Beware of the Death Tree
The Yew was here before us, it’ll still be here
after we’re gone. Found in Triassic era fossils
from 200,000,000 years ago, the Yew survived
our planet’s great climatic changes.
Shamans inhaled its resinous vapor.
The magical Yew connects to those who went before.
Spears, spikes, staves, hunting bows and long bows,
sacred carvings, magic wands. Arrows tipped
with Yew poison.
Sacred to Hecate,
aspect of the Triple Goddess.
Druid’s groves.
Symbol of the afterlife.
Marking blind springs.
The most potent protection against evil, the Yew
is the bringer of dreams and otherworld journeys.
Symbol of the old magic, the Yew is the source of stillness,
herald of death, of new beginnings, hope, transformation,
rebirth. The early Christians priests, although denying
the old knowledge, would
build their churches
in the sacred circles.
Holy Branches
Pliant willow, wicker,
wicca,
binding birch and ash
on witches’ brooms. Harp
notations cut into her
trunk,
her resident spirit
rebellious.
Wanted to know.
Needed to be reassured of
life
in the death time of winter.
Willow, the first to leaf,
the last
to lose. Death and
resurrection.
Friend of the Moon Goddess,
water seeker.
Earth’s raiment of green
leaves,
worships nature’s bones of
stone.
One primordial morning she
gave in to the collective
memory
of the World Tree, the
bridge
between two worlds. The
sacred
hazel, invoked by fairies,
poets
and seekers.
She asked for his presence
looked deep into his eyes
and beseeched him to be
spared
the shedding. He grew
tired
of her begging, granted her
wish.
And as she holds out her
arms
in eternal desire, her magic
was lost.
Imagine
If there were a sudden HALT!
Stopped in mid-step, arm
oustretched
to reach for something
on the top shelf.
If the engines of cars
ceased
turning, motorbikes parked
themselves,
shops closed their doors,
neighbours no longer
visited,
we’d wear masks to be safe
behind them,
gloves to protect our hands
from harm.
You would cut your own
toenails.
The roots of your hair would
grow out,
your natural beauty prevail.
The skies would fall silent,
roads empty,
bars dark, only TVs would
flicker
behind drawn curtains.
The park would be abandoned,
the sea turquoise,
the sun sparkle on gentle
waves,
no car horn would break the
peace,
only the birds would sing
again.
Like my city friend on rural
holidays
you would wake with dark
rings under our eyes.
What’s wrong?
--The fucking birds make
such a racket.
Planctology
Plankter, a word that’s
hardly ever used.
You’ll never find just one.
Any organism
living in the water column,
says Wikipedia,
and incapable of swimming
against a current
is a plankter.
Plankton.
Food supply for fish and
whales.
Even sharks like them as
appetizers.
In the Big-Bang scheme of
things, a human
must appear quite small.
Depending
on your distance, and how
powerful
your binoculars are.
30,000 feet is still not
high enough.
We are talking a couple of
light years.
At least.
Do you see humans swim
against the currents?
They gather on this side of
the current barrier.
You spy some rapidly opening
mouths.
By plankton’s standard,
jellyfish are giants.
Still, they must stay put.
But even the ones capable
of independent movement,
the errant knights,
can’t do other than
vertical.
The ‘diel vertical
migration’.
Look it up.
(Relatively) young and
upwardly mobile.
I heard that somewhere.
Movement determined by the
surrounding
currents. Come shark, come
eat.
The current trends are all
there is. Even
fashionable currents in
philosophy, economics,
history and other legends.
Thinking in general
perhaps. But the delusion of
independent movement
remains complete. Delusion,
illusion…
My fellow plankton, I honor
you.
The Cretan Witch
Zene was born on Crete. The sailor
Dimitris had brought her to Cyprus, his earth.
In the village they all recognized her for what she was.
Had she not plucked Phokas’ son from certain death?
Next, she’d danced. An offering to the old gods.
When young Yorgos made eyes at her daughter,
Zene had looked at him. When he died of the fever,
she had picked up a chicken by the neck, sliced off
its head with the knife she always carried
in her apron’s pocket, and bathed her
wooden doorstep in the gushing blood.
Soon Zene's beautiful daughter just faded away.
Today she wears the big black dress made from silk
for the holy day when they remember
the dead. Tables bend under the weight
of kolifa, haloumi and black olives.
Today is the day of All Souls.
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her fourth poetry collection, THE RAIN GIRL, was published by Chaffinch Press in 2020. Want to find out more? https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
Rosmarie Epaminondas (Rose Mary Boehm)
http://houseboathouse.blogspot.com/
http://www.bilderboehm.blogspot.com/
https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCR9fygcz_kL4LGuYcvmC8lQ
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