time. Not enough rhyme,
Sometimes I just don't feel fine.
And what do I do with all of this writing?
Post it online, cause more fighting?
Will I be accepted? Be heard, my fear,
Am I dissed for being pagan or too queer?
There's too many dishes, too much mess,
All of this just adds to my stress.
So no more excuses. I know my place,
I take a deep breath. I wash my face,
Set my intentions, what I've been hoping,
And I crack my journal wide open...
Now available in hardcover!
The Word Whisperer
Once upon a time, in a jewel box by the sea,
Lived a Word Whisperer named Lisa, and her magnificent cat, Rumi.
She spent her days writing, teaching, reading and seeking,
Believer in the power of words: transforming, listening, and speaking.
Then one day, a bleak plague came across the land,
Trumpet tears, Covid fears, all went hand in hand.
She lost her direction, taste, even her sense of smell,
How to gather up those pieces, what story now to tell.
It was a time of stupor, a time of feeling of stuck,
Bogged down in all of the rhetorical guck,
But wait, her daughter Colette was pregnant,
How to bless and gift the expectant?
Lisa thumped her chest, set off on a quest, Rumi at her side,
And she met these particular muses, on the by and by,
Invited to a quilting bee for the softest lullaby,
Woven from yet unspoken gossamer sighs.
Sitting for a spell, these spelling bees,
Notebooks on their laps, pen caps between their knees,
Doubled and further multiplied,
Zoom in, zoom out, perspectives diversified.
The Word Whisperer moved her hands, harvesting silk,
Invoking the muses, aware of her ilk,
Chanting under the big dipper, creating her circles,
Resources, Sorceresses, composting rose petals.
There at the threshold, slowly she began to build power,
Delicious minutes, savoring every hour,
Mindful of the moments, creating her altar.
Ensuring her words would never falter.
Lighting a match to inspire the stubborn candle,
Eagle feather to let go of what one can no longer handle,
Taking the time for name tags, a basket of release,
A ritual writing of kumquats, hope, and soft grief.
Lisa listened as her muses sang of a heart shaped stones,
Embroidered cat tails and daiquiri ice cream cones,
Collected cat whiskers and a lost earring or two,
A Peace Angel mended with heart, tears, and gorilla glue.
Five stones in clear reflecting bowls,
Helping the Word Whisperer to reach her goals,
Thanking each of her muses with a sigh,
Now she had the unmasked gold for her lullaby.
She had the threads, she knew what to do,
Just how to breathe and weave them through,
Though the years go by too fast, the winter night is too long,
She knew her magic is good, her magic is strong.
Knocking her wrists together three times,
Hearing the last of the second chime,
Holding the lotus, fingers blossoming true,
Now go write your story, We have sung to you…
The Word Whisperer let her lullaby sail,
Rumi said, this is the end of my magnificent tail…
So bid adieu, thank you for the tears and laughter,
And they all wrote,
Happily Ever After.
The End
Kayla Garnet Rose, Crow Moon 2023
