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CarolineSD Dec 2023
She ran until she felt only the deep burn of harshly inhaled and exhaled air raking across the exhausted pathways of her throat and lungs; until she started to see dark spots flitting in and out of her vision and her legs felt like numb pillars of concrete.

She ran on and on with small branches and sharp thistle grabbing at her arms, legs and face, leaving a sense of rubbed sand across her exposed skin.

She pummeled forward, ignoring the death of all feeling in her body, ignoring her heart’s desperate thudding, ignoring the throbbing of blood in her temples screaming, “STOP!” She deafened her ears to her own body and ran on and on, ignoring the dank, putrid mud that kicked up onto her calves and thighs.

She ran and ran and ran until, like a figure underwater, her legs ceased to yield any force against the ground and she sank, floating down, down, down to the black forest floor, first knees, then hands that could not hold her, and finally, her head thudding against the ground with an explosion of stars and the undeniable sense of giving up.

It found her soon enough. Breaking through the thick branches by the old river’s edge, it stood on four trembling legs, panting and salivating. Blood, it smelled blood. The scent was overpowering and beautiful beneath the thin skin of the gaunt little girl. She would be a meager meal, but it was desperate.

Its eyes shone yellow and ravenous through the falling dusk. The others soon followed in a rough pack of visible ribs and gray fur falling out in clumps and eyes dulled from starvation; whimpering and sniffling, too weak to gather their voices in song. The cold night reeked of the memory of wolves once strong enough to howl across the valley, a rising and falling chorus, breaking from the forest to the stars.

Alas, it was all but gone now, along with the morning birds and the great bodies of bears, motionless and decaying like ancient boulders within the belly of the woodlands and the rock-strewn foothills.

The girl was still conscious as the pack began its desperate feasting on barely more than bones.  Everything was barely more than bones, and feeble breath now, and the light that dimmed in the girl’s eyes was barely more than the snuffing of a weak candle. Everything was giving up.

All that remained on earth was red. The red. The RED. Across newsfeeds, and newspapers, and on people’s lips and endless posts on Facebook and Twitter: The RED. By the time it flew across the web, across the world, in people’s questions and conversations, it was already inextricable; already incurable. It came bit by bit. It came like venom, or repressed rage, or revenge, or justice, or Holy War. It came barely perceptible or visible, until it was everywhere and in everything, and by then, it was too late. By then, we were unredeemable.

It began with genocide and our blindness to it; the tipping point of humanity, when the sun-clad holy spirit, the Great Spirit in all things, bowed Her head and wept vast galaxies of tears, tears like falling stars, like the sound of space and time collapsing, because She saw. SHE SAW.

She saw little children with broken limbs, with bones jutting from knees, and skulls crushed like shattered, fragile flowers; little children in the arms of screaming mothers, little bodies piled upon bodies, bloodied and battered, and held up for the world to see, as if broadcast across a slideshow in the sky, and SHE SAW,

She saw the Leaders of Great Wealth and Great Power, turn their heads away and feign blindness, and from their lips SHE HEARD THEM SAY, over and over, “collateral damage.”

And She watched as the Great Leaders learned that they could horrifically, indiscriminately, and brutally slaughter the masses of little wealth and little power, as easy as culling stray dogs.

She saw that there would be no CONSEQUENCES, only “consequences;” consequences like the protests of hundreds of thousands of powerless people, or the boycotting of corporations, corporations owned by the Leaders of Great Power and Great Wealth who sat on their fat offshore bank accounts and outlasted the masses.

The masses needed food, the masses needed shelter, the masses needed healthcare, and the corporations controlled IT ALL.

Eventually, the masses would capitulate. Eventually, they would fall in line. Eventually, they did.

And that is how the Great Spirit in all things, the light of all lights, the wind through the stars, the essence of being, the sacred web of all things, began to tremble, to fall apart, to weep, to release the grief we should have ALL felt for our own cruelty, for our own capitulation to darkness.

She did it for us,

Weeping RED, a tinted light, a bitter water. Slowly, we felt it, tasted it, smelled it. We began to watch the slow dissolution of being. Leaves fell and never returned. Fat shrunk on our bodies and snow melted to rock, to pebbles, to sand, to sand in the wind, blowing away. We are called back to the beginning.

Dissolution in the red tears of God.

I watched the desperate wolf eat his very last meal. None of us had very long. He peered at me with hollowing, haunted, yellow eyes, but he had no more will to run, to fight, to ****.  The cruelty of his last hunt could not match our own cruelty to one another. One was born of desperation and hunger; the other of greed.

Greed ended our Great Dominion, and it will never return. Now, I lean my head against the giant body of a Ponderosa Pine; a pine that is yellowing and dying. I look out across the wild cliffs into the reddening sky. I have little energy left to stand. We are fading into nothingness. I ask a final question to the void below:

Grandmother, spirit of all things, heart of all hearts, the light of all lights, the wind through the stars, the essence of being, the sacred web of all things, after us, after we are all but a light and scattered dust, is there a bright dawning beyond this dissolution, this nothingness?

The wind carries a gentle voice:
It's a beautiful thing,
to feel emotions so deeply.

There's nothing I can do,
but to feel my heart beating.

It's pounding me alive.
Incapable of sleeping.

I am permanently wired
to be open to receiving.

