Archive of ‘Poems’ category

Casting the Circle

The Moon asked the Crow - Christian Schloe

The Moon asked the Crow – Christian SchloeS

I want to sing in the darkness, like the nightingale, of beauty, of a path through the night, of a world beyond this one.

Of a sheer shimmering veil, so thin, moving in the breeze, letting through light and beauty, like snow falling through your window. One moment, a closing of the eyes and you could be there, appear as though by magic, standing by a streaming river, under autumn trees, and a sky like sapphire, whispering of more, so much more, of magic and wonder. A whole new world, a path through the forest. 

Casting the Circle 

She cast her circle under the full moon, by crystals glinting in the silver light, and knelt hugging herself, praying to the Goddess, calling upon the light, upon the angels, and the sacred power of the night. She brought her hands to her heart, and then to the heavens, seeing the moon through her window, floating in the sky, in the lake.

She got up and went to her cupboard, pulling out jars and wax, and sweet smelling oils. Her room was bathed in light as she worked, and she hummed softly to herself, chanting a melody of magic, a hum to the Goddess as she made her moon candle, strewn with gems and silver threads. She put her hands to her heart, then to the candle, blessing it, praying over it. She felt white magic going into it, and it seemed to glow, as though lit from within, or perhaps it was the moon playing tricks. She strewed rose petals and chamomile, and a little sage over it, letting the herbs blend with the wax, then kissed it, smiling to herself. Gently she picked it up and brought it to her altar, lighting it. She sang softly, knowing this was a magic of love. A flame  burning for love of the true self, of the spirit, and beauty growing out of darkness.

Her chant continue into the night, and then she fell silent as the moon set behind the mountains, and the first grey of morning lit the trees.

Something filled her up, like the touch of rose, and she sat shivering, crying, salty tears running down her face. She felt the air was full of the fragrance of roses, of softly colored things, among autumn leaves and the first frost. She sat for a long time, afraid to move, afraid to leave the thread of peace that had been gifted her. She whispered thanks to the moon, to the Great Mother. She felt the Goddess smiling, – a warm glow at her core, in her heart, in her bones, and she remembered that she was a priestess, a daughter of the Goddess, and even though it was difficult, she wanted to live that way, it was the path she had chosen. But she begged for strength, for her wounds to heal, and finally closed the circle. 

She went outside and breathed in the crisp morning air, and went barefoot across the field, in her white dress, kneeling by the stream, drinking deeply. Sunlight played in the water, clouds drifting overhead and she rolled over on her side, gazing into the sky, into a morning breaking forth, the last stars fading, the moon hidden by the day. She felt her wishes, her dreams, the magic of the night floating upwards out of sight, hidden, yet visible in the flowers soon to spring forth at the touch of the Goddess. She smiled, as though from relief. Her prayers had been received; she had drank from the potion of healing. The Goddess was with her. 

First Frost

Francois Fressinier

Francois Fressinier


I walked along a black river, and saw autumn trees mirrored in it, saw the waterfall rush down rocks, the last blueberries cold in my hands. I saw the sun break through clouds for a moment before setting behind the mountains, and the whole world brightened and was alive, for a few minutes before it fade into shadows, grey and darkness.


I woke up in the morning with the sun on the mountains and the first frost silvering the grass. I remembered my night, how black it was, and the stars clear like crystal when I looked out my window. It was a sign of winter coming, of everything turning to ice, even the sky.

A Sacred Space

I want to walk in a quiet space, full of light and autumn colors. With silent snow falling, like a hush unto the world, leaving everything in a blanket of white. Where worries fall away like rain on an early spring morning, – the sun rising above the hill. I want to walk with the Goddess and forget all else. I want to kneel and touch the earth; I want to reach into the sky, and gaze at the stars at night, wondering what’s out there.

I want to be a daughter of the forest, of the waters, the lake, the little streams. I want to walk in the steps of the Goddess, following the path she has laid out for me, guiding me back to my Father.

