Caught up in my Demeter role
I brought winter to my grieving soul.
Numbing ice, concealing snow,
No nurturing soil for seed to sow.
Longing to sleep in dreamless haze,
Aching for peace from ravaging rage,
I ask to serve, to give to others’ lives
what I am bereft of.
But the gods in their wisdom,
send me to fools,
wicked, nasty fools who mock me
knowing not my sorrow, knowing not what I disguise.
Hiding behind hysterically blinded eyes,
I prepare for my journey deep below.

Others have travelled this path before me
and lived to tell the tale,
strengthened by their devotion
to their stolen loves.
In a bubble of my own clouded atmosphere,
I shall fear no evil.
Blood coagulates around my heart
allowing no feeling
but deadening pain.
My lips are bound.
My tearducts desiccated by vacuum.
Thus am I prepared.
I am not prepared at all
for what I may find.
But neither do I care.
This is all about desperation.
This is all about emotion so intense
that I am beyond response;
there is nothing left to feel.
Step by step
I descend.

Something about a veil.
But more like
a brick wall —
there may be explosives
hidden behind that solid image.
It seems unyielding.
There are glimmers,
minor crumblings.
At times the bricks seem to shift.
Unexplained.
If I let myself,
if I am very quiet,
molecules move silently,
disarming resistence,
there will appear a stair
to my senses of solid granite,
wet with the drip of
melting ice.

Treacherous.
A misstep could kill me,
falling all the way,
breaking stair by stair.
I must take care.
Make careful measure:
What is the true worth
of what I might find?

My weight is unsteady.
Gaping below —
a colorless vortex,
a lake of emptiness
sucking in all sensation.
It is enormous, all-consuming.
My salvation.
I leap.
Overwhelmed,
I am sucked in and through,
breathlessly,
silently,
alone in the Universe
of silent, inexorable,
intensity.
Pulled into an event horizon
a singularity
another, nether realm.

Every act
Every thought
Every dream
Every wish
Everyone I’d lost
at every stage of
our shared experience.
Every sin.
Here they live,
each acting out it’s own story
in a cavernous space,
of encapsulated diaramas.
I don’t sense my body
— only a vague weight
of uncertain dimensions.
It is time released —
all happening at once eternally.
No choice but to let it wash over me,
wave after chaotic, metaphoric wave.
Sound/light/fragrance/taste/touch/emotion
craftily embodied in exquisite, endless pain.

Is there a voice here?
Is there a way to make it talk
in reasonable tones?
Is there a way to unravel the senses,
to frame neat packets of sense
and talk with them reasonably?
Is there a rationale within which
to deal with the feelings,
to put them in place,
rational and calm and dignified?
Is it too much to ask?
And of whom?
There is no guide, no authority,
none but me, infinitely mirrored.
What will become of all these “I”s
staring at me, demanding
retribution, stark, cold justice
Just Ice and Cold and bitter, stinging snow
to wrap my frozen soul in hope of sleep
while Nazgul track my dreams.

The innocent must bear the sacrifice.
Power too dangerous to the wise
and power-enabled,
that would overtake their skills,
turn them to evil purpose,
may be safely given to innocent hands, destroying
only the sacrificial lamb.
The wise, in their compassion,
may suffer unhealing wounds
of painful knowledge;
but the innocent are destroyed,
pitted inside out by corrosion,
unable to fight,
unable to understand.
I am not wise, nor innocent.
I look into the battalion of
mirrored images
and am left just short of
destruction,
picking at scabs,
unwilling to heal
my agony of remorse
and betrayal.
I didn’t know,
couldn’t know,
no one told me.
They said:
“Do what you are told.
It will all be alright in the end.”
But whose end, right for whom?

What is the treasure I have come here seeking?
That sweet, sparkling child,
who played upon the hillside,
picking flowers
to weave into our hair —
I didn’t mean to leave her unprotected.
I left her in the care of trusted friends
while I went off to earn our daily bread.
The screaming
in my heart
as she was taken,
the shattering reverberations,
I’d never known such pain.
It stopped me in my tracks,
overcame my senses,
never leaves me, never lessens,
though in time, like anything, I guess
recedes into background noise
that I may hear my orders,
do as duty demands.

But, duty to what demands?
The gods,
my very brethren,
I realize, have betrayed me.
Cut to my womanly core
to drink my blood in bacchanalia.
The mirror images smile grotesquely.
I am sickened,
brought to my humbled knees,
not in obeisance.
I have not the strength nor will
to stand.
Perhaps I shall dwell here in hell,
unmoving,
unresponsive,
bleeding out,
pale and ashen.
Serving them no more.
No bread upon the table.
Just Ice and snow.

II.

“Mommy,” she cried, dead eyes open,
awash in tears,
“I didn’t mean to leave you.
I didn’t know I would be gone so long.”

