Performed by Julie C. Sheppard
POEM:
He is life,
A great, mystical tree,
Symbolic in nature,
Eternally free.
She is root,
Hidden, deep below,
With a foundation enduring,
She is a mystery to know.
Combined is the essence of Him.
Revealed is the depth of love Divine,
Captured, perfectly, over a history of time.
Good and bad,
Back to their own identity.
As it was in the garden,
The One tree of serenity
In the white sunbeams of a forgotten fall
A poor soul was screaming in vain;
I’ve found myself in a dazzling castle’s hall
Looking for the lost ballroom, sweet love’s reign…
How come beauty never revealed itself before?
Golden gardens on walls white as snow
Kept by doric columns, rooted in a marble floor
Silver key doors locked, lost in the wind’s blow
Chasing the moment, open every pine door;
Broken windows, shiny crystals all spread.
At the end of the hall, two massive black doors,
Slowly open at feather touch, tainted blame,
Oh, burning red fondness never felt before…
A charming man waltzes alone, held pain:
“Dance with me and life shall never be the same.”
Ardent footsteps on the ballroom floor
Until the evening sun made a shy greeting
Two strangers in the night, turned into gore,
The blood dripping from my hands, awful feeling:
“There’s no longer waiting for my fitting.”
Strain in my brain
Drive me insane
There’s something wrong with the membrane
I can’t contain or sustain
Your bad memories are like a stain
I think I know what I need to take
Take a breath
Slow down
Breathe
Meditate
Inhale Exhale
Veins in my system relieved
I am released
I wish I could find a place to leave
So I can lead
Lean
Imagining myself laying int the green grass
I think I just need to cool down
Slow down
Take a breath
Breathe
Meditate
Inhale Exhale
Trying to find space
Keep me in a beautiful place
I breathe there
I breathe here
Here I go
Meditate
Death was an ancient traveller.
He was surprised that the old woman
opened the door for him so freely,
embraced him so tightly.
She found a form of comfort in his
hollowed face as he hid in the shadows
of her candle lit hut.
To her, Death was familiarity,
he was a constant, he was the cause
of all tears and laughter. She brings
Death to her hearth, wraps him
in sheep’s wool and tells him she has
loved him for her life time. She lights
the fire and tells him, she knows him
better than she knows the stars,
and that he is her closest friend.
You have been there for me
since the moment you birthed me.
She whispers to Death as she kneels
beside him. You were there when my crops
burnt to ash in July’s heat. You were there
when my fields drowned in heavy rain.
You were there for my child’s birth,
and her last breath.
The woman stands to her feet, pulls
Death up by the arms and wraps his
slender hands around her waist. You
have caused me many tears but also much
music and dancing. So, my love, hold me close
I know the steps. And so, Death did.
They waltzed through her tiny mud hut,
around and around in circles until the
candles burnt out and Death vanished
with the dripping wax.
By Megan Robinson©
The walls around me fell to the ground;
A decade before I heard the words, “lock down;”
That exposed every fear that’s ever been passed down;
From my first ancestor that was first locked down;
Scared that his bloodline won’t escape from being bound;
Frightened that the joy he knew won’t come back around;
So when I hear that the pandemic makes you frown;
And your movements are restricted because danger’s all around;
I’m indifferent.
Because nothing’s different;
Welcome to the hell that I’ve been stuck in;
Where every move that you make feels unlucky;
And I don’t trust you because I don’t trust me;
Welcome to version of life that I see.
Where every day is a quest to be free.
Wedges of mauve, cauldrons of peach,
daisy chains, lavender, bare feet.
Treasures of pure natural things,
swept along with breezes of wind.
Herbal potions, cherry blossom pie,
crystal twinkles under moonlit sky.
Wild woods and mountain streams,
elixir of leaves gathered from trees.
Medicine women, midwives, healers,
empathetic, wise, kind teachers.
Brave and fierce, up to their deaths,
in the 1542 “witch panic” inquests.
Over 40,000 gone, never be forgotten,
the way women were killed, was rotten.
Yet, another excuse for oppression,
did human kind ever learn its lesson?
Victoria Healing ~ 2.11.2020
WISE WOMEN
“It was not ‘witches’ who burned.
It was women.” ~ Fia Forsström
Millions of lights
Each with a story
Across the city lines
Eternal beauties
Horns and neon
What are they hiding
Towers and bridges
Where is this ending
Let the wind roll off your back
Like a drop of rain
Feel the cool drop
As it falls from the sky to meet you
Its journey has seen many things
Been many places
Let its lessons ease your soul
And take you to places
You have only dreamed of
Let it ask your heart to dance
Become wet with its essence
Find a place
Where you feel safe and secure
Love yourself a little
And realize you too
Could be that drop of rain.
“The day President Harding died, Paul picked me up
in his Ford Model A Pickup. We worked
the gold mine near Franklin Mountain. I swigged
A & W Root Beer, chewed Slim-Jims. Paul rolled
a cigarette, then we rumbled toward the mine.
That Thursday, another cloudless day, sweltering. No breeze.
Hot enough it’d about wilt tobacco. Bearable 100 feet down.
I picked and shoveled rocks and dirt into wheelbarrows.
A few young bucks toted them, dumped into a large bin
attached to ropes. Mules pulled it to the surface.
Hell, we might get a few cents per ton. I must’ve sweated a bucketful
by quitting time. Most miners had no shoes. Damp black soil
stained our bare feet over our ankles. Locals called us ‘Black-anklers’
but shopkeepers didn’t mind our money. After work
that Thursday evening a few of us miners climbed
on a foreman’s truck and he drove us toward Steeds,
the truck kicking up clouds of dust—the fool drove real fast.
Quarter mile from Steeds, he gunned the pedal on a curve and
the truck listed—we slammed to one side, headed down a slope,
flipped over and over. I struck a pine tree and was out like a light.
I woke, black as night, on a speeding train with all sorts of people—
some dressed highbrow, some in rags. Behind the engine, our car had
no windows. Some dark figure shoveled coal into the roaring furnace.
The engineer turned his head—face was dark with soot and evil looks.
The boiler roared. We zoomed faster and faster, got hotter and hotter.
We yelled ‘Stop!’ but the engineer waved as wind whipped our cheeks.
He yelled “You paid full fare and now you’ll pay your due.’
He slammed brakes and we screeched to a stop. ‘Welcome to paradise.’
Dark things prodded us off with burning rods. It was so hot my shirt
and dungarees singed, burned my face like splattering grits but
it was darker than a mine shaft. We were blind as moles.
It smelled foul—like sulfur, rotting roadkill, sour milk.
I screamed, felt like I was thrown into lava. All around me
yelling, screaming, crying, cursing. Never heard the like. Tried to run
but the ground was hot as roofing tar on my bare soles. Kept jumping.
Then I felt someone snatch my wrists, pull me upward
and I blinked awake by a tree at dusk. The other miners stirred,
inspected scrapes, bruises. I felt a goose-egg on my brow and a bloody lip.
We staggered to the road, hitched a ride to Steeds.” The reporter paused,
put in another cassette. I rocked, sipping black coffee, smoking, flicking ashes.
“That’s about it. Never drank no white liquor since, near sixty years.
Joined a church, got serious about the Lord and the Word. You saved?”
The reporter cleared his throat. “Well, this isn’t about me; it’s about you.”
“Cannot remember those verses dad used to read about,
about some train, but I swear, I think I rode on it.”
Performed by Hannah Ehman