This segment came to me as I knelt by the lake, feeling the warmth of the sun, knowing even autumn would soon come to a close.

Now I sit by my window and watch the sun set on this golden day, slipping behind the mountain. I see the pine forest turn to shadow, a dark green among the fires of birch and oak.

The Prophet

Edward Robert Hughes

Edward Robert Hughes

A talk with a friend made me stumble across an excerpt from the Prophet, that touched me deeply. It’s been such a long time since I read the book, that I hardly remember it. It was given to me as a gift after my mother passed away, and I was very young then, only 13 years old. I wish I remember who gave it to me.

I know I was in the living room at the time, and a woman was there, smiling as she handed me a black thin book, with golden letters. It felt like such a precious gift, even though I did not know her, did not know what it meant. I treasured it and read it slowly, feeling the beauty of the words. 

On Joy and Sorrow
The Prophet
by Khalil Gibran

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the reassure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.


Snow Falling

Christian Schloe- Moth Princess.

Christian Schloe- Moth Princess.

I sat quietly, feeling, listening, but all I could feel was snow silently falling all around me, as I walked a winter landscape, cold and glittering. Snow floating, soft like feathers upon the air.

And then a distant summer, fields of green, of color, flowers in the grass. A glimmering light just out of reach.

And silky petals of rose, swirling inside of me, in my heart, as I knelt before the altar in the still of night, whispering thanks.

I prayed to her, to the goddess I long for, but whom I forget to trust as I walk through my day, my life, and then wonder why I feel empty, alone. I always want to be filled with something, with rose, with love, and I forget it’s possible to go there, to step into that softly colored light. I look for her, hoping for her touch, her kiss, petals of rose swirling. 



I’ve been away on a trip to Bulgaria, to the beautiful wedding of two dear friends, so that’s why the blog has been a little quiet. I’ve seen, felt and experienced a lot, and I hope to write about it. For now I found this little entry in my draft folder. 



I sat in the forest and spoke with the rose. I saw the light between the trees, and remembered myself, the path I was threading.

I saw the sun in the still water, and felt I was never to leave myself to worry about others, but to do everything from my center, and to walk quietly, touching the earth.

Light in the Trees

Artist - Armand Point

Artist – Armand Point

Have you seen the light in the trees?

Now moving, swaying in the wind, the mist behind them.

The darkness coming in, wild winds through leaves and branches and newly made grass. Mist and rain, and crisp clean air, the water like crystal, like liquid ice.

This is when I can see spirits, a maiden dancing through the dark storm, wild hair and naked feet, laughing between rain drops.

A Full Moon

Detail from 'Flora and the Zephyrs' - 1898 by John William Waterhouse

Detail from ‘Flora and the Zephyrs’ – 1898 by John William Waterhouse

Soft moonlight upon water, spreading like gossamer threads unto the world, bathing it in ethereal light, the white light of the Goddess.

Her face towards you, smiling, glowing, silver hair dancing. 


I lay awake, unable to sleep, the world too bright under the full moon. I walk to the window and stand for a moment looking at her, at the sky, a few pale stars.

It feels like a secret moment, a mystical breath between worlds, with everyone asleep, the divine watching over us

I return to bed, trying to sleep, but finding it very difficult still, knowing the morning is approaching. I feel bathed in white light, the soft glow of the Goddess.

Slowly the sky takes on a royal blue, and the last stars disappear. She is hidden from my sight as the sun rises.

Words came to me, that I wish I could remember, but I can still recall the feeling of lying in the light of the moon, and the silence coming through my window.

Of Course it Hurts when Buds Burst

Lady of the lakeI’m always looking for new books, for words that will describe what is happening to me, for people who have gone through what I’m going through, who has already walked this road. This is a poem that a friend shared with me. 