My desiccated heart bathes gladly
in those soothing tears.
I am brought back to my journey.
The mirror images have softened.
Every face, every form, every failure,
every sin
I can’t quite grasp why it would matter,
how these essences
combine with mine.
Perhaps I am hallucinating.
Perhaps none of us
exist at all.

Baby girl, I have always loved you.
Hated you for dying.
Hated life and death for dividing us.
Hated, blamed,
damned to hell,
all those mirror images,
all those wraiths and wretched
wayward souls who pass me by.
I have loved and lost and
lonely wandered.
And wondered why.
I hold you close as
I look into the mirror, deeply,
drink of the magick of lethe.
Falling, gently, easily, even leisurely,
letting go and drinking in,
all that Hell allows
now that we create the rules.

Caught up in my Hecate role,
I feel the power of my soul.
Rain and wind and ice and snow
I feel you all from here below,
and revel in elemental energy.
I am the wind, the seas, the fire
I am all will and all desire.
It is me you love, and me you hate —
I am the master of your fate.
Yet I am hidden from all sight,
beyond the reach or need of light.
I have found my peace,
my place, my voice.
Take heed, O’ mortal,
create your choice.
Create it every day.

And the old King dies.
transcends his mortal ghost
to gain Olympian plains.
“I am the mighty he;
ruled wisely while I was allowed;
sold my soul to please the crowd;
withered on the vine divine.
There is no more of me to kick around.”
Drink from the golden Grail,
oh New Found King.
Adorned, adored, supreme.
A bright dawn upon the now
offers sparkling hope,
better days aborning.
Don’t despair poor peasant folk,
though you think despair all you
can cling to.
The Fisher King has roared in, high
on his desert adventures.
He brings ebullient tides to
slake the thirst
of this arid land.
I beg you yet again
to take a stand.
Take harness, plow your pastures.
Believe that the seed will take hold.
Listen to shamanic heralds
shouting lines in the sand.
They know great flood impends
after many a hard rain —
but don’t despair!
It is a flood of fertility,
a harbinger promising carpets of grain,
lush vegetation.
All this is foretold if you
do your part.
The old King, so long dying of dank,
festering wounds, has poisoned our past
with ill-fated rule.
Cast out the poison from your hearts.
Tend your fields with bold will
of nobility.
Never forget you are free.
Never forget that responsibility.

Ascending spiraled steps in hope of eventually reaching a solid surface, more a chore than a mission as we continue inexorably day by day. Or is that eternity by eternity? There’s not much choice, as these stairs, though solid and seemingly endless, do not provide enough solidity, enough surface, for other sustained activity. There is not even room to climb by twos, thus enabling the solace of close companionship. Certainly there is no room to make love between, stair to stair, to find what respite or pleasure such loving might provide. Perhaps for some of the more daring (as we are by force unaware of each other as individuals) an occasional rearguard rape may be accomplished, coming from behind as it were, never seeing the face of the victim. A temporary digression from the rote work, hand over hand, leg up and leg up, monotonous unfulfilling dance.

There has been word sent down from time to time, messages in popping soap bubbles. No one is quite sure what they say, written in unfamiliar code, dripping from the watery former bubbles. Some take faith that since we have no soap or water, the fact of such material proves the surface is not far ahead. How far can bubbles fall before popping to release their secrets? Others suspect this phenomenon to be some sort of rain, a creature of sky, not surface.

We have always been upon the stairs. No one remembers any other existence. If there were surface below, from which we started our climb, there are no stories to describe it.

Sometimes some one will let go in disgust, give up on climbing to take a chance on a less strenuous eternal fall. We never hear them hit a bottom, only senseless screaming tapering off into distance, silence.

There is a myth, I don’t know how I heard it. Perhaps subliminal messages are written upon stairs along the way; or it might have come as lyrics from the times of spontaneous singing. The myth claims there is a method of mindplay that can allow us to metamorph into birdlike beings who can open vestigial wings and fly swiftly beyond the stairway to wonders of land, sea, continents, oceans, possibilities beyond imagining.

I have attached my mind, all my will, to that one thought. I can almost feel my wings stiffening, getting ready to fly. But to fly, I will have to release my grip by grip on the stair, leap into faith that flight is even possible, and more importantly, possible for me.

Or is flying just another way to define falling?

~twilight of the goddess, call to song to aery dancing, lady fair your fiery trance rewinds our souls; enjoy these offerings of fancy: all art is yours ~

By sibylline light
images I recognize,
creviced captures of my life.
I know her judgment to be my own.

“Nourished by Moon rivers
mythical cavern blooms
unseen by sunlight
glow green.”
Thus she sets the scene;
becomes the prophecy.

