“The Merchant’s Whore”
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The Problem with Dandelions
Bent over my not so perfect lawn, I labor with a hand tool to uproot dandelions. Wild weeds return and reclaim their sovereign rights every year. Golden manes, green, tender, crisp leaves, In the old country honey was made out of these worthy weeds. Picture silver-haired white men in plaid vests, Ivy caps and two-colored leather shoes, They place a tiny, white ball on a tee. Surronded by vast perfectly cut green turf, They swing their clubs with precise leisure. Overgrown, unruly yards and broken fences scare me. I tend my life most appropriately while, The fear of natures’ heroic rebellion, Succombs to the common Rule of Life. A lone dusty path curves ahead, beckons me to follow, Butterflies swarm over diverse, multi-coloured blooms in the field. Busy bees fleet and dance in their revelry of collecting nectar, At the end of the path, tall dark trees stand as guardians Of the ancient, green forest of the past. |
ARTEMESIA
I was your princess, you my knight.
We could've been twin stars forever,
Shining brightly.
Sadly, I hear the meaning of your soft-spoken tongue.
Remember the night in the park?
We slipped down an icy path
Almost falling,
My belly's tears rose up as you took my hand,
My love,
My breath froze in mid-air.
The moon hung luminous in
the dark sky.
And the trees cast long shadows
fawning a silent waltz.
Our steps crunched
in the crisp night's air.
The surface of the world,
My friend
Appeared serene,
Yes, even peaceful,
which sharpened the truth
laying vacant before us.
Left behind the warm lodge,
our safe place.
Alas, the road leveled.
Houses full of light and
laughter emerged.
Our destiny soon to be over,
Then she came;
The radiant queen of the fairies
dancing into your heart.
I didn't hear the bells toll.
That night in his; the Devil's,
Malicious and hard embrace,
The last joy of my child, died.
Morning came as it always does
Revealing all our fates spiraling
upward to a new constellation
Our precious lives
Quickened and changed.
So now dear audience...
I stand before you, a priestess of
black, red and gold.
Let my sacred ritual begin.
Blast the horns and beat the drums!
Through the dark portal
I must go to meet my fate.
The wise ones chant-
There lays the chalice of immortality.
I hesitate to take the cup!
Drink, Maiden, Drink.
And you too, ARTEMESIA may pass.
2019
Walk with Me
Dedicated to the Goddess Brigid
Brigid held out her hand and said,
“Come walk with me”,
Her hair, intensely red
like the burning passion of love,
Wearing a cloak the green of a four-leaf clover,
A dress blue like the ocean off
the shores of a beach
on an island in the Bahamas
Shining clear, sparkling from the sun’s rays.
Accepting her hand, which felt
as light as the fluff of a dandelion
ready to spread its seeds in the wind,
yet as smooth and firm
as a piece of polished birch.
Awe-struck, I hesitated to follow.
uncertain of where she was going.
With some urgency, she repeated,
“Come walk with me,”
Like a doe, shy and curious.
I followed the Goddess along
a well -trodden dirt path,
traveled by millions of souls.
On either side, wildflowers and greenery
stretched out as far as I could see.
The air was fresh like a flower market
Each plant exuding its own fragrance
like instruments of an aromatic symphony.
A curtain fell and I stood without warning
on a white, snow-covered forest path.
Still holding her hand, yet
the air felt warm not cold,
the shift was subtle as the beating of
the wings of the white dove who landed
on her shoulder yet as dramatic
As the final breath drawn by my beloved.
Her cloak transformed into
hues of white, grey and black.
Stopping by a tall barren oak tree,
she turned to face me.
Emerald eyes pierced
my aching heart as she took my other hand.
Smiling tenderly and enfolding them,
before letting them go,
she pointed to a path
leading deeper into the woods.
An owl hooted,
Brigid’s voice chimed like bells,
“Go now, there lies your path.”
Unforgettable
By Julie Anne Stratton 2023
Open the door,
Found dead on the floor.
Something off, something wrong.
A silent condition.
No more patterns of pulses,
For you the dancer,
Who was both anger and joy,
Graceful and quick,
Awake, yet crazy passionate.
Gone her life’s rhythm.
A perfect storm,
Strange peaceful going,
Unlike and like an exhale.
The ladder of sorrow
Within the circles of friends,
Fleeting wails.
Did you cry, ‘Mom wake me up?’
Did you beg, ‘Father save me!’.
Your passing can not be
You, a love which never dies.
By Julie Anne Stratton 2023
Open the door,
Found dead on the floor.
Something off, something wrong.
A silent condition.
No more patterns of pulses,
For you the dancer,
Who was both anger and joy,
Graceful and quick,
Awake, yet crazy passionate.
Gone her life’s rhythm.
A perfect storm,
Strange peaceful going,
Unlike and like an exhale.
The ladder of sorrow
Within the circles of friends,
Fleeting wails.
Did you cry, ‘Mom wake me up?’
Did you beg, ‘Father save me!’.
Your passing can not be
You, a love which never dies.