Golden Sun

Your golden face

Is full of sun my dear.

 

Let me rest here awhile with you.

Cry if you must,

as I play you river music melodies.

 

Sweet honey friend,

Your lover may be gone,

but remember that god will never leave you.

 

 

A Love Letter

 

Dear,

It’s not always easy, is it? This marriage with yourself. The contract you’re upholding between your divine masculine and your divine feminine. The relationships you’re trying to nurture, and the life you’re trying to grow.

The bond between you and your love. You try, you fall down, you get back up.

You could keep fighting it, or you could let go. Stop dragging your feet baby! Open your heart wide, and dive for the treasures at the bottom.

It’s exhausting sometimes, I know. Take a break, take a nap, take a walk. Take a fresh perspective. Look up at the sky and smile.

Find something to laugh about, and many things to be grateful for.

Love in every moment.

Laugh whenever you can.

The sun is always shining, above the clouds. Rise above.

I love you, deeply & fiercely,

Namaste.

---

 

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Permanent Sunrise

As the sun rises

It sets

As the moon lifts

It sinks

So too does my heart.

Cuts healing
Bruises fading

Roots planted

Wings growing

Soon you will all watch me soar

Hatched

Falcon in flight

Distacco

Moderns who neither kill their own food, nor grow their own food nor bury their own dead would seem to have solved the problem by avoiding it; but in fact the resolution is simply delegated, nowadays, to nightmare, slaughterhouses, torture rooms, death squads, and ‘snuff’ films in which criminal priests perform obscene sacrifices to the gods of displaced responsibility. No one can truly avoid the continuous paradox of life/death as one continuous god or process. Such perception arises from the deepest labyrinth of our psyches, where there is no distinction between ‘primitive’ and ‘modern’. The only difference is that ‘primitives’ strive to be conscious of the paradox; ‘moderns’ try to escape it. But the paradox shows us and ontological maze we cannot sanely deny, destroy, or over leap; we have to learn to walk it again, to dance it, as our ancestors did, with grace, strength, and awe-full wisdom.

 

Monica Sjöö

Irresponsible

The night I swallowed you whole,
You mistook my stomach for a womb,
And thought I was safety.

But I am the lioness,
You the lamb.

I bit down hard,
That night I swallowed you
Into my whole.

Desert woman

The desert can give us a little bit of God, or God can give us a little desert.

Hélène Cixous

Bound for Hell

Hell, my ardent sisters, be assured,

Is where we’re bound; we’ll drink the pitch of hell—

We, who have sung the praises of the lord

With every fibre in us, every cell.

We, who did not manage to devote

Our nights to spinning, did not bend and sway

Above a cradle—in a flimsy boat,

Wrapped in a mantle, we’re now borne away.

Every morning, every day, we’d rise

And have the finest Chinese silks to wear;

And we’d strike up the songs of paradise

Around the campfire of a robbers’ lair,

We, careless seamstresses (our seams all ran,

Whether we sewed or not)—yet we have been

Such dancers, we have played the pipes of Pan:

The world was ours, each one of us a queen.

First, scarcely draped in tatters, and disheveled,

Then plaited with a starry diadem;

We’ve been in jails, at banquets we have reveled:

But the rewards of heaven, we’re lost to them,

Lost in nights of starlight, in the garden

Where apple trees from paradise are found.

No, be assured, my gentle girls, my ardent

And lovely sisters, hell is where we’re bound.

Marina Svetaeva

Less and less women

 I associate this increasing remoteness, this desiccation, with the diminishment of other signs. In the same way we find:

less and less poetry
less and less angels
less and less birds
less and less women
less and less courage.

Jacob wakes up, he gets up. What becomes of the ladder?

You have to take a rock, put it under your head, and let the dream ladder grow. It grows down toward the depths.

 

Hélène Cixous