“Purest white simplicity
curved to suggest fragility
faith fed maiden ready for
plucking,
given in bondage to womanly woes,
hard rows to hoe
for tight human hug through
crying of night.

Fate of mortal soldiers, sacrificed to lust.
Seeking relief, beg for the boon of drama
high adventure
sneaking into sad hotels
for a fix or a tumble.
Laughs,
deadly play,
danger, a real chance.

Barefoot in the snow
icy roads
winds so strong
I could not make you hear.
I thought you were my destiny.
Crazy thoughts, far from clear;
but I believed
song lyrics from Saturnine deities
would not lie, leave me
dying, fading into winter’s grey
drifting clouds,
endless sorrow endured for naught.
Lost on this careless corner,
dreaming of oblivion, intent on visions
like rain
tapping against eternity’s
vast windowpane.
Scenic serenity.
Nature’s gradations of green
soothe tired eyes,
trembling nerves, throbbing veins.
Slivers of moonlight reflect,
disperse through refrains, unearth secrets
embedded in song
effervescing through cool pure air

cleansing the uprising nestling
set aflame
resurrected
tempered mettle,
pure, wise, tested
engorged with the will
to rise”

I was living a quiet life, survival plus contemplative creativity being pretty much the content of my days. Just a little bit of fertile land, clean flowing water, sticks and stones with which to build shelter, my books and writing gear, a simple wooden flute and hand drum for dancing, not much more required. When they jailed me for thought crime, I really didn’t expect incarceration to be a hardship.

My fellow political prisoners were an odd lot of anarchists, conscientious objectors, pundits for peace, rabble rousers, visionary artists, blasphemers of the official faith. We were crammed into a large concrete cage secured with razor wire encrusted with sharp broken edges of metal. There was a spigot from which to obtain clean drinking water, but no way to wash, so the stench of sweating terrorized humanity continually built. Nutritional pellets were also provided, as were chemically treated latrine holes. They weren’t trying to kill us, but to entrap us in a living hell. On occasion random groups would be taken out to participate as guinea pigs in psychological warfare experiments, or as test subjects for developing weapons. On rare occasion some of those taken, the ones who survived, would be thrown back in with the rest of us, more broken than before.

Amazingly, I was able mostly to keep myself internalized with my meditative exercises, able to move my consciousness into a beautiful, serene fantasy. Some of my fellow inmates would become curious about my seeming peace in the midst of all our pain and horror. Some of them took lessons and learned to join me in our spiritual escape. It seemed to be the best we could do, much better than our captors had ever expected. Taking us from our homes, our seats of influence, systematically and gruesomely destroying us, was meant both to make us ineffective and as a warning to anyone who might think they could make a difference to the rulers’ plan. Yet here we were, still finding ways within and among ourselves to make the best of whatever we were given.

Raw, crude power will find a way to win. Our cages now daily flooded with gaseous neuro-chemicals designed to agitate, disrupt thought, insinuate intensely painful nerve signals through our consciousnesses. The only defense I’ve found is to convince myself it is all a dream. Someday I will awaken, renewed in purpose, stronger from the extremities of illusioned experience. For now I need to learn to envelop with my fellows in a dream of possibilities. Perhaps, with perserverence and practice, I will learn to move that envelop to embrace the guards, their superiors, all of us, and we will all be freed.

Pluto’s Wife/ Demeter’s Daughter

Persephone, your will is free
Even as your living is in bondage
to forces much older in their power
You are free to reconcile your fractured life
Daughter in Summer’s sun
smiling warmly, playing at innocence
with charms long practiced
Mother’s Fool
Mother’s Lamb
Saved from that horrible man —
Well, joint custody
Ever Her beloved child
While it is no secret
Down below you are honored Queen
among tortured souls ever needy of your
attentive care
Far from noblesse oblige, it is your
chosen career, though not chosen by you
Are you told enough:
“You do it proud.” or even acknowledged
for the prowess your will gives existence?
Free Will, not Free Choice
It is learning to make of the whole sad cacophony
discrete instruments of harmony, of divine symphony
to find, realize, act with
impeccable integrity
as child or Queen
or someone between

Persephone’s Worlds

I have wandered far from thoughtless girlhood,
am woman grown, a Queen
in my own right.
Yet I am treated with the expectations
of a mindless child
in my mother’s Summer home.
The Gods are all agog with Zeus,
fickle, abrasive, free to take full stance
above the laws he so imperiously commands.
My Dark King is so much more a man,
sincere, deeply feeling, committed to his realm,
compassionate, if not always kind.
Yet, this season I must obey the crowd,
display charm and grace
in haute couture, make small, insipid
conversation with useless socialites
decorating Zeus’ lawn parties.
Up here, life is meaningless,
All flash and doggerel
to amuse, O’, do entertain us.
So tiring to endure the ennui.
Those not privy to opulent entitlement,
relegated to the dregs of servitude, or less
endure for their time, brutal, painful, short,
for no good reason.
I hear their horrid tales,
back in my rightful place and purpose.
Shrunken souls, shriveled by life time hungers
still growling beyond the grave.
I am balm and wise mother.
At last they matter, their stories opening in me
a marvelous passageway through which they are
taken into paradise.
My life above, the petulant daughter,
the pampered goddess spawn,
I endure coldly.
Summer’s trivialities, properly obedient to
rituals of social condition,
know nothing of my true calling
under Winter’s glory.

