oliver-roos-pHwWbdQrmEs-unsplash

Photo by Oliver Roos on Unsplash

 

 

poem: The Crossroads

 

The Cailleach’s breath rattles through the barren branches of the standing talls,

as midnight’s moon casts a cold glance upon all below.

 

Bearing gifts of coin and confections, tipple and tapers, I come to the crossroads 

to petition and pray, as the witching hour draws near and the veil thin.

Across and around, again and again, I weave my deasil orbit about the intersection,

as my breath clouds and my body shivers.

 

Finally, I bow into center to offer homage and beseech favor,

as I anxiously invoke and endlessly await that aged trickster, Papa Legba.

 


 

 

poem: True Magick

Bone and blood and earthly elements dance lithely with
spirit essences in the space between shadow and light.

Chanting a murmured mantra, the Universe whispers
in constant reprise: “As above. So below.”

From the heart of Thelema, the high priest preaches
the finer points of the esoteric arts, not side-show artifice.


Meanwhile, the initiated discern secrets hidden in plain view:
intention topples illusion, force of will trumps sleight of hand.

 


 

 

poem: Shekinah’s Eagle

 

The seeker stared intently upon the path,

          looking without truly seeing,

          transfixed on an unknown destination.

Searching for signs,

          she stumbled upon the gnarled roots of the Eagle Tree,

          stirring the avian augur from its leafy roost.

 

Long, it had been watching her—awaiting

          the awakening from her sleepwalk,

          the opening of her inner eye.

It anticipated the moment

          when she would authentically perceive.

 

As the seeker blinked into awareness,

          majesty upon gilded wings took flight,

          soaring homeward,

Uniting the waters and the air,

          the mythical thunderbird spiraled between worlds—

          as above, so below.

 

Sky dancing through infinity,

          the timeless oracle unleashed a primal force,

          passion luminescing from radiant plumage.

The quilled alchemist hurdled sunward

          to purify, to sanctify, to consecrate creative fires deep within.

 

Fearless of flames that

          singe feathers and scorch the soul,

          the mystical warrior rocketed ever upward.

It shed its ethereal knowledge,

          as it did its physical plumes,

          raining truth down—onto, into the seeker.

 

 


 

 

Living in Happy Valley, Michele Mekel wears many hats of her choosing: writer and editor; educator and bioethicist; poetess and creatrix; cat herder and chief can opener; witch and woman; and, above all, human. Her work has appeared in various academic and creative publications.