reflection

Jul. 7th, 2008 07:19 am
soapwench: (cartoon stef)
the pieces in my hand
of the mirror
you held to my face
clutch them tightly
fragments cutting deep
looking at my broken reflection 
soapwench: (Default)
This story tells of a time long before now, and a time yet to come.  It began in a time before grocery stores and television.  In a time when we, as people, understood the earth because her bounty kept us alive and we respected her and all that she gave us…

 

The land is cold, harsh and barren.  The fruits of the earth have been harvested and stored against the hunger of the long winter.  The Lady wears a tattered dress of white, the twigs and branches of her hair dance and whirl in the cold, winter wind, making a forlorn music filled with a distant, gentle laughter.  Close your eyes and listen to the music the branches make in the wind on a cold, wintry morning.  Through this great forest walk the twin kings, the Oak King and the Holly King. 

 

Now the Oak King is the king of light.  He is the summer king whose magical touch brings new growth to the land in the spring.  His warmth moves within the animals who carry their young through the final days of cold, to be born just as the buds of spring burst forth.  Where he walks in the woods, the trees move in their sleepy winter dreams and they remember the shape of the leaves they once held and that will come again to flutter in the warm spring winds.

 

The Holly King is the king of dark.  He is the winter king who helps bring the cloak of cold to the land so that it may rest and renew itself within the quiet darkness for the labor of birth that comes in the spring.  He is the one who tucks the lady in for her long sleep in the fall so that she may face the hard work to come.  Where he walks, the plants and animals sigh, comforted in their long sleep that he watches over them and protects them. 

 

The Holly King walks until he reaches a clearing in the woods, past the bear asleep in her cave, the deer nibbling hungrily at the moss and the white rabbit, hidden and still.  He is met there by the Oak King, standing still and strong as the tree for which he is named.  The Oak King has been waiting, for he knew this moment would come this night as it will come again on the day of Midsummer. 

 

Under the dark of the night sky on the longest night of the year, the Holly King strides forth with the last of his strength and lifts his mighty sword, forged of darkest steel and reflecting the light of the silvery moon.  He lifts his sword to meet the shining steel blade of his brother, the Oak King, whose own sword gleams with the brightest light, seeming to reflect the very rays of the yet hidden sunlight. 

 

The two brothers fight long into the night, drawn together in their love for the lady and land upon which they stand.  They battle fiercely on this night as they battled the previous Midsummer and will again as the wheel of the year turns. 

 

They meet not with anger or hatred, but with the respect each honorable warrior has for his brother.  With great sweeps of their swords, they circle each other in the clearing.  They fight with every bit of skill and strength that they have, but as the first rays of dawn begin to creep over the horizon, the Holly King is defeated.  The Oak King bows his head in love and respect for the warrior king who fought so bravely, a single tear falling, crystalline and shining as snow.  The reign of the Holly King is ended and slowly the land, given strength from the sacrifice of the Holly King, will free itself from the cold.

 

And the lady, who walks in darkness, cloaked in starlight, face hidden in shadows, begins at that moment to give birth to the child she has carried within her.  That which lives and dies is also reborn.  The Holly King who sacrificed himself so bravely is once again reborn and the child shines with all the warmth and light and all who see him know that the Sun Child has once again come. 

 

And though winter for us does not mean counting our stored and canned food, for we can go to the grocery store, that food must still be grown somewhere on our earth…and though we have electricity to light our way in the longest and darkest night of the year, we still give thanks and rejoice, with the voices of nature, who live closely with the cycle of life, death and rebirth, that the warmth of the sun will come again in the spring and our lovely earth will continue to grow and renew with each turning of the wheel.

Ceremony

Oct. 17th, 2007 02:26 pm
soapwench: (Default)

Just re-writing this whole thing because it rambles and doesn't make sense.

Oh nevermind.  I give up for now.  It just isn't what I want it to be.  The thoughts are still hard to capture and crumbly.  I think they keep changing because of "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress." (society structure)

In any case, I've come upon a situation that I don't know how to approach.  I can make guesses, but there isn't a cultural standard for it.  Henry VIII would have been easier.  I would have fluffed my cleavage and hoped it was in his younger, more vigorous days.

The room is dark

I curtsy

I begin to straighten

Realizing

The floor is velvet

And my steps unsure

I'm told to kneel

But can't arise again

The hands reach out

I bat them away

I was trying to be all discreet, but I think everyone who reads this knows by now that I'm dating someone who is poly.  So, I'm going to stop dancing around the issue and come right out about it.  

The situation that I have no friggin' clue how to approach is meeting The Senior Wife.  It's not usual to meet someone who knows that you've been intimate with their husband and the meeting isn't an ugly, jealous scene.  It really isn't.  What do you say?  Yes, I do have some thoughts, but the irreverent part of me thinks that I can't really say, "Hello, isn't his cock delicious?"  It just doesn't flow somehow.  But it's going to feel odd as hell to sit there with someone while having wicked, decadent thoughts about a man and it's okay to have them.  Permission is sometimes a scary thing. 

Now that I write about this, I think it's the permission of the situation that is scariest.  The freedom.  The lack of restrictions.  

Okay, so it all turned out fabulously.  Worry for nothing.

soapwench: (Default)
A small piece

slowly peeled from

the veins and muscles

and another piece--

this time a bit larger

twisting from joints from bones.

Soon she sits bare

minute frayed patches

of skin still remain

but mostly

pink red brown muscles

traces of fatty material

webbed with veins

clinging as if to cover.

Her long, lustrous mahogany hair

sticks to damp places of

exposed flesh

a warm breeze blows

all she can see:

walls seas of cement.

She sits with her knees bent

hands arms support her shoulders

head back.

The blood does not drain

it evaporates it dries

leaving her heart gasping

crying out.

drawing

Jan. 19th, 2006 10:04 am
soapwench: (Default)

I'm a line drawing

Erased and smudged

My pencil is a nub

My eraser is flat

I've erased so many times

The lines are

Smudged

I don't know where

they originally lay

And I'm really not clear

where I should put them.

Tears

Dec. 29th, 2005 12:42 am
soapwench: (Default)
For Dan Mendelhoff, wherever he is, for popping my cherry and for never committing suicide as long as he could write about it:

Tears
Weight
Heavy
So full I slosh
Can't lift...
...anything...
So heavy

If you squeeze me, will they leak out?
A little?
If they do,
where do they go?
How quickly
will they
fill back up
again?
How long do I have?

Profile

soapwench: (Default)
soapwench

October 2013

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