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.

I am relinquishing my fears today
No longer shall I be too afraid to be who I am
I am not ashamed of my faith
I shouldn't hide behind a decade of prosecution
We've moved past the burnings and the witch hunts
Let them come at me with their torches and pitchforks

It isn't my gods and goddesses who seeks the path of destruction

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.

You say your God is your rock and your light
But light can be blinding
And rock may roll
No longer do I feel faith
In an outback church house
Singing with the preachers

What glory could settle the breeze?
In the days and nights that my mouth goes dry,
what road upon which an army marches does suffer a well to be dug,
and what cities fall that could bring a cup to my lips?
Words like yours incite no war cries to rally,
but they bring the rain when you call upon the clouds to drift.
And does my hunger make me foolish? Does my imagination run
          wild
Because it has never felt the weight of a wise thought?
Am I simple? Do my curiosities reveal my ignorance? Do I ask too
          much, or too often?
What does a love letter to a poet make the man with the pen desire?
Is it the laughter of a budding affection? Or the pity that brings a first
          chance?
Perhaps he offers up the voice in his soul
hoping that it will be cannibalized by a tongue that tastes nothing
          bitter
in the murmuring recitation of clumsier words.
I feel I should know.
But if I must be clumsy, and simple, and ignorant, too much or too
          often,
I can only wish for my clambering gait to still be swift enough
to catch you as you amble
from thought to thought.

Windborne boat, you now will sink
When you hear my baneful song
Calling storm and squall.
Rains will pour and flood your decks,
Your passengers the sea will drive
Betwixt its teeming teeth.
Bones the sea will take into
Its watery sands, and there it shall make tombs that time forgets.

Bide the Wiccan law ye must,
in perfect heart and perfect trust.
Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill
An' harm ye none, do what ye will.

What ye put forth comes back to thee,
so ever mind the rule of three.
Follow this with mind and heart,
Merry ye meet and merry ye part.

Cutting through devils flesh, bones and marrows,
Healing sorrow, it's wielders never cold or shallow,
All Divinity or Nature destroyed is healed and harrowed,
Behold, the gift of the Goddess: The Sword of Shadows.

Despite cold hearts making our world a burning hell,
Despite many angels, light bearing souls, who somehow fell,
Despite those taking pleasure from greed, envy and sin,
Warm Hearts realize The Goddess is indeed our kin,

Despite endless waves of lives and death,
Despite moments when even good has lost life and breath,
Despite the sinuous evil and creeping dark,
One receives his Sword when Healthy with Halo and Heart.

For a Sword Bold of times Old, your heart must stay warm,
Even when anger for a purge starts and your mind 's a storm,
May every plot against Humanity forever fold or foil,
A Sword waiting for you, end all turmoil.

With Knowledge gained either thought the art or craft,
Sword of Shadows, Avenging all pains, even future and past...
Only tears shed are that of Love and Joy, no remorse,
To allow our dear Goddess in our world, All rejoice.

A Sword of Shadows for Hearts Brave and True,
Our Goddess Loves all, and has Sword for you.