Dark Moon Witchery: Baptism in the Summer Wilds

Pause with me right here, at the edge of these muddied waters. This dark moon is having its wicked way with me, and I’m all out of breath. I’ve painted my heart alive, to death, and alive again, all in these last long weeks, all since that full moon milk-bathed me in its silver sorcery and soothed away those late-spring aches. This air is ripe with semi-sweet, electrostatic magick, and my holy lungs can barely stand the thick of it all.
Can you feel it?
We find ourselves near Solstice again, we two kindred heathens. It’s that pivotal point of pause, Solstice. It’s that radical, hilltop apex where the unforgiving sun gods sear our backs from behind with their pointed rays and the moon women hum us hymns from the dark valley below. Be quiet and listen close. They’ve got that wild intonation, that primal howl that calls you home with crow-poetry and mournful rhythms only the green-dwellers remember.
Can you hear them?
That great exhale is coming. That fast-roll down the hill, away from the bright and burning and toward the cool and spectral. Until then, let’s hold our breaths and baptize ourselves in these hard-rushing waters. Let’s strip ourselves bare of the yearning and swim skyclad ‘neath this sliver of a moon-mother before the harvest comes and we reap all we’ve sown, before that longest day comes and goes and we’re left with the louder ghosts and bone-bending wanderlust.
Come, jump in. This water is witching the pretense right out of me.
I’ve only one question for you tonight, my somber friend. Tell me, how is it with your poet’s sweet soul? I’m not interested in intellectual chit-chat or that pin-pricking small talk that starves my heart. It’s so easy to hide in witty banter and ho-hum conversation, and I want to see you, unshadowed and unmasked. I want to see you after the screens have gone dark and this strong-armed sun has burned away all pride and pretense. I want to see the beauty you’ve become and the monster you still are. Show me it all right now before the shadows return and let me bow down.
What are you waiting for?
These waters have a longer memory than this land, and I can feel the pulse of the mist-mother soft-squeezing my flesh in time with the drumbeat of the ancients. If we stay in this quiet-running river too long, I fear we’ll never be the same sisters-in-lawlessness we once knew, but so what? That Pagan joy is all I’m interested in right now, that bowl-deep and wild presence that has brought us both to this epic moment where I can truly see you, at long last.
I can see whole galaxies spiral-dancing in your eyes, and I can see those haunting reflections of who you thought you were snaking away from us on these swelling waters. It is only the most whole version of you left. I see you, and you are beautiful. The brilliance of your story is burning my eyes, and these grateful tears of mine are mixing with this holy water and alchemizing a truth serum that’s soaking into my skin.
I love you. Every word I’ve ever said to you were those three words bound-up and painted over. The waters are rising, and my will is restored. I’m more certain of our power than ever. Take my hand and climb to ground.
I love you, this dark moon and every moon.
Come, let’s not be Ophelia. Not today. Let us return to wilds restored and reborn, our new bodies brewed in these fast-rushing currents and sanctified by the setting sun.
I love you, and I can think of no better Witch, no better or braver heart, than you.

Beltane Goals: Joy-Healing the Bloodlines

Join me, Witch. This Beltane, I’m choosing slow-bubbling jubilance, ancestral blessings of fire and smoke, and ecstatic dirt-under-the-nails garden prayer. I’m remembering the bright bloom of the yet-to-come into being, and I’m doing it all before moonrise. Let’s paint our faces with the still-chilled mud and take to the sky-kissing hilltop where the bones of the burned are buried, and let’s dance bare-breasted by the light-of-day like they never could.
It’s up to us, you know. Let’s laugh to heal our great-grandmothers’ melancholy. Let’s work the magick out-loud the Old Ones had to work in secret. These are the days of the rising Witch, the heathen waking wild, and the crow-woman spreading her wide wings and taking flight.

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A Love Letter to the Water-Witch from the Fire-Witch: Moonstruck Poetry for the Storm

How is it with your moon-sick heart, Witch? How is it with that mud-loving, wanderlusting soul you kept tucked away so carefully between your aching ribs all Winter long? Tell me, you sorceress of sweet and sad stories, what hopeful visions have you to share with me now, as this first full moon of Spring swells up under my skin and softens those unforgiving angles of belief and conviction that fan my rage-hungry flames but starve my more joyous magick? Share with me your most gracious and feather-light anecdotes, and I’ll drink from that cool-running, sweet-water river you keep flowing between your ancient, inner altar tended tirelessly by our grandmothers and the over-running wellspring of your heathen heart.

Speak truth now. This moon is pulling our secrets out from all our dark places, singing a siren song so mournful and beauteous even our bitterest demons cannot resist its lunar temptation tonight. You tell me what it means to heal from the fallen angel’s grief, and I’ll tell you what it means to be a moonstruck poetess who wants nothing more than to paint a sepia-toned world brighter with what few words she has learned from this bizarre incarnation. You teach me how to brew a homemade salve for my aching bits left dry from a long-lasting Crone season, and I’ll teach you how to hunt inside those hot and steaming caves of your flawed-to-perfection Pagan mind, how to mine those precious gems of passion and desire, anguish and melancholy, artistic courage and sure-bodied dance.

Let’s walk amongst these ancestral stones tonight, Witch. Let’s move through this perilous moonlight together and bleed all over this hallowed ground while we journey toward the warmth of the Beltane torch-fires. Let’s ask the elements teach us who we are. I’ll remember what it means to be whole as a fire-veined Priestess, and you remind me the bliss to be had within the flesh of a nectar-sipping mermaid.

Together, let’s call upon the full Storm Moon to sweep through our Craft and spring-clean the dust from our routines, from those over-dull rituals and from those altars that have for too long gone unchanged. You bid the torrential waves wash over my Witchcraft, and I’ll send some fire your way, to be sure. I need your medicine, and you need mine, my love, so let’s not be coy any longer. Let’s skip the small talk and get right to the red, bloody heart of the matter. In your eyes, I see who I might have been had my childhood left my skin unscathed, had my lovers been loyal and my courage applauded. In my eyes, you see who you might have been had your rebellion been rewarded, your vulnerable art praised, and your more timid prayers answered. Let’s see what sizzling steam arises when fire meets water now, my love, when you really see me and I really see you. Inside that hot mist encircling us both will be the cosmic language of birth and death, and we’ll both rest well tonight as wiser women warmed by my hearth and wet from your wild waters.

In This Skin: A Ritual Body-Prayer for the Full Quickening Moon

Welcome to the Quickening, my love. Here, we are living expressions of radical hope, blood-and-skin reliquaries for these ivory bones of ours. Beneath this full and vibrant moon, we are calling in what is ours with our very breath, and we are the living antidote to body-spirit separation. ‘Tis the season of sensual expression and embodied Craft, and the Witch’s body becomes a soft and soulful bridge between where she is and where she yearns to be. Know your longing as holy, and let’s wed our feeling flesh to our as-yet unrealized dreams.

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