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Showing posts from December, 2019

After the Fires, Koalas

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After the Fires, Koalas
After the fires, koalas run to people who offer water, drink eagerly, allow themselves to be handled, taken away in soft bags (or one woman’s shirt hastily doffed) for rescue: their burnt feet ointmented and bandaged or put into bootees especially knitted.
They may not know what long-term human failings caused the raging flames destroying so many of them, so much of their habitat – but how wondrous they do know individuals they encounter or who approach can be trusted utterly to offer help. How good that they are right.









And also see this story
Written for 'imaginary garden with real toads' – 
WORDY FRIDAY WITH WILD WOMAN: 
STAYING STRONG IN A WORLD OF CLIMATE CRISIS



(Images: Fair use.)

Escape

Escape
I am here with my family, away from the smoke that increases the nearer you reach the Equator. I am having a Christmas respite, pretending that all will be well, and plans for the future can come to fruition; this beautiful world continue to nourish us, let us still flourish – but no, we are ending, no lie and no joke, and yes the world can continue without us and better it should, for none can outsmart us so well as we turn the jest back on ourselves.
This moment in time is peaceful and happy. Everyone’s going about their business as usual, as if we had years ahead of us. Christmas, a time of feasting and family (and spending money) will happen once more, as it has done for forever  or at least a few centuries one way and another. If it wasn’t so sad, it might be funny – but soon there’ll be no-one around to laugh with … and in that long moment the planet will sigh and begin to start living without us. Goodbye.


Written in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Year's End; and, belatedl…

Smoke

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Smoke

These weeks becoming months the clouded horizon merely thickens or thins – not with cloud, with smoke. It isn't true that smoke's evanescent, ethereal. Not this smoke. It blots out the sky; fluctuates, fades a trifle, only to come back denser, higher, closer. Where there's this smoke, there are certainly
fires; we can smell them. On our screens we see them tower, spread, engulf.
We live with it, begin to stop mentioning its presence to each other, knowing others in areas around us are worse off, this little town so far spared, although some smaller burns come close before being dowsed. Meanwhile we stockpile face masks, pack our emergency bags, conserve water (even before restrictions are announced). My own breathing remains unaffected – because, paradoxically, I already need to use an inhaler daily.
Eventually, as time goes on, I notice I no longer have to glance at the horizon in order to know when the haze presses close or lifts a little. It has entered into me, part of my person. I wa…

Mortar and Pestle

Mortar and Pestle
Wouldn’t you think a witch would cook? We imagine her over her cauldron, stirring potions to make someone fall in love, or hearty soups to keep her family healthy. We think she’ll be grinding herbs very fine for either of these recipes. Well, you know what? I haven’t the patience. I’m a quick-and-easy cook, and as for love potions, I think they’re unethical. I do use herbs, but I don’t grind them myself.
I was telling a friend only today (quoting Erica Jong, in Fear of Flying) ‘You’re a poet. You don’t have to cook too.’ I’m a witch and a poet. I make my magic with words. That might be the oldest way. It’s surely one of the most potent. With words and thoughts and passion. Not so much with plants. So I’m sorry, I can’t show you a photo of my mortar and pestle; I have none.


Written for #decemberwitch 9 on Instagram.

Some witches – and poets – do enjoy cooking, and good luck to them. But this is my excuse for not having a mortar and pestle photo to post on Instagram.

Also sharing with Poe…

The Only Constant

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The Only Constant









Driving to town, I saw the old flower shed – still labelled with its big sign out front, still with sunflowers painted on the outside walls. It’s been closed for – my goodness, years. That’s what happens when you live in a town so long.
I wanted it to stay the same. Yet I like some of the changes: the new cafés, the pop-up gelato shop, the downtown arts precinct … and hey, the flowers at the shed 
were too expensive anyway.
Changes happen. Once more I’m without a cat. I decided I won’t get another, but maybe one is trying to get me. He came and sat peacefully in my back yard the other day. He jumped up and left when I spoke to him in surprise, but he didn’t run.
The place where I live has changed since Andrew lived with me. Gradually I’ve geared it more and more to one person living alone. No-one to please but me. I wonder if his spirit notices the changes to his last home?
Some people hate change. Some embrace it, find it exciting. Others are simply resigned: it’s what it is, no sense res…

Tagllock

Taglock
I tag you by your fingernail clippings, lock them into the folds of a small doll, hidden from sight, and cast my spells.
Wicked witch? No, it’s a healing I am bringing about for you by means of this magical connection.
Secretive? No again. You knew. You willingly gave them to me, 
these cast off pieces of you, when I asked.
But it’s easy now to disbelieve ‘all that silly superstition’ when you’re walking around well.


Written for #decemberwitch 6 on Instagram

Altars

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Altars
My main altar has a mirror with runes around its oval edge, drawers full of witchy supplies – incense, candles, a herb-cutting knife 
etcetera. All the four elements are represented and displayed on its surface, as on all my altars, even the tiny one in my bedroom;
even the writer’s altar above my desk with its pictures of wide-eyed Brigid wearing blue like Mary, and graceful Pan alive in black ink, fiercely intent.
On the desk itself Minerva stands with her owl. Close by are both Sekhmet and Thoth, he of course holding a tablet and stylus: inscribing.
The bedroom altar is more for healing. There’s a picture of the Blue Madonna with names on the back, in pencil to change for the now well, or new ill.
My working altar, my casting altar, has dragon statues; the oracle I channelled and made; several wands and my athame (a crystal laser).
Sometimes I think I want to spell it ‘alter’, 
for the work of change. Oops, that’s the other kind of ‘spell’. Or is it? Even before altars, we had Word.











Note for non-witches