Persephone’s Breakthrough

This is where the idea is born.

Soft green meadows gently transforming into fall
Sounds of dying, scent of woodfire and candlelight
No separation between what is becoming
Accept and be revealed

Summer’s wild adventures
Spring was a torrent of clarity, precious rain,
Earth coarse, ready for fecund pleasure
Queen of night in daylight’s realm
obsessed in flowering
roses and daffodils
valleys and nubile hills
all is vanity and laughing vice
“But, Mother, I’m not a nice girl.
I’m a creature of the breeze; secure in shadow;
alive on the cutting edge of the storm.”
Myth in revision
Standing at the back of the playground
learning theater, tucking metaphors
into interstices of sense and anticipation
In spring, kicking stones along sandy riverbeds
reading the classics
to savor practice: valor, glory, dramatic lines

Summer deceives
the stink of rot where flowers bloom
ancient feuds, retaliations, rage
tyrannosaurus feeding future waste,
absorbing a zeitgeist of want, of predation

Within greed-swollen seed infectious fear
makes merry with misery’s habit
Mythology frustrates, curls back on its own ash
Eyes burn with hazy summer wine and wilding
Feet connect dust to sky — but only in designated
spheres, with designated peers, self-selected inhibitions
Sweat out poison into the ground; now, eat the bounty
Midsummer farce, far from honor, far from sunrise,
counting out the chimes as if time were treasure
Silly summer madness as if what matters
is so circumscribed, so predictable

Early autumn firelight
reminiscent of witch hunts, ghosts of calvary,
dire warnings and endless hide and strike
The game, the funhouse, turns deadly
Sanctuary calls, demanding sacrifice
The noble phoenix fed on frankenseed
can not rise

Skies descend, dark mirroring
Smell the woodsmoke, intoxicating, soft and sweet,
masks the taste of bitter bile, secret vomiting,
starving despite harvest’s gay array of treats
Faded, nearly blind, falling in and out of
shamanic fever, primeval native callings beyond sight,
ripple of tribal beat at the periphery
ecstatic vision dark/light/agony and brilliant breaks
starbright constellations

Traversing worlds
seasons, years, moments of clarity
no need to navigate, to invent boundaries;
dance of the highlands warmth and sustenance
permeates
makes whole

Approaching Winter

Twinkling lights. I remember twinkling,
clouds resplendent awaiting snowfall.
It’s Persephone’s season below,
growing in power, regality.
Friend to post-living souls,
hearing their stories,
sharing her own,
from the above time.

Flitting about,
we hum comforting phrases,
sweat anxiously in crowded malls
over inner demands for a never
remembered perfection.
Children standing in awe below
magnificence of glowing giant trees.
Cities return to primal forest
for an imaginary interval.
We recount ourselves our stories,
pray Santa finds us worthy
of that shiny plaything that will
make us all right, make us happy.
Happy little children, so Mama
and Papa might be proud,
stop fighting,
sing us happy children holidays,
take us back to the Garden.

Deep below, Persephone combs
her loosened hair, long tangly
root
core
essence.
Magical petals of bliss, succulent aroma,
blow about within the Garden walls.
Perennial flowers sleep, blanketed in
millennial layers,
reverberations of legends,
plotlines thick with arboreal lore.
Snowflakes twinkle, lightly falling,
drape long-growing trees
peacefully awaiting their Queen.

My Pet Goddess

We ride creative waves.
Chaste Goddess child, frisky muse
picks daisies, pilfers beehives.
Sweet as to please
deities craving
for innocence.
Secret games whisk us
to deep intimacy.
Supernatural companion, she
comforts me, familiar with these
cycles of light and dark
responsibility —
cosmic irony.
Mother’s reward.
Father’s Hetaera.
Beloved of mordant Destiny.
Beguiling affection, she cuddles
into my simple, abyssal fears.
She licks the eyelids of my
inner vision, coaxes me open.
Together we transcend
hierarchy,
frolic
dimensions between.

The Lay of the Land

I.

From your smoke-coughing cities
to your desolate plains
The children of Midas have taken the reins
And left you besoiled in blood-splattered stains
With none fit to wash you to purity.

The air-waved cacophony pleads for a song
That will once more unite you ennobled and strong
To take back the glory to which you belong
To wrench freedom from dreams of security.