Collecting dust from comets,
to carve out my own meaning.

The universe, she needs me.
For transference she is seeking.

Pouring feelings down my throat,
so they can find releasing.

I make light codes out of lessons.
I upload them when I'm dreaming.

Slowly taking all the pain,
and I turn it into healing.

And for every cleanse completed,
she leaves me with a teaching.

And the world's a little wiser,
a little more appealing.

• • •

Then I get another download,
and the cycle keeps repeating.


▪︎ mica light ▪︎
A queen will always turn pain into power.
Miki Aug 2023
I try to choose kindness
I try to take deep
and let my anger wash out

But, my there are wasps in
my brain

there is a buzzing
settled where my neck and head

I swim laps in the pool
I walk the road and back
I hope that maybe I will
make it back

I walk foot trails with
my son
the leaves casting dappled light on his gold-spun hair
I feel my chest break at the sight
He is so kind but he is mine
will he feel this buzzing

will it lead him to break every day
I try to quiet my voice so
he doesn't learn
to yell

but I never learned quiet.
I am teaching myself. I am learning
He is patient with me
that is not his job

I see the sun on his hair
He jumps on my back in the pool
he giggles and wails
love incarnate

I think I will remember these times most
I will feel nostalgia bathed in dappled gold
when my bones are brittle and old
when I have finally learned
to quiet the buzzing

but will it be too late
will his giggles cease
will his small hands turn into fists
will he become me

I am teaching myself. I am learning.
I hope he is learning too
I hope he is seeing me try, seeing me take deep breaths
seeing me scramble for kindness
I thrash against these angry chains and I hope he knows

I watched my father thrash his whole life
It is how I knew to try
I still carry his anger in me like
like wasps in my brain

I choose kindness
I take deep breathes
I swim laps and walk trails
I hope that kindness will
chose me back
hey it's been a while
Toyo Douglas Dec 2022
Metamorphosis from the start of the day,
January’s promises,
had so much to say.

The beginning of the cycle,
to the end of the new.
The remnant of the spring morning dew
moves summer breeze
into leaves of a green hue,
and the Heartache of July.

The sun rose and set with You,
until it rained
and the skies once again turned a somber shade of familiar blue.

Metamorphosis of the self,
turning like a snake.
Shedding the skin of heartache and
remaking myself, again.

Metamorphosis I bloom and break,
I wither and wake
through the hardships of the year,
taking a new found shape
of me-

The moon wanes and waxes,
while the heart mends and sax’s
continue to play sweet melodies from the month of May,
and we are reminded of the day
that breaks and dawns.

The body yawns
from the weight of the year.

Yet still, the metamorphosis blooms and births
a new beacon of light,
preparing herself for the thirty-first night
and the turn of the calendar, again.
cristina Nov 2022
they say the lone wolf dies
yet the pack survives.
it is the strength of a whole and it solely that can mend for sturdy fangs and foreign bites
of ill-fated violence.

and although they say the pack survives, what is of the lone wolf?
is he fated to be swallowed whole by the jaws of his most trustworthy companions?
to be crucified as a slave and mistreated as a martyr?

they say the lone wolf dies
and his carcass serves as a reminder of what can be forgotten so easily
through the years he can be no more
and the pack will be, still

they say the pack survives upon the feeble shoulders of the lone wolf
feeding its ego and stomach
praying for another to idolize like the most precious of waste.
after one comes another
and time does not make saints out of victims
nor does the pack which thrives and feasts and tears limb to limb deities and sinners alike.

cruelty is no stranger to the pack
it is a principle to build community upon
and everyone relishes being the predator
until they too are made into the prey.

nobody ever remembers the lone wolf
nor do they remember whom he was before crucifixion
what they do remember is to never be pushed into such a place

the struggle never ends
and when another falls into their godless clutches
you'll thrive and feast and rejoice
and find yourself thinking
at least it’s not me
another old piece i proof read and completed today
As golden leaves fall gently down
From treetops in the sky
They scatter ‘cross the golden ground
When Autumn breezes fly

These tiny leaves don’t realize
The power that they hold
To nurture growth that will arise
As they decay and mould

Relax and let the ebbs and flows
Of seasons cycle round
For that’s the way abundance grows
When leaves fall to the ground
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Billie Marie Feb 2022
Well, well! These numbers,
don’t they tell quite an interesting story:
Aligning ever so perceptually, perpetually
perfectly with our half-full moon.

We are absorbing only
what we truly are
and honoring release
of all that is not.

The first full moon
of this Master Builder Year
of the Tigress Enchantress
capturing our hearts
and filling us up
to flood our programmed minds
with proof that we are free.

The drowning turns to flames
as quickly as flames
turn to vapor and disappear
into our One True Being’s
Eternal Grace. Smile,

even Laugh Out Loud
at this joyful purge
and holy release.
We are all one heart in love.
Dave Robertson Jan 2022
As a kid, I know I saw air shows
although none specific stand out,
I know there were skies that
buzzed and thundered
the sound of determined direction

at each one I know there would be pilots
who threw small planes in tight loops

everyday, pulling back on the stick,
taunting gravity to notice and push,
barrelling to a zenith
of impossible weightlessness, momentary,
before the nauseous crush returned,
over and over in front of an audience

and I know I watched and thought
“That’ll be me one day.”
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