Tag: poetry

Germinate

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The afternoon so warm and damp.
If I were a seed, I’d germinate.

Years’ worth of hours stolen-
owed to my solitude.
My naked dance with the muse,
casting her glitter on blank pages,
scattered like golden grains.

I curl away from tasks outside of me;
retract inwards
to the red cave
where I burrow deeper into mystery;
declare myself Ancient Woman
beholden to noone.

The sharp scent of cloves,
spicy, potent,
like the witch I carry inside me
who flouts rules and niceties.

Maybe a song will trickle out
between the gaps in meaning;
where the words sit beating
their wings like tiny hearts.

Birth

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vernix-newborn

In animal darkness:
half light of flame and fire,
the ache of onset makes way
for the gush and rush
of release.

Moan, groan,
moo, howl.
Shit, sweat,
blood-striped thighs

The breath,
the push,
the miracle cry.
Then skin on skin,
waxy, wet, we lie,
in slippery grip
of love.

Feed me Heed me

Roshnii Rose1 Comment

Misty Pathways of Colour>

The Creative Voice says:
“Feed me, heed me.

Sing me a song,
String me along
Over hills and shadows.

Delight in deliciousness
Of words curled together;
Lyrics that make
Your skin prickle
With anticipation,
Spoken through tender lips
Of children,
Tasting their flavour
Between giggles;
Fingers fumbling
With beads and buttons.

Those precious fleeting moments
You crave in the melée
Of life and cornflakes.

I am the true you
The Queen in sovereign rule
Of yourself.
The witchy wanderer.
Autumn’s fallen children.
The dewy light of Spring.

I am what leads you down
The forgotten pathway
To magic
Over and over again.

And I can be woken,
Even after a lifetime
Of slumber.”

the Huntress

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Huntress of the Night

The Huntress is hungry
for the taste of life.
To sink her teeth
into the juices of artistry.
She yearns and she seeks
and through the shadows speaks
to the heart of the poet
searching for direction.

Her eye is keen.
Longing churns in the belly
waiting to hear her call –
long and low through the forest.
Follow her footsteps,
swift and strong,
in the damp leaves.

The Huntress is wise;
knows the true trail
from the false path;
finds her way through the night
by the sharp scent
of ambition.

The Huntress is clear.
Her eyes dark like mirrors
see into the depths of you:
what you truly want;
what you hear calling
through the back door
of your dreams.

She will show you the way.
Fingertips on the red thread
that tugs at your heart
with the stubbornness
of the old grandmother.