The old man, he wanders through librium clouds
The young take their distance
to move through the crowds
And every one fitted for life-draining shrouds
Reflect only on death’s dance of conformity.

While poisoning rays permeate land and air
The high class step out like they haven’t a care
They’re bound to discover their world-rending tear
But can they comprehend the enormity?

Ridiculous sages exhort peace and love
Say we each have our choice of reality
So we fight over contexts and deny what we can;
But reality marches on.

II.

Journeyman upon the road
Listening to the jungle drums
learns to bring it all together
as nightly his guitar he strums.
From the Woodstock Nation on to ’84
With his banner of music he learns to keep score
And the score, as it’s written, keeps costing him more
But it’s also what’s keeping him dancing.
With a beat in his heart and a song for his soul,
it keeps him journeying on.

III.

Winter creeps whitely over streetlamp and spire.
Muted to whispers the Grand Freedom Choir.
A clattering chatter overtakes the high wire
Pure white like the night of beginnings.

The children have nestled all snug in their schools
In joyous rote marching, they take in the rules
Determined to never be taken for fools
Or give back an inch of their winnings.

Silent, the singers are searching for voice
They know in their souls it’s a matter of choice
They need to find reason, a cause, to rejoice,
A newly turned path to felicity.

A new day is dawning, but where is the sun?
Our freedom and faith are defined by the gun.
The symbol of power overrules everyone
‘Til we create our own electricity.

But under cover of darkness a banner’s being stitched
Of patchwork-bright colors and radiance
To someday soon be unfurled in the breeze
As we march to freedom’s song.

IV.

High upon a sacred mount,
Hearing now soft strands of sound
Journeyman no more, but quester
Nods benignly; ear to ground.
He’s learned his song clearly, and clearly he sings.
Hearing an echo, he knows what it brings.
The time is approaching to fasten his wings
and swoop down to join the festivities.
A new day is dawning, and he is the son
And it’s time to rejoice in the dawn.

V.

But where are the marchers, the pipes and the drums?
Back in the schoolrooms, relearning their sums;
Or sleeping with vermin, despised in their slums
Unable to speak more than mumblings.

From time to time daylight enbrightens their souls
But most of their time’s spent enslaved to the doles.
The wonder is not the dearth of their goals
But that they’ve not given up on their stumblings.

The class struggle’s nothing compared to the fight
‘Tween having it all and doing it right
’cause whether you’re black, brown,
red, yellow, or white
You’re hooked on the sweet rush of buying.

But the dollar’s declining; and so is the yen.
From swords we’ll build plowshares and take up the pen
For here is the where, and now is the when
And the choice is ‘tween living and dying.

Is winter receding? Is spring on the rise?
Do we hear on the air a new melody?
Do we strive to accept; do we try to deny?
Or awaken our voices to song?

VI.

Having witnessed, having spoken
Having reached the cusp of change
Standing midst the still unbroken
Deploying troops throughout the range
A new age martyr need not die
But only stand beneath the sky
And sing each soldier’s battle cry
To emanate strength and courage
To keep them true upon the course
— An emissary of the dawn!

VII.

We shout our faith clearly, without fear or shame
We’ve learned to play music — and not play the game.
We’ve let loose our captors and broadcast their name
That they be captured and cleansed back to purity.

It’s a tried and true story we chant here anew
Of a born again many set alight by a few
Remember the Beatles, the Stones, Dead and Who
Back when freedom meant more than security.

We’re learning to share in an effort of gain
To harness the sunshine and bring back the rain
To take off our blinders and learn to be sane
Yet maintain self within that conformity.

Each singing in glory, permeating the air
Feeling good to be cared for, and better to care
As we mix up the glue and mend the great tear
Finding courage to face the enormity.

We don’t need the sages to find peace and love
We don’t need to fight against reality.
We need to learn rhythm and reason and rhyme
And raise our souls with song.

VIII.

Knowing now his goal completed
Having given all he’d learned
On his private mountain seated
Enraptured in the peace he’s earned
He sings his song clearly, with joy and with fire
It’s all that he has and fulfills all desire
It’s getting him high, and then bringing him higher
And setting his spirit to dancing.
With a beat in his heart
And a song for a soul
Wafting aloft . . .
And he’s gone.

Minstrel Show

Come gather round kids and I’ll strum you a tale
Of a Queen of the Nile and her King Ishmael
Of great daring deeds and a pure holy grail
And how your dreams can come true
O’ now listen to know what to do.

Deep in the desert, dark in the night,
the Queen was awakened in terrible fright
to see her king levitate, surrounded by light.
Now, what does she do?
O’ seeing her dreaming come true?

Oh, babe, I dream of you again
Your vision haunting me
since I don’t know when
Asleep in your arms, your voice all around me
These dreams always hound me
’til I want to give in
do as you bid
even if it’s a sin.

The Queen called her champions to come to her aid
Her manner denying that she was afraid
She commanded that their attention be paid
to finding out what was true
O’ she told them what they must do.

“You must venture forth ‘neath the light of the Moon
to find in the desert this specified dune
under which is hidden a great sacred ruin
where you’ll find the grail that’s true.
O’ Now go, you know what to do.”

They did as she bid them and found the ruin site
Yet the King was before them, encircled in light
Loyal to his station, the Number One knight
grasped the grail so true
O’ despite what the King might do.

The King, from his perch, floating in air,
surveying the knights his Queen had sent there,
commanded compliance with his majestic stare,
saying: “I am the Lord of what’s true.
So, this is what you will do.”

Oh, babe, I dream of you again
You’ve been haunting me
since I don’t know when
Asleep in your arms, your voice all around me
These dreams always hound me
’til I want to give in
do as you bid
even if it’s a sin.

The knights became sailors, and far did they sail.
The Queen ruled the kingdom without King or grail.
With his increasing powers, the King Ishmael
brings to dreamers a message so true,
when awakened they know what to do.

Oh, babe, I dream of you again,
secretly haunting me
since I don’t know when.
Asleep in your arms, your voice all around me.
Beguilement hounds me
’til I want to give in;
do as you bid,
even if it’s a sin.

You saw me, a playing child, laughing amongst the roses.
My shining eyes reflected worlds;
singsong choruses to which I danced proclaimed their glory.
I, a cherub princess, all the doting subjects at my command,
all I asked was their love and beneficence.
Fairies clapped for me, flittered in with luminescent kisses,
fed me on honey, cakes and sweet lilac tea,
whispered me their blessings, giggling and tittering,
watched over me with warm caresses of enchanted nurturing.
I loved easily, laughed whole-heartedly, sang from my soul
happy dance tunes and whimsical madrigals.
There shone radiant magic throughout the land
in the morning of the world.

It was not so easy as I grew.
Word got out, worried whisperings,
that there was a curse upon me.
Those who had seemed so open and friendly
grew distant, masked their faces so I would not call to them,
or became furtively hostile so I would stay away.
I thought it was the power, soon to be mine by succession.
Surely they feared to be too familiar with the potential Queen.
I tried to reassure them, to be warm and familiar, to look for
little ways to please them.
The fairies still played with me, but sometimes turned mean.
They whispered ugly rumours, pinched me and flew away.
They called me fat and ugly and would feed me only thistle and briar.
Then, sometimes, without notice, all would be forgiven, all would be
a madcap party, a whirling swirl of luscious scents and colours,
a warm embrace of magical happiness,
warm and safe and cherished.

I learned to be needy without showing need;
peering sideways into partially opened doors
to see if I could find one safe to enter.
I took to finding little chores that would take me into
unused corners,
bending over so none would look into my face with malice.
I took to wearing common clothing, layered into camouflage.
I took to telling myself that I must indeed be awfully horrid and
worthless to have lost so much and be so reviled.
I took to taking on any sorry chore that would have me
that I might say to the courtiers:
“Look, I am a humble laborer, not worth your attention.”

So I was spinning and pricked my finger, as the curse foretold.
My blood called forth the evil energy to swoop into my open wound.
Unconscious.
Life moving along beyond my senseless form, without my knowledge or input.
Who can tell what may have been done with my unprotesting body.
I was not dead, not appropriate for burial;
still helplessly breathing, metabolizing/catabolizing, inexorably,
yet so slowly, so quietly, so manifestly without power, so easily forgotten.
The wicked ones who would benefit from my demise became old and dust
while I slept.
Those who were false to me acquired many more sins and salvations,
traveling their own rocky roads.
The curse took no notice of time or circumstance.
I existed in a liminal state of vague dream images,
static discharge of random sensory neurons.
I did not expect; I did not wait; I was not aware of being.
Sometimes excruciating nightmares might overtake me;
no matter.
I could neither hear nor utter, but just breathe on
as images vaguely formed and dissipated.

They say there was a malaise over the kingdom.
Work became hard to find and
wandering adventurers moved about the land
hoping to find their fortune.
There was a far off war diminishing the resources
and often intense skirmishes along the borders
increasing fear and bravado.
The once wise and strong ruling family, disrupted in
succession squabbles, had been deposed.
There were no strong rulers, but only petty tyrants,
and not so petty.
The gardens had gone to weeds and brambles.
The fields suffered; sometimes from drought,
sometimes from mildew,
sometimes from marauding scavengers.
Perhaps these were my nightmares come to life.

There was a young prince from a noble but impoverished
family.
He had grown strong and brave, taking in stories of better times.
He had heard the fable of the cursed princess,
sleeping, hidden, once a source of glory and happiness
in a merry and prosperous land.
He had nothing but a dream, to find me.

They say he set out down a road that others had followed.
But where others had met with sorry fates, or become lost,
or defeated by the impenetrability of the twisted trees and brambles,
he found no encumbrance.
There I was, within his reach, so pale and still.
It is said that he wept for joy, took me up into his arms,
whirled me about and kissed me reverently,
infused his buoyant dream into my sleeping form.

I felt the warmth of living moving through me.
I felt safe, exultant, cherished.
My senses slowly revealed themselves,
though true consciousness had not yet returned.

He held me close and danced me into movement,
laughing freely and whispering words of encouragement.
He did not rush me, nor let me feel anything but loving support.
He told me how he had grown up dreaming of finding me,
returning me to my rightful place,
removing the curse upon the land.
“And what, my lady,” he asked, “have you been dreaming all these silent years?”

Once upon a time
a rare and lovely princess was given an evil task to perform.

Her kindly, loving, strangely aloof royal parent insisted she do his bidding
precisely in this matter. He commanded that she go to the edge of the
forest, down in the valley where it first encroached on the farmland claimed
and tended by the villagers below their majestic castle on the hill. He
gave her a vial of villainous potion to pour upon the forest floor, to seep
into the village ground. “Do this.” His eyes were warm yet steely. “My
daughter, it is your charge that must initiate the process. Send my encoded
message into the womb of Mother Earth. She will know the correct response.”

The princess knew the deed was most evil. She knew the process of which her
father spoke. It would set up a barrier between dry earth and moisture so
that no life could find a home within the soil from which to grow. The
plants within the thus enchanted land would die. The animals dependent on
them for food would starve. Even before starvation, water having no
welcoming entry into the earth would evaporate into the wind. The princess,
a good and obedient daughter, did as her father bade her, though not
happily. Her usual joyful countenance became quite sad, even bitter. “Why
do you have me do such evil, father?”

“Why, to see what will happen, daughter. Significant change must move in
effect through the land, vegetation, creatures hunted and herded, to the
nature of the society below. Up here, secure in our strong,
well-provisioned castle, with access to all of the largesse of the many
universes, we will be as ever. Watch what happens below in the village.”
With that explanation, he was off to his usual pursuits: building intricate
fires, chanting over burning herbs, gleefully dancing in the mountain forest
under the bright-eyed Moon, reading and writing hieroglyphics in ancient
well-polished tomes. She barely saw him (as usual) amidst his comings and
goings. When she did, he appeared as endearingly dotty as ever,
occasionally swooping over to bestow a grand hug, a twinkling smile of
affection, a gentle kiss upon her now more often tear-warmed cheek. For the
princess was not charmingly, sweetly, happy as was her wont. She was
guilt-wracked, sad, and a bit more than annoyed with the villagers below.

She had indeed been watching them. Not only did she peer into her enchanted
glass which showed her as if right there any area of the country she wished
to view, but she had as well been making anonymous forays into the village,
its market square, the rows of individually built cottages, the wasting farm
fields, the common buildings and walkways. She watched as the generally
peaceful, hardy, cheerfully hard-working folk degenerated.

At first, believing a temporary drought as had sometimes occurred was upon
them, the villagers were happy to share around what provisions were
available, even to come together for mutual support, ritual healing, sharing
along with water and food the old songs and dances that marked them as kin
and gave nourishment to their collective souls. However, as time went on
finding them no expected relief of their hardship while provisions became
scarcer, the mood of the village became uglier, angrier. The barrier of the
earth against the water seemed to seep into their hearts and minds so that
sharing was no longer practiced to the point of violence against any who
might try to fill their hunger from another’s larder. The violence
escalated as the equation of fewer to need the dwindling supplies means more
for we who survive moved into fashion. From there it was so small a leap
into slaughter of not only the beasts of the fields and forests for meat and
the drink of blood, but cannibalism of the weak and dying of their own kind.
Yet it was becoming more clear by the day that even these bloodthirsty
measures would not allow for even the strongest to survive very long.

Perhaps it was because she was so obviously more healthy than they that the
villagers who remained finally noticed the presence of the princess,
watching their tragic decline in their midst.

“Look, it’s the princess from the castle up on the hill!” “They must have
plenty of water and food tucked away up there.” “We must, for our lives,
climb up the hill and take what is there.” “But so many of us are far too
weak to reach the castle. It is a long and hard path up the hill.” “We
must send a party of our strongest to take the castle and bring back water
and food for us all.” The princess could see they were of an ugly
disposition, desperate and filled with rage against her privilege. She had
no fear of the villagers, of course. “I am immortal, and not vulnerable to
the human violence.” Yet, she felt great pity along with her revulsion at
their hatefilled actions. “People, you may freely take what you will from
the castle. Yes, send a party of your strongest to bring the relief of food
and water to those who are too weak to travel. I will lead the way. But
once you have relieved your immediate need, it will be necessary for you to
find better long-term solutions, eschewing violence which as you yourselves
have come to understand is very limited in its utility.”

“Yes, of course, dear princess.” “We understand the direness of our
situation here. Once we are not so driven by immediate need to merely stay
alive, of course we will be better able to find more enduring solutions.”
“Let us hasten to the castle while there is still a chance to save those who
are so weakened by need.” So she led them up the stony path into the
majestic yet homey and inviting castle and filled their sacks with food and
water to bring back to their brethren below.

“Here are all the provisions you could need that your people regain their
strength and be in a state of health and awareness to look for a long-term
solution to your plight. Now go and do as you have promised.”

“Yes, thank you, princess.” “We are grateful. We will do as you bid.”
“Oh, my, look at this great wealth of the necessities of life. Thank you
for your help.” “Yes, thank you for showing us this largesse. We know what
to do now.”

The princess, feeling better about the villagers’ fate despite her role in
their misery, smiled and danced about the castle. “I will stay here and go
about my usual pastimes while the villagers regain their health and discuss
their possible solutions. I will give them some time to work this out, then
return to help if I can.”

The relief party made their way down the hillside, carrying the precious
cargo, a gift of life for their fellows below. As they went, though, the
solution that came to mind as best for them became a plan taking form. Why
give away this treasure that they had themselves obtained to those who were
too sickly and stupid to have maintained enough strength, such as they had,
to climb the hill? “We have these provisions which we all will need. We
could divide what we have amongst us and hoard it for our own use.”
“Perhaps we have no need of hoarding. Did you see how very much still
remains.” “But will the princess allow us to keep taking it. She wanted us
to find ways to help ourselves.” “Well, we are helping ourselves, to her
great fortune.” “Yes, did her royal family become wealthy by giving their
treasure away to any who might be in need?” “And why should we be so noble?
We aren’t even noblemen.” “Nor are we likely to become so being so foolish
as to give for nothing what could gain us greater wealth.” “We will divide
the goods so that each of us has plenty. Then demand the others give us
their wealth, their goods, that they have collected in their homes.” “Yes,
and we can demand that they work for us, make us the crafts and do the
services for which they have skills.” “Even those without skills that we
have use for can do our bidding, trade their labor for what we have that
they need to survive.” “Yes, we can lord it over them now. Any service we
desire can be ours.” Thus, by the time they regained the village their plan
was ready for execution.

“We will give you the minimal food and water you need to have the strength
to work as we command. Then, you each must earn your daily fare. You can
give us what you have of value.” “Yes, your possessions, your labor, your
craftwork, is now ours.” “We have supreme command over your filthy bodies
while you need us to stay alive.” Of course their bodies were filthy. In
fact quite a stench arose from the village what with no water for washing
and all the bits of the dead which had not been taken into the mouths
of the living. The village became a place of horrible stench and brutality.
Even among the strong the fear of being overtaken for their new found wealth
was palpable. They devised barriers to keep themselves and their
possessions safe from assault that went up as tribute to the barriers in
their hearts and minds structured from greed and isolation. Yet, eventually
the provisions taken from the castle dwindled and again there was not enough
to keep anyone alive for long.

“We must return to the castle and take more food and water.” “Of course we
must. It is imperative that we survive and have the clout to continue
demanding service.” But none could trust others enough to put together a
useful foraging band. Individuals on the lonely road to the castle knew
they would be in constant danger of attack on the way down.

The princess had again taken to checking on the villagers with her enchanted
glass. She saw what had become of their professed good intentions. Again
she was sad, aghast at what was taking place there. “Father, I do not
understand. Why have they become like this? Why have they not even tried
to find a way beyond the borders of the drought, or looked to other ways to
grow food, gather water, even to ask our help and advice rather than merely
demanding our provisions? Why have they not banded together to find a cure
for their common blight rather than insulating themselves ever tighter into
angry spots of fear and rage?”

“My darling child, it is not for me to say what makes this their way. Come,
will you dance with me under the moonlight, help me to stoke the fire of
enchantment, and breathe in the magic of herbal grace, take in the marvelous
sensations of all the beauties of the many universes? Come, we will play
and enjoy our immortal bounty.”

“But what of the villagers? How can I allow them to drive themselves to a
miserable end, to extinction?”

“My dear one, it is their way, not ours, which harries them so.”

“No, father, they were doing so well until you had me interfere so
brutally.”

“Perhaps it so seemed. Yet what I had you do was not for their harm, but to
fulfill a pact with Mother Earth. They are her children, after all. Her
purpose is not to destroy them.”