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{i remember}

She comes to presence
in a great wave of grief
that has no bottom.

{water cannot swim}

Feeling the unbearable
weight of womanhood
tearing me open,
revealing my own sorrows.

{a channel of life}*

To be a gate of love and blood,
the flesh of desire,
bearer of all burdens,

was so traumatic I was reborn
in the body of a man.
Rei Coman  Oct 2018
The Old Ways
Rei Coman Oct 2018
There are old ways that we have forgotten,
sacred to our ancestors generations ago.
Far before men named Jesus Christ
Muhammad and Confucius,
our ancestors knew the ways to live
as enduring and resilient as the seasons.
Songs and rites, gods as ancient as the
deep green forest, and stories
of the rise and fall of great men:
Chieftains, farmers, warriors, musicians
whose songs echoed over young world.

The world was harsh then, as cold
as the towering bedrock of the mountains.
We gave thanks for what we had,
both to the gods and to ourselves.
The choice was to live strong, work hard
or die like a wounded animal.
The world was fair in the days of old,
our cares cleansed through sweat
and blood, and in the crushing weight
of the labor of survival we found peace.

Today, our peace is lost. We have
nations, such foreign things,
a group of people enslaved by custom.
The green forest has become
the fireplace of a world too gray,
the unforgiving mountains mere pebbles
beneath our trembling, dying feet.
Though our lives are calm our minds
are shattered, the breezes of indifference
blowing away the forgotten ways of old.
Oh, how hallowed electronica has grown
since the electro-festivities became known.
Now that stellar conflagration
consumes our nation.
All hail techno-paganism!

Our wicked philanthropy and righteous sins
keep us down, drugged-up and praying.
***** mind, clean conscience.

In heathen choice we are condemned
to experience pleasure
beyond what animal would comprehend.
Our souls will be set aflame;
We are to feel the sear of elation,
The fiery rush of indescribable sensation.
We gather to bring the collective to new planes,
Transcendention is the ceremony's name;
The expansion of consciousness
using molecules as tools
to reexamine 'mortal'.
Sean M O'Kane Nov 2018
It's a phrase I often playfully use to describe my queer self.
("Were you ever?"my beloved Alison uniformly says in jest).
But now it seems unusually apt in another way:
As I swann around this empty house, the decor, the photos, the ornaments and old perfume bottles overwhelm me.
My head is brimming with memories as I glance past these fragments of our shared lives.
My loss is palpable and yet inescapable under this roof.
She surrounds us on the walls, hanging over us with her beaming smile amidst the family photos.
I want to escape but I can't:
In a mad way I want to believe that something of these relics around us can bring her back somehow.
She did after all carry something of the old Irish paganism with her.
But, no, this ancient shamanism is sadly absent in a room drowned out by every token of Catholicism you can think of.
It's all too much for this first born to take and yet she is still here in the tiny gaps of these precious artefacts.  
Hidden away where you can't see her.
So, no, being honest right now - I'm not quite straight yet.
The head and heart will realign soon but not with this gnawingly painful grief.
Pray for me.
Deb Jones  Dec 2018
Coyote Songs
Deb Jones Dec 2018
I live in a large cabin
In a little valley
The wind whistles
Down this natural funnel
And shakes the trees
All their dying leaves
Rustle and ride the wind
I have 108 oak trees
I counted them once
I live in the foothills
Off the hi-way
Almost a mile down
A hidden road
I wanted to hide
When I first saw this place
It was a buying point
This beautiful valley
Me, a city girl
Over a hill
In a culvert
On my property
Is thousands of coyotes.
They surround my house
At night to sing
Their hello songs
Here we are songs
Mating songs.
Luring songs
Their teaching songs
Their pup songs
Their yipping songs
They come right
Before sunset
And go hide
As the morning
Mists and sun rises
Lightening the morning
I was scared of them at first
Terrified actually
They would come
To my large windows
And the next morning
The windows would be Covered with nose
And paw prints.
But now?
I have done all I can
To let them have
Their own space on my land
While I have mine
The road I live on
The mile long one is called
Coyote Hills
And my property
Is aptly named
Coyote Junction
Now their music
Is hauntingly
Beautiful to me
It’s a yearning sound
And when they
Surround my house
It feels ritualistically
Archaic and full of paganism
I don’t anthropomorphize
Any animals
But I sincerely believe
They all have emotions
Fears, doubts, hungers, needs
After they have sung to me
For eight years
I hear the playful songs
The crying songs
The worry songs
The fear songs
And my heart
Echoes their songs
Well met. Well met
My pagan lover loves the paganism that's such a part of
my paganistic outlook. Yes if not for gothism, satanism,
witchcraft, catholicism or the 2-party system that's
served us so well, I don't know where, o
mythical prostrate, I'd be now.
come now
i welcome you
and as the sign of my invitation
i’ll smear some of my blood over my thoughts
before i write them down

come burning
like the ember at the end of my cigarette
which i burn ritualistically
like a sacrifice for sin

come, i’ll slay swine and serpents
to lay out for you
forgive me, it is all i have to give
but i understand that it is the sincerity of the giving
and not the gift
which you desire

and for your thirst
i’ll give a bitter gall
that is all
i have, for your thirst or for mine

but come
come in time
i pine
away
like every day
you ever made

i ask for no angels to herald your arrival
lest wiser men arrive
and present you with better gifts
than i can afford

come Lord

— The End —