fannishliss

SUNDAY  — a day for meditations
write about the soul


MOONDAY — a day for women
write from the woman’s pov


TWOSDAY  — a day for pairings, friendships, opposites, siblings


WINSDAY — a day for wins (and losses)
a day to peer into the trees and see the forest


THORSDAY — a day for action, plot, travel


FREYASDAY — A good day for blessings
a day for the senses


LOPTRDAY — a day for tricks
a day for air and fire, water earth and ether

Here is a poem.  desertport wanted a poem centered around religion and spirituality. This is my pagan side shining through.  I hope you all will enjoy it!  :)
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Winter Solstice

Tock tock tock echoes through the thin air
of the stripped forest. Shadows reach long
through drab trunks as a nuthatch, patterned
black and white, hangs head down, pecking
for the buried grub. Like corals, crowns
of trees suckle against the sky, sipping
the last of the light, winter's darkened pool
lapping against their bones, accreting repeating
passages of light-fade and warmth-return.
A pause, a moment in suspension: the year
swings round. Sunrise comes a little sooner,
light and life pull again into the building
swell of a new year.

-----------------------------

see nuthatches here

How the Raven Stole the Sun

Does the raven remember
when it spoke to the wolves,
calling out aerial reconnaissance,
cackling the pack to the prey?
( Read this poem! )

[this is an original poem, for my friend roguebitch, who wanted something about women, sex, and aging]

Dare I Be the Peach?

I'm no peach,
unblemished, firm and fair,
fresh flesh prepared to bear an heir--

but yes, I am a peach,
ripe and luscious,
first fruit, juiciest, most delicious.

I'm no green thing, left to ripen on a shelf --
my hour of delectation I determine for myself.

Yes, I am sunlight distilled,
tender rain and tended field,

the flower and the bee,
the well-trimmed tree,
the journey to the stall,
bruises and all.

But no, I don't sit waiting,
flaunting, baiting,
calling all comers
with the headiest of odors.

A flash of gold, a blush of rose:
my qualities are subtler, headier than those --
it requires a deeper discernment to discover
with what pleasures I requite the better sort of lover.

With lips and tongue and teeth I'll suckle in
as trails of oozy sweetness track my skin.  

Fingers delving deep, the sweet flesh drips--
a quiver in the belly, a shake of the hips,

a sigh, an eyelid flutter at such delight.
One last kiss to sticky fingers,
licked clean, tucked out of sight.

Now, as for the pit,
that stony heart, the core
of secret germinations, it holds in store
within, the ideal: the idea

of the tree

still branching out

into sublimity---



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