O Hestia of Hearth and Home,
Whose light I see in the flicker flame
of this little candle,
if ever You have guided me
before, please guide me now.
If ever You have aided me
before, please aid me now.
If ever I have poured you
water, tea, or wine
before, please help me now
to organize my home and things
and box them up and clean them.
I get the keys to my new home
in two weeks plus one day.
I’m not ready.
Do I have the strength
to get all this done
Please grant me the strength
to go pack one more box.
O Hestia, the new home will be better,
and I ask that You bless there
and bless here, that my move
may be orderly, my move may be swift,
and when the dust settles
we’ll live in a home
guarded and guided
by Your blessing, Your light.
I thank you.
Just so you all know, I have an Etsy and a Redbubble, for devotional art. The Etsy is about half pocket shrines right now.
The Artemis watercolor you can see in both locations and featured here, “Artemis Runs”, did not come out of my trip to the state park on Sunday. Not exactly. I’d planned that painting before I planned the trip. But there’s still something about that painting that I don’t think is the same as it would have been had I done the painting before walking in the forest of the state park. (That thing is not the un-deer-like deer. I am not very good at depicting animals.)
I’m not sure yet what to make of my experience in the forest of the state park. I can tell you Artemis is beautiful—I wrote a poem for Patreon about exactly how I saw Her. (Context: I’m horribly nearsighted.)
I keep trying to sit and do a stillness meditation but anxieties about undone mundane things keep tugging at my mind.
one hundred bulls for
sacrifice; not Pamplona:
meat for the city-wide feast
solemn in temple
speaking gifts for the Goddess
seeking Her blessings
today we have no temple
our voices ring awkwardly
breaking the silence
no sacrificial cattle—
do we bring enough?
The sky is gray today, a patch of blue
reflected on the silver of the lake.
I note a current: nymph, it seems, awake.
I seek her friendship, but what do I do?
My lavender grows green, rosemary too;
a sprig of each I to the lakeside take.
There is no miracle, no mind’s earthquake,
and yet I know today I’ve seen her face.
My offering accepted: walk away,
the tiny lakeside pebbles pricking feet.
I don’t know how to speak to Queens of place.
I saw reflection; the sky is gray today:
I must have done—but have I done?—what’s meet.
Begin with Ariadne’s ball of thread
You walk upon the bones of those
Who passed this way before
You roll the bones
You turn the game-show wheel of fortune
Each twisting path is all the same
You spin and spin and spin and spin
How often have you spun this way before?
Sweat stings and it’s so hot in here
A gadfly or a whip-cut?
Surrounded yet alone
Who pulls your strings?
Wash the fleece and card the fleece
And draft the roving into strips
You spin and spin and spin and spin
How easily wool fiber snaps
How strong once spun to thread
Ariadne’s ball of thread
A ripe apple’s like in size
They tried to bury us
They didn’t know we’re seeds
A cross, four curves, four dots
Join each to each around and round
Two lines, one black, one red
The labyrinth winds back and forth
A mirror at the center
Who are you?
Sponsored for publication by Elizabeth Barrette in barter for her poem “Until the Restoration“
There are certain things I am not smart enough to
Figure out the first time, Gray-eyed lady;
Basic, elemental lessons that must be repeated many times
Before they sink into my thick and insensate skull:
Don’t go near crazy on the Internet,
Because you’ll get it all over you and it’ll never wash off;
You can’t help a rabid dog, and if you try,
It’ll only bite you, no matter how much you feel its pain;
What a person says isn’t always a good indication
Of what he does, and only what he does is a sign of what he does;
Fool me once, shame on you, and fool me twice—or thrice, or ten times,
Or a hundred—shame on me for being a fucking moron.
There’s wisdom that doesn’t come in books,
Only in getting kicked in the gut
Or in someone spitting in your face
Or people you once considered friends
Now laughing at everything you hold dear.
Ugly lessons, hard lessons, but valuable nonetheless.
Lady of wise counsel, Ageleia, Alcis, Amboulia, Paiônia, Soteira:
Protect me from my own stupidity.
Give me the strength not to turn away from these lessons I need to learn,
No matter how much they may hurt,
And heal the wounds my heart may feel
If and when I fail to learn from them again.
Shannon Connor Winward
Sticky cords spun around my wrists
and throat wrapped
in the threads of the Weaver.
Her web a warm, snug prison
every time the wind blows, I sway.
It will all be
I am dancing
above the ground
my body pulses, silk
gestating in my belly
pain is invisible perfect
seeping from my
chastened fingers, humbled joints
blessed even to tie a knot
let alone a symphony, touch
a blade of grass
a telephone pole
to tell you I understand now
Lady what beauty is.
This poem first appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer.