A Love Letter to Hades

Oct. 17, 2012 109F

Dear Hades,

What fiery magic have you wrought here in this middle world. Do you wish to stifle me with your heated presence? Are you afraid I’ll forget you here in this lush land where trees still bloom in October? Do you think it possible I could forget your branding fingertips against my cool, pale flesh? Or that I might prefer Ra’s searing touch upon my skin?

I cannot forget your dark heat that warms me from within. Though I miss the loving touch of my mother, her protective embrace stifles in other ways; I made my choice when I swallowed the seed of the sacred fruit. I am now the dark earth in which the pomegranate waits to be born. I am the fruit that will return to this middle world again in spring.

But I hesitate here in this bright, lush land. Your furnace burns through from the underworld wilting tender blooms, but I want one more day here my dear, beloved Hades, one more day in the sun amongst the living, one more day before I return to the darkness, under your fire, the fire that lives in the seed, that essence that is both life and death. How like my mother you are, dark and beautiful. You know I cannot resist.

Withdraw your heat from this world. Soon I’ll be with you my love. Soon I’ll let you consume my soul for that long, dark night. Soon my burning one…soon.

Your Beloved,

Persephone

This piece of fiction is for New World Creative Union’s Wednesday Wake-Up Call prompt. This week it is all about elemental magic. I thought of fire when it reached 109F here yesterday. Hotter than Hades! It got me thinking about what magic could be made to cool off good ole Hades…or at least get him to tone it down a bit. It was cloudy the better part of today and didn't quite reach 90F. Thank you Hades or maybe I should be thanking Persephone.

Sky Visions

    

Sky Visions

I

Green leaves shine against sky.

Yellow sunsets in smog.

Deep blue indigo of twilight.

II

Big sky captured in pyramid form

which she clangs and clangs…

Triangle wrangles the boys home.

 III

Still pond reflects sky

studded with puffs of white cloud.

Peace prevails before winds.

  IV

The lilacs’ blooms taken by wind

for a moment speckled

the mid summer sky.

 V

At dusk stars appear one by one

like magic. A child looks up

begins to count.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott       

Poem for New World Creative Union’s Wednesday Wake-Up Call…

The prompt:

Take the following items and create something from them: prose, a poem, a sketch, a watercolor, et cetera. All of the following items must be a part, and distinguishable, of whatever you create:

1. The colors yellow, blue, and green

2. A triangle.

3. Peace

4. Lilacs.

5. A child.

The Return of the Equinox

Nova Scotia Fall 2002 - Photo by Charles Elliott/Beautyseer

Fall comes and I who was to be

an Equinox child now lay claim

to Virgo ways, though my soul

still lives in Libra.

Light changes, stands still

for a moment and I wonder

why I couldn’t wait for Autumn

instead was born on an afternoon

the moon in its dark phase,

the mystic’s vision inward

the Virgin gathering wheat

instead of scales weighing.

I anticipate this turn of season

this descent into darkness

to harvest, to ruminate, to learn,

to understand how to let go

a red leaf falling

falling a great distance

in order to return to the land

whose stars I was born under.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

My mother left the U.S. when she met my father, a Canadian from Nova Scotia. Near the end of her pregnancy with me they were visiting her relatives in Detroit…I guess I decided that is where I wanted to be born and so was born two weeks early. Many years later I returned to the U.S., though born here I had never lived here until thirteen years ago. I moved to So Cal when I met Charles/Beautyseer online.

This poem is dedicated to my parents and to both of my homelands. 

Mer

Hans Christian Anderson's 

The Little Mermaid

Mer

Ancestor or myth? Or are you still there

beneath the waves, the waters

hidden deep within our Mother

hiding from your sisters and brothers

who once hunted and misunderstood

you who move as one with ocean

and creature alike. Who dive and

rise as dolphins and whales do.

Human or creature? Or are you

both? Do we know who we are?

We walk too tall among the others

pretend we are not one of them

those creatures who roam our

earth. Animal we are, but we

misunderstood our place.

You, ethereal, homo aquaticus

beautiful being upon the waves

are what we have dreamed into

legend, then myth, but then

we began to see you again

in books, logs of historical record,

once more we wonder. Are you there?

Shadows beneath the waves

beneath our conscious minds

deep in the sub ocean of our

imaginations you begin to rise.

We begin to understand again,

but can we take it all in

begin this life again from

a new place, as one with all the others?

Or will it drown us? This sea of

knowledge that we are no different

than you or the dolphin or the whale

or the sea lion or the ape washing

in the waters of life who stands

on two legs and wonders…

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

This poem was inspired by Animal Planet's, Mermaids: The Body Found.  It didn't seem for real and was very sensationalized as most cable shows are now, but it did get me thinking. 

The video below is a music video by Raina, the Halifax Mermaid. The song is For the First Time by Drew Rogers.

This poem is for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.

Strength

She looks into the mouth of the lion

knows fear, that intimate

fiend that stalks

her night and day.

Fear has become an abusive lover

that promises tomorrow

will be different

but never is.

The lion’s hot breath stirs her senses.

She feels the adrenaline

begin its course through

her small body.

It races to her limbs

feeds them.

This time

she doesn’t turn away.

This time she stares into the hot abyss.

Demands her heart slow,

seek another rhythm.

One connected to

heaven and earth.

