Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Poesy, the Pain Chasing Monster… and Dead Woman’s Crossing

I’m spending this week getting my body ready for several procedures coming my way—don’t ask; no, really, don’t; I am certain that you don’t want to know; I wish I didn’t have to know. Anyway, let’s just say that this won’t be one of my favorite (or most comfortable of) weeks.

My body is exhausted… but as “The Superstitious Science of Werewolves” and “Dark and Bright of Nature, Doctor Witch” and all the editing I’ve done these last few days might suggest, my soul and Muse are full of energy. I’m grateful for that gift. And for the encouragement I keep on receiving from my Piano Man and from you, my Wicked Luvs. I’m a hot, strong, intelligent (and tremendously modest Aries) woman, but I doubt my strength would be enough if I were to lose the energy I get from all of you.

A former colleague recently asked me, “Why don’t you take a long break from writing? I know you love creating your stories, but you won’t heal if you don’t rest.”

One of my dearest friends answered the question better than I ever could. She said, “He obviously doesn’t know you. The doctors and some rest might be able to heal your flesh and bones, but storytelling is the only thing that keeps your soul in good health.”

Typing her words, just now, filled my eyes with happy tears. It is so incredibly pleasing to have one person who knows me; and realizing that I have so many other persons who take the time to check up on me, who understand the difference between resting my body and letting my Self whither, well, my Wicked Luvs… that’s magic.

So thank you for the energy, for the laughs, for the cyber-hugs and for all the magic you bring into my life every time you say, “I love that story, Magaly! Can I please have more?”


Yesterday, the magic and the love and the soul-fuel that keeps my heart dancing and that inspires the Muse to birth the next story or poem came into my home in the shape of a precious little doll. Her name is Poesy, and I’ll quote her creatrix, the Mistress of Little Gothic Horrors, to say that “her monster-y mission is to chase away [my] pain.”

My darkest and sweetest Emma, the pain that keeps on trying to steal my mobility, my smiles and my time will never dare to confront the healing wonder of Poesy’s creepilicious button eyes, um…eye. I thank you from the bottom of my wicked witchy writer’s heart.

Now, let me tell you that dearest Poesy didn’t take long to claim every bit of this house as her own. She tried to climb my bridal tree… but her armless situation kind of got in the way and she chose to settle on top of a journal and some Gorey books…
She spent some time grinning with AlmaMia Cienfuegos
Stood imperiously with The Bloody Bride and Señor Boneheadless…
Joined Throg and other members of the local frog resistance…
Schemed mayhem with Rocket Raccoon and Cuckoo, the get-well-monkey…
Poesy also claimed a sizable chunk of my Friends-Are-the-Best-Medicine board…
She’s also ready for Witches in Fiction 2014… Yep, the monster-y girl moves fast.
Wait! 
I’m not done yet. Remember the “Dead Woman’s Crossing” bit in the title? Of course you do; dead women aren’t all that easy to do away with. Well, I challenged Hedgewitch, a mind dazzling word-weaver, to write a poem set on a carnival or circus during the Autumn Equinox. She accepted, and spelled a thing of mysterious beauty. So fly over to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, to read of “Love, Death and Carnivals,” a delicious equinox treat.


And I had to share this picture of the Equinox outside my window.
I wish that the perfect dance between light and dark finds you happy, my Luvs. ;-)

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Dark and Bright of Nature, Doctor Witch

Shape,
boundaries between perceived realities
and dreamed living,
specie
cul-de-sac,
racial color coding
and inborn evil  
are man-crafted constructs
the spirit needs not.

“Oh, dear wolf, how I wanted my babe and love. But she… she said ‘There are rules separating those people from our kind. Look at his eyes; that shape; that slant that always searches for the path that starts and ends in disaster. Too dark, much too dark for the daughter I shaped from the bright in my soul.’ I so wanted my babe and the love—that bright-dark love—that helped my spirit dance a soul into my womb.”

Ripped.
Against her nature’s will,
bled and emptied
by the self-perceived brightness
believed to be of her kind;
soul and womb
(indivisible, by choice of her heart)
were sucked barren…
one deadened loved-chunk at a time.

“Oh, dear wolf, would you sing to your children of mine? Would your howls raise my babe in moonlit nights over this shoreline? Eat of me; my blood remembers the words. Feed on me; my flesh will tell the tale. Let my spirit join yours in the dark and bright of nature. Let us heal what has been diseased and half-killed. Would you sing to our children of me?”

Wolf bit into love
pained,
fed on soul-hope,
which tastes the same in all tongues—
rich, eternal, malleable, balanced, unstoppable.

To the Moon Mother,
wolf howled of healing,
of love and tomorrow,
of covenants between spirits.

The Moon shined natural approval
of all life of all love
and of wishes unmade.
“Be woman and man to creep in darkness,
be wolf—or not—to run in my bright,
be both to heal in-between,” said the Moon,
“to keep your word,
to guard all sacred,
to remind the spirit
of dead songs bled back to life
in the shoreline.”

Kept strong and fresh by choice,
the Covenant has survived time
and lack of belief.
Guards change with their seasons:
first wolf, then shaman, once a sandpiper, now Doctor Witch;
next season, the shapeshifter returns to mate and woods,
and a surfer shall guard the beach.



for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Open Link Monday - September 22, 2014)
and
for Magpie Tales 238

inspired (or beaten out of my Muse… who liked it *cough*) by my Wicked Darlings’ need to know more about the main character of The Superstitious Science of Werewolves

Red Riding Hood Grows Up, by Shlomi Nissim
via Pixdous

Friday, September 19, 2014

The Superstitious Science of Werewolves

“Your professional—ha!—diagnosis, Doctor Witch?”

The Doctor chants a quiet prayer
for the dead,
double gloves his hands
for the living,
examines what’s left of the corpse, and speaks the words:
“Flesh ripped from bone,
bone fragments ivorying the jetty…
I say he was killed by the Full Moon.”

“Full Moon?
Are you seriously thinking
werewolves?
Someone please,
call a real man of science;
this witch doctors will never do.
Werewolves? Ugh!”

“Cloud not my science
with your superstition, man;
Witch I am not, but named Doctor Witch.
No werewolves here,
but there is syzygy
and lack of respect for the line dancing of Sun, Earth and Moon—

Spring tides!
The man spreads his arms towards the heavens.
“It’s October, for God’s sake;
the middle of Fall.
Spring won’t come until way after Christmas.”

“There is also lack of knowledge
and stark ethnocentricity;
talk some, listen more, share yourself
with many different others—
get cultured, man.”

“I need no culture,
just a cause of death;
do your job, witch doctor.”

“Doctor Witch, not a Witch;
remember it, man, and kiss your luck.
The surfer’s life was taken
by the might of the high tides.
I already told you.”

“You said werewolves!”

“No, man, you said werewolves.
I said Full Moon, a syzygy, spring tides…
Besides, the packs around this area
value and respect their lives;
they would never hunt at my shoreline.


Note: I rarely post twice on the same day. But Kerry mentioned “Superstition and Science...” I couldn’t resist. I felt the pull, and had to fly to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. I hope you enjoy the spell that dances within the poem of my scientific storytelling *tee-hee*. And if you missed the Witches in Fiction latest update, click on the link to read the previous post.

waves storm moon