Tag: beltane

• Necromantic

  Lavender Latte

  I wear florals to funerals—

  some unwritten rule I suppose—

  and gods spare me hours of wake.

  An ancient lady kissed my face,

  that part’s okay. Who’s to say

  which of those present were hers.

  See something you like, lips first.

  And I wasn’t settin’ foot in that church

  without caffeine.

  Kept the whole procession waiting

  apparently. The Firstborn Son

  certainly didn’t say anything.

  Up, down, up, down, the whole

  ordeal. Some kid picked his nose

  in the front row and squealed.

  Purple lights in a bird bath,

  because Catholic. Intermittent Latin.

  When I listened,

  birdsong and children

  at play. What goes on,

  it’s my way.

  Daddy did say

  when I got a little older

  I’d notice men do whatever

  I ask. To be careful with that.

  I don’t often task

  them with things. It’s true,

  they don’t say no to me.

  Ran an asshole off the road for me.

  Threw desks and came to blows

  because someone had the audacity

  to sit in my seat.

  Native Tongue

  Everyone knows these lines:

  your name I cry aloud in the night,

  first cut of my meat and sip

  of my wine. All that is mine

  to give. Oh I live

  for my first language.

  It’s not so much English.

  It’s any instrument, rhythm

  and remnant, rhapsody revenant,

  syllabic supplicant.

  Not the what of it, the how.

  Art of the ember, breathing fire

  wherever sparks be found.

  Spirits need a house.

  There’s no home without,

  no child lost, it’s not bricks

  or mortar, it’s warmth.

  Sooner or later, sooner or later,

  you return to the earth, herself

  a molten heart, a mighty hearth.

  Grip Strength

  I’ve pulled thrice my mass

  in a deadlift. Held an opponent

  twice as big in simple guard

  until he spent. Men

  are a bit like horses in that

  you can’t force them. A man

  needs to know you understand

  when you mount him. His nature

  and what you’re askin’.

  He’ll let you

  put him through his paces,

  move forward places no horse

  can see, well the gods gave that gift

  to me. I promise you’ll feel my weight,

  it’s eternity, what’s unseen and pervades.

  I’ve infinite flair for whimsy but baby,

  I can swing. Low and deep,

  they’ve never directly observed its waves,

  perhaps a wider stance, open hands,

  an anchor out to sea. It was always

  my gravity set you free.

  

  May 3, 2025

  beltane, gothic romance, poetry, storytelling

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• Whole Milk

  Roses

  That doctor asked if I had a priest

  to address what ailed me, beyond

  his scope. As if my namesake stood

  so I could go back to crawlin’.

  Darlin’ ain’t no Son with rites to this,

  I’ll bloom in perfect darkness

  if I must. Went outside, spun,

  and looked up.

  When life gives you cortisol,

  best to build muscles. Fuck it,

  why not. Every night I walk,

  sometimes until dawn, enough,

  it’s enough to wear me down.

  And now, miles and miles of muster,

  of tears, a pungent bouquet

  of desolate years. Hard won

  in desert. Here, everything bites,

  what lives does so in spite of the light.

  Oh how I long for a wintry place,

  cuddly bees and frost flocked eyes,

  woolen embrace and fresh snow bright

  in my window. Woke one morn,

  and who did see me, wood neighbors’

  tracks where they’d gone.

  Big Cow Energy

  There’s a funny man with funny hats,

  used to wear a suit. Top floor city boy,

  then one day he just quit. Said this ain’t it.

  Remembrance of happiness, wrapped up

  and split. Money can’t buy this, but

  money can buy cows. The cutest,

  Highlands, and land. He’s no rancher,

  out there in Alaska. Got them

  just to love them and left alone.

  It’s very cold. You can imagine.

  When his best girl grew old,

  still had all her teeth. Such care.

  Daily massages up to his shoulders,

  her hips did crack brittle as branches.

  He summoned the vet, gray in the eye,

  asked her so softly, is it time? Is it Time?

  Not yet, she assured. She has a good life.

  You’ve given her a good life.

  Only then did he cry.

  Solar Punkalypse

  Won’t be no Mad Max, firstly:

  scurvy. Disease, generally. Rabies.

  Can’t shoot gangrene. Horsemen, indeed.

  How quaint. Who made all your saints?

  Cooked the last supper? The red tent.

  Your four riders are these: Death

  with a shovel, muck boots, and black

  Carhartt overalls.

  Mycelium with a barrow, seedlings,

  and patchwork threads. Off in the head.

  Grandma with wizened hands, knitted

  shawl like a cottage garden, hardest

  and owed respect.

  Bard with tooth and humor, puts a beat

  and adds flavor. Power in words.

  Pulled by oxen. They don’t move fast.

  In process of proving what lasts.

  Take a tumble who strays from their path.

  Someday you’ll understand.

  

  May 1, 2025

  beltane, folk, poetry, post-apocalyptic

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• New Persephone

  Pomegranate Kisses

  Honey don’t be embarrassed,

  I’ve not so much thumbs

  as two green fists

  and all them topside did need

  to learn respect. I came

  all the way down here just

  to put Spring fingers all up in it,

  this grave dirt,

  and I’ll invent winter

  to touch where that flower

  keeps roots.

  The most beautiful I’ve ever seen—

  something coming from me—

  sweetness it sure seems

  like you’ve been waiting.

  My journey was long,

  you don’t make it easy,

  and maybe this flusters your plans,

  but I’ve never met a dog

  wouldn’t be lapping my hand,

  wouldn’t lie down for the night

  or forever, suffer faithful

  by my door. In the grand

  scheme of things, one mouth

  or three, there’s fruit

  on this tree, skulls beneath.

  Sometimes I’ll leave, lest

  I love you to death.

  Burst sudden forbidden color

  when I put you to bed.

  May Day

  Full throttle V cylinder, hundreds

  fold. Superbloom furious rushes

  sand blasted roads. The ride way,

  rumbles your legs, won’t hit the chorus

  if you don’t bring the rain.

  Discordant bellows, harmony not,

  when she’s in season it’s all you’ve got,

  don’t stop, don’t stop,

  hell’s gate promises only drought.

  Harder don’t mean faster, beware,

  if you can’t take direction

  she’ll take you there: crosses

  and candles in ditches, snared.

  Gremlin Bell

  One street donkey town,

  fuzzy baby boom, driftwood janky

  and an old timey saloon. Arizona

  about sums it up. Santa Muerte

  for un-Catholics, criminals, deviants,

  or drunks. Suicide gamblers

  exsanguinated of luck.

  Our Lady of the Dead,

  a real heavy lifter, do everything

  you can before you meet her. All

  she asks for. And me, I’m a helper,

  I won’t coddle your ass, but lover,

  stay on these hips and I’ll make it

  make sense.

  Give it time, give it distance,

  light some pillars and incense,

  whatever goes bump in your nights,

  throw hands enough it’s alright.

  Told you once before, I can ride.

  Till the end or die trying, it goes.

  Don’t need prayers if I’m yours.

  

  April 27, 2025

  beltane, gothic romance, persephone, poetry, southwest

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