My magick incantation
Is unfaded and unshaded.
When the earth knows deterioration
I feel a responsibility, a reaction,
A habit forming,
A sorcery alluring.
I feel a voice, concerning, calling.
I’ll conjure my knowledge,
Nestled safely on broomstick,
And take hitch,
Pitch my best, paint the peeling patches,
Seek solutions to problems,
And pour the answers in the cauldron.
The ways to heal the earth are finding me.
My voice reverberates
Through spoken spells.
I can yell!
I can tell the stories,
While my sisters lived mute.
And knew the inside of a casket too early,
Too often misunderstood.
Punished for what they cast.
And simply because of
The timing of my birth,
I’m worth more than my kin,
Of years before.
I won’t be hung for writing this,
I won’t have to prepare my lips
For death’s kiss,
Even if I was a witch.

The fact of the matter,
That matters,
Is that you matter,
No matter what matters to others.
We’re sisters and brothers,
We’re all made of matter.
You don’t matter less,
No matter your dress.
And no matter our differences.
He or her,
Or they, for that matter,
You matter the same.
No matter your looks,
No matter the thinner or fatter,
And no matter your name,
You matter.

If I speak of the thick liquor
Of sugar syrup on tree bark,
And in honeycomb of bees’ nests,
In the dark of the hive,
Does your water now taste of it?

If I speak of the slumping, damp plants,
The slow drip-drip-dripping
Into the wet marsh below,
And flight of the water bugs,
Do you hear it echo?

If I speak of the soft satin viola petal,
Of bubbled, soggy foam
Along the shoreline,
Of frilly mushroom gills,
Do your fingertips feel it too?

If I speak of the sun speckled icicles
Off of barn roofs,
And trees swaying in wind,
Like synchronized swimmers
Do you see it before you?

If I speak of crisp, autumn air,
Of picked pine needles,
And low tide’s kiss,
Where the wet bear hunts fish,
Does the room now smell of them?

If a voice
Flutters through walls,
Or seeps from my pillow —
If a voice calls,
I want to know their name.

A wandering soul who once lived
With body and skin,
As I,
So why should I cry at the sight?
And why is darkness
What we see,
In the souls of the dead?
I see light.

Villainous hands
Belong to the living.
The dead have redeemed.
Lost souls, unattached
To ****** wrong.

The soul:
The epitome of glorious, ignorant life —
Unbiased, unbound.
Clean,
Refreshing breeze,
That raise hairs on my skin,
But I don’t run away.

Come sit,
Or dance with the sun-sparkled dust.
Peruse through the books
On bowed shelf.
Come sing of borrowed voices.
Come dine.
And exist in a place
Without exile.

If a spirit is searching
For a home between lives,
A place to rest —
Like the bird makes a nest,
Let it be.
I don’t weep,
I make friends
With the ghost that lives with me.
I am shell
To the slug you call ugly.

I am haunted.
Don’t worry for me.

I am haunted,
But I want to be.

Ravelled spools
Of spilled awake-dreams and un-sleeping grievances.
Let’s watch them like an old film
On a tattered sheet.
I want what you want — to sleep.
To say goodnight to trickling doubt,
And face the grout in the walls.

Catastrophic throne,
Fermenting underneath my bones
As I sit above the chaos,
But as long as I sit motionless,
Focus on ahead instead of what’s at loss
The rocky remnants of your regret
Will crumble,
Go to rack and ruin
If I sit above the chaos,
It will all be over soon

If I can’t assuage
The crave for rain
In rugged drought and dry,
I hope at least
To see the day
That Mother Nature tries.