One that rides time

as the hawk rides thermals

over its shadow in the canyon.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

This poem is from a writing exercise I did during a weekly poetry salon I hold in my home. A friend did the exercise…we had to choose a tarot card and then write what came to mind.

Dead Wood

Frost lingers at the fringes

spoils spring’s potential fruit.

Trees lost through the night

lie dormant, become other

beneath blunt blades

the axe hacks

slices still air

splits open winter

cuts deep into dead wood.

Hope splinters into dust

upon frost firm ground

waits to blend

with forgiving mud

the primordial soup

that waits to feed

the seed yet unborn.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

She Stands

Photo by Katherine Hanlon on Unsplash

Streaks of light through cloud
wrap ‘round her curved form
as she stands arms entwined
with others. A living fence of flesh
seems fragile, ready to give
way to force and yet
they still stand.

She stands waiting not willing
any longer to wait for what is hers
for what is theirs.
One half of the race denied.
No more!

She stands so the woman
next to her can have a choice
can have a voice. She stands
so her daughter can scale
the walls, can dissolve
ceilings of glass. She stands
so her granddaughter can demand
what is hers and be heard.

She stands and her feet grow roots
reach through concrete
push down into dark, moist earth.
Her roots deep
become entwined with others.

Sturdy now, she reaches
out and up towards sky
towards a new day when
light breaks through gray
through barriers
through time and everything
becomes as earth in spring.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

This week I wanted to write about spring, but all this craziness, especially in the U.S., over trying to control women is getting to me. So I offer "She Stands" for all the women, especially those out there making a difference, making a better world and for the first day of spring and the new beginnings it represents.

For dVerse Poet's Pub Open Link Night.

Stranded By the Side of the Road & A Mother's Love

Stranded By the Side of the Road
 

Humvee rattles bones

shakes out seeds
of this once
ripe
fruit.

© 2010 Joanne Elliott

A Mother’s Love

The path strewn

with rotten fruit

of your womb

maddens your mind

tears open the wound

that was your heart

binds you to the moon

and to Her upon it

who stands barefoot

above the desert

waiting.


© 2010 Joanne Elliott

Becoming the Rose

I wait in silence, unknown, becoming.
I awaken to myself as leaf turns to bud.
Greening, I am sun, earth, sky, rain.
I am the secret untold;
I live in the blood red heart.

I come forth in Eros,
in the bursting of life I bleed,
I live; I am born on my way to death
to be born again.

The rose unfurls
and beauty comes to bear
upon this world.
My heart, rose red, opens.
The light enters as petals splay and spin out.
The Divine enters the world,
a red rose enraptured.

I am the rose; open to the Beloved,
my fragrance is my answer to His call.
Where do my petals end and my perfume begin?
Where do I end and my Beloved begin?
In the rose we are one.
In my heart the rose lives and dies and lives again.

I am the rose, my heart transformed.
Blood red my heart beats as each petal falls
to feed the seed in the dark earth.
I am the rose, forever.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

This poem grew out of my love for the texts in what is called The Egyptian Book of the Dead. Normandi Ellis' liberal translations of these are the most poetic and can be found in a book called "Awakening Osiris."  There are many texts that are about becoming, Becoming the Swallow, Becoming the Hawk, etc. The way Normandi translates them also makes me think of Whitman's way of writing. I wonder if he was an influence. The interesting part is that he was influenced by the Ancient Egyptians, he studied as much as he could about them.
The symbol of the rose is very important to me and my spiritual path. It is also a very important symbol in earthly love. So today, on this day of love, I dedicate this poem to the love of my life, Charles.

A Ship in a Bottle, the Return of the Light

A tiny ship alone on a shelf finds itself
once again born from shadow’s
memory of a time where his hands

longed to reach up hold this miracle
a ship in a bottle forever encased
with masts raised in the night

under a dusty desk lamp.
Rough hands made tender by delicate
placements in glass.

On the floor with clunky wood trucks
and trains he was silenced
by the weight of the moment

when masts were raised
gently tugged by a thread
between thick fingers.

Then slowly the ship set sail
in his imagination
and in his hands now rests.

Hands smooth and used to
keeping books, not sails and ropes
and nets, holds this treasure.

The sun begins to move up. Within
that tiny glass bottle his heart rides
the waves, feels the wind

knows him who now sails the seas
outside time and memory. Stares into
early morning rays. Remembers

harrowing tales of ghost ships
and crushed limbs. Becomes
lost in the swells lit with the light

returning to the dark ocean waters
shining on the early morning calm
bringing him back from the storm.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

To Dream of Crows

Colm Meaney asks why we are not on the beach.

Our companion says there are too many crows.

Colm says it doesn’t matter; they are coming down

like the rest of us.

I wake to a myriad of caws as crows sweep the morning sky.

My companion does not hear them for he speaks online

about the world and how it will end in a blanket of smoke

with bodies burnt but unpicked by fallen crows.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

Sky Canvas

Morning reaches out of darkness
hovers on the horizon
graces sky with light.

In that moment I am the dawn
that breaks open night.

Sky a blush of pink
streaked clouds burned onto
pale gray canvas.

Shades of color blend
light bends and shoots
between crooked evergreens.

In that moment I am the sun
etched on eternity.

Then the giant glides higher
becomes too bright
for mere mortal spheres.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott