Halloween Wish Witch

Their garage had nooks and crannies galore.
Great for the game of hide and seek.
and pretentious fantasies of
playful New York wish witches.
You could be one too if you
drank their secret potion.
Stir in some chocolate syrup, some soda and
some milk and the magic elixir comes to life.
And it’s especially fancied by the five year old tongue.
Into the dark folds of storage you then must go.
Spider webs and dust arouse the senses
while the larger bodies of 7 year old tricksters
hiding in the oddest of places
perform their magical disappearing act.
The smallest obediently perused the area looking for the
secret spaces of the elder ones.
“I found you,” the little one announced, thrilled with herself.
But the found bodies remained still.
The little one pointed and giggled in delight,
jumping up and down.
“I found you. I found you.”
Still the bodies remained motionless and silent.
Soon the little one walked away
and sought the next trickster hiding place.
It was then a deep sounding voice arose
with spooky and distant vocal tones,
“Noooo you didn’t find us.”
“Goooo outside and we will come out.”
The little one argued, “But, I found you.”
“GO,” commanded the older children.
Go, she went. What did a five year old know.
She knew she had found them.
Five year olds hold on to certain certainties.

Vashti (c) 2007

Walking

The soles of our feminine feet
long for hallowed ground.

We, whose feet are those of internal Empresses,
Queens, Daughters of Royalty.

We, who trod the landscapes where
Princesses and High Priestesses dwell.

We, who walk through this world
with the Eternal.

We, who wear the fragrance of soul scapes
hold this secret dear, as it is this secret which
carries us where we could not go by ourselves.

Depths of Her Being

Traveling through the depths of Her being,
In love corners of expressions,
She tricks me into believing.
I follow with eyes blind and emotions fleeting,
Leaving the world behind.
I am intoxicated and dysfunctional,
Legs unsteady, shaking with anticipations,
That never come true beyond my imagination.
I design a world for Her to visit.
She arrives when my longings are highest.
I am fulfilled by my own embellishments.
Reading impressions of sophistries',
I lay in wait for fanciful pastimes,
Creating beauteous holographic realities.
When I still my fancy, I hear Her voice.
She quietly recites, "Valour, dear one, valour."

All Rights Reserved (c) 2006

Nomadic Findings

Across the borders She resided like air that follows lungs.
An ever present traveling companion.
Called by many languages.
In forms multitude she remained constant in appearances.
The tongues of time named her diversities.
They crowned Her head of Legions.
They adored Her naked or robed.
They explained on a multitude of parchments.
She is called Netzach and Creatress,
MATRKA, word and letters,
Spanda, wave and movement.
She is the Dark Mother, Empress and Queen.
She is lover, lifter, slaughterer and enslaver.
She is a sweet surrender, tender are Her chains.
She is nurturer and chastiser.
Fed by the fruit of the vine and welped by the swinging branches,
She cultivates.
Slaying the false reality donned,
The mask manufactured,
The small self created.
Granting boons and dressing in attributes.
Never taking away, but rising mundane delusions to new meaning.
Divinizing aspects and revealing the face of a heart.
Giving clear spectacles with new proportions.
She is Lillith slayer of the ego child.
She is Kali reconstructionist of the false perceptions and attachments.
She is Inanna, who carries one to the depths of the dark side of soul,
Naked and robbed of riches and protection, hung on a hook, left to die.
When lost in Her Kamaloka, personal dirty laundry is cycled through Her Universal Washing Machine.
As Saraswati She wises one up.
As Shekinah She copulates.
As Durga She empowers a weak heart.
As Kundalini She ignites.
She is delusion and liberation.
She is negative and positive aspects.
She is all the inbetweens.
She is a sweet seductress and a stern guide.
Sometimes veiled in darkness
Other times illuminated in dawn light streams.


All Rights Reserved (c) 2006


And.....

Nameless By Tzvi Freeman

High upon her precipice, the soul is nameless, for she has no form - she will be whatever she must be.

Peering below, beneath the clouds, she perceives a faint shimmering of her light in the deep, wet earth. There she finds form, and she calls it a name, and she is called when that name is called, for she says, "This is me."

But it is not her. It is only a faint glimmering of her light within the frame of a distant world.

http://www.chabad.org/library/article.asp?AID=36342