Favorite Poems

There is a witch across the lake. She is a terrifying thing wrapped head to toe in her ancestral garb, practicing her craft in the silence of night. She sends her praises to her goddess and wakes me from my slumber. Yet I pity her, the poor thing, so much love to give and none to give it to. She sends her prayers to gods and goddesses of love, hoping against hope, she will receive the response she wants.

It is October already. October sixth to be precise. The day her goddess’s feast begins. The witch will celebrate for 20 days. Giving praises, and giving offerings. The noises will wake me from my slumber. As they have so frequently before. As much as she is a nuisance, I do take pleasure in her worshiping. Her dances are intricate and beautiful. Her songs are hypnotically beautiful. The wreaths she builds, of flowers of all varieties, are complex and strange. Her goddess, her goddess, the goddess of flowers, of love, of art, of dance, of music. Perhaps I shall join her, the witch. But before I join the witch, may this poem be an offering to her goddess.

The witch, she is strange, swathed in color, plumage, and adorned with precious jewelry. She dances alone in the darkness shrouded by despair on all sides. What a pitiful thing is she, surrounded by ruination yet she dances. What strange movements she makes, mustering her limbs into motion, lifting the lovely lace of her dress as she spins herself in circles.

The witch across the waves, what gives your glass heart the capability of going on. I’ve watched your heart shatter a thousand times, splinter into shards, stab into your hands. Each time you hold it close, whisper a prayer to your strange goddess and from the warm kiln which you call your soul, your heart is healed. If the witch across the water can heal her heart, maybe she could heal mine.

Across the waves and water I find no witch. Her home is empty, her altar barren, and her garb neatly folded. She will return, she must return. to invite her return I light her hearth, fill her altar and don her robe. I take a breath of cold icy air. I dance, my movements are far from elegant, but I dance. Her goddess may not be listening, but I dance. I may be alone, but I dance. These offerings and prayers may be useless, but I dance.

I dance and dance and dance and dance and dance. I dance until I cannot anymore, and when I find myself exhausted on the kitchen floor, I laugh. I laugh until my heart hurts, my heart, the glass amalgamation I hadn’t felt in years. Everything hurt: my bones, muscles, and voice. Yet I had never been more alive. I had reforged my heart, and for that I offered my praises to the goddess above. I had become me, I had become love.

"No pride for some of us, Without liberation for all of us"
The words she uttered
All those years ago
Can any of us
Any of our leaders
Remember the war
And pain which landed us here
Or have some of us turned blind

Have some of us been satiated drinking
From a puddle with no poison
While some of us drink
From the poisoned source
While those in control drink
From a golden chalice

The war never ended
Only the battle did
The enemy is on the attack
Targeting our most vulnerable
We cannot allow
We need to stand together
Like our leaders of old
Did oh so long ago