Moon Goddess

In the haze of a dream
thoughts seem to move
with the cries of those
who hurried forward
drawn in by a magickal
spell.

The union, the sublimation
of our innate mysteries
flourishes
accumulating for some
centuries, not to be cleared
away in an instant.

Far-Off West
where the breath of winds
is an incantation, in the dusk
beneath whispering trees,
secret woods, valley’s shut in
by high hills, the sound of pouring
water echoes from a clear brook.

Sacred Nights.
White Moon Rising.
Awakenings!
Heard is the strange cry of a bird
as it rises from its nest among
the reeds.
The time of transmutation has come.

Blue, White, Orange, flames flicker.
Beneath the darkness, mists
and shadows kindle scents of bay,
sandalwood, frankincense.
Magical tones surging and falling,
unearthly modulations
greet
My Lady and My Lord.

Amazing circles casting
rounds within rounds
beneath the patronage of evening
stars heard rushing through air.
Enchanters
fantastically arrayed, perform
their interlude.
Workers of great and efficient spells
by secret word and mystic dance,
whirl away unending mazes, opening
portals, calling on the dead ones
who still live among us.

Spirit, Mother Of The Moon
Goddess Of The Night,
Queen of the people who danced
on Midsummer Nights,
out came the clay men.
As I lay among them, She whispered
to me.

She was whiter
than the White Moon Rising,
taller
than the highest mountain
and her eyes shone in the dark
like burning rubies.
She told me of my promised love
and secrets that could destroy young
men;
curses for the night,
blessings for the day.
Then she stretched out her arms
and sang to me.

Great serpents came hissing
gliding in among the trees
shooting out forked tongues.
They all came to her
covering her body whole,
and she whispered and sang to them
as they writhed round and round.

The ravages of time obliterate
and I bent down in a hollow place
underneath the little wax doll
of my one true love
Held High
Held Low
laid down by My Lady.
She poured red wine into a bowl
as images bore it softly
on the scrying surface.

True Power
True Magic
resides within the heart of the witch.
Drawing Down The Moon, knowledge
is imparted.
The illumination is complete.
Divine and Sacred body filled me with
white light.
Blessed Be The Lady!
Blessed Be the Lord!
Chaos in nature
and intricate dualistic fury
reborn into spirit.

Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be witch and a poet. (within the horror writing community).

Find more by Theresa C. Gaynord in the Author Index.

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