Of Course It Hurts

Of course it hurts when buds burst.
Otherwise why would spring hesitate?
Why would all our fervent longing
be bound in the frozen bitter haze?
The bud was the casing all winter.
What is this new thing, which consumes and bursts?
Of course it hurts when buds burst,
pain for that which grows
  and for that which envelops.

Of course it is hard when drops fall.
Trembling with fear they hang heavy,
clammer on the branch, swell and slide -
the weight pulls them down, how they cling.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the deep pulling and calling,
yet sit there and just quiver -
hard to want to stay
  and to want to fall.

Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond
help, the tree's buds burst as if in jubilation,
then, when fear no longer exists,
the branch's drops tumble in a shimmer,
forgetting that they were afraid of the new,
forgetting that they were fearful of the journey -
feeling for a second their greatest security,
    resting in the trust that creates the world.

Karin Boye

Awaiting the Winter Solstice

4775e5191711e36e67afddff73838ffbI see glittering lights in white trees, tiny birds jumping between branches, dancing in the morning air. There is silence. Nothing moving, nothing stirring; no leaf, grass, or water. Only those birds, and the rain dripping from the roof.

The mist floats above the tree tops, green tops reaching into a white sky, the lake mirroring a forest and dark mountains, the trees mostly naked, waiting for the coming winter.

The world is holding it’s breath, at the entrance of winter, at the entrance of a deep darkness that will swallow everything, leaving it in a blanket of white, sleeping, resting, waiting.

The Solstice is coming, like a soft glow upon a frozen earth. A light in the darkness, people lighting their candles, flames flickering in window sills. A gathering magic, a mystical force that dips into the forest, even into the city streets. Something in us remembers, remembers the light, and in the silence, it enters our hearts.

Light of the Goddess

1240215_707578362589771_347421907_nThis is something that trickled out of me one morning. I had no idea what to write. I felt quite anxious, afraid even, and so I just started putting down the first words that came to me.

I long for the Goddess, I look for her in everything, but I also fear her in a way, of the change she’s bringing, wondering just how far I can lean into her love and guidance.


I feel the Goddess inside of me, like a white light, a glow that I can rest in, and I feel myself sinking, sinking into trust, letting myself fall, knowing she’ll catch me.

I feel her love for me, if I’m silent, if only I dare to sit still for a time. It’s like a distant glimmer of something, something precious, something wonderful, a light that grows closer the more I feel into it, the more I sense it, and know that it’s there.

It’s difficult to sit with myself, to face everything I am. I want to cry. I want to escape. I can rush around all day, and she’s always there, but I don’t feel her, I don’t listen, I run from myself and her love, and I wonder why she’s left me, when I’m the one who leaves, who forgets.

But as I sit still, like this, I start to notice the world again, and how magical it truly is. How wonderful. There is a subtle bliss in simply noticing life. How wonderful it is to be alive, to experience being human, to feel my own heart beating, to listen, to breathe in the scent of spice, and notice the details of the table cloth, the flickering candle, yellow fire dancing. The tiny drops of rain in the trees, the sky subtly changing from white to baby blue.

I feel the true magic is in Her. It is in Love. To be loved for no reason at all, to be humbled by it, astounded, confused, and finally accepting, opening up, having the courage to receive generously, to let it fill me up, and watch it trickle, like a stream, unto others.

I walk in the love of the Goddess. I walk in her light. She’s in everything, in nature, in me. I feel lost without her, abandoned, without guidance and strength. Without her, the light goes out of the world, and there is a shadow to everything, even those things that dreams are made of, even those things that should bring great joy, have no meaning without Her. Without love, life itself loses its meaning. And I become a lost wanderer, looking for the light, crying out for it, though I might not know it.

I’m scared to move on, I look for courage, and I find it in Her. I feel her smiling, walking with me, along this narrow path of light. I see Her as a loving Mother, as a terrible warrior of fire and light, the darkness retreating.


Do you feel loved, at least, at times? Do you feel loved right now?

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