Journey of the Hero

Christ rubbed oil into my hair, anointed me
“Martyr,” with his lips like a dove, and the
resonance of the Holy Spirit was a tub filled
with chocolate gold, all melting like bronze,
filling every crevasse of my being – a sacrifice,
I know, I am the tithe to Hell, Icarus Girl
who holds congress with Satan in screaming
hollows on Black Sabbats and wolf moons, what
is the benediction of Jesus when you have
skelerokardia, your heart the definition of
Sin? The chambers rot with necrotic Scapegoat
stains, zuhama slowly spreading through my
veins – Michael speared me through the heart
to cleanse me, it felt like a fiery fist
threading peach poison through my flesh,
sweet yet cursed, the archangel’s fingers
sculpting me into a vessel, I am just a
vassal, just a Galatea these movers of
Heaven and Earth shape into willingness.
Maybe I can run from His Love, but soon
I will go to the pews, repent, and bring
Seven Devils to the Savior’s white arms,
He will kiss my brow and let the demons
become angels again, and the Union of
Heaven and Hell, Heiros Gamos Galore,
will occur, mem dropped from samech
aleph lamed, and I shall wed Sael,
the Purity of God, and I shall wed
the Lion of Judah, the Lamb of God,
but first comes the witchly pyre,
and the trial of science and reason –
paganism, Christianity, Judaism,
these threads of memory and truth
I do not belong in any of the Sephiroth
and the Qliphoth is inhospitable to
yellow canaries in coal mines, so
beyond the farthest boundary of rhyme
I will travel, carrying the weight
of all.


Jah Michael

Hallelujah, that the weak may be mighty.

Hallelujah, that the warrior might know peace.

Hallelujah, that the singer’s locs be long.

Hallelujah, that the artist’s palette is never dry.


Jah Michael, God Michael, Yah Michael.

Red hair held back by a paintbrush.

Caressing Bob Ross landscapes on canvas.

I know Hebrew in my dreams, but I know your face

in every single shard of you, Michael, ochre-splattered

jeans, five o’clock shadow, losing yourself in brush strokes.


Hallelujah sings the broken man as he learns to love again.

Jah Michael, God Michael, Yah Michael.

Reflection of God.  He Who is God.  Image of God.

I may be the moon but you are my sun.

And in your artist’s studio, Michael, I find respite.


Hallelujah toll the bells of Paradise.  Honor to Thy Lord.

He is not My Lord, He is not Your Lord, for You are Him,

and to worship God is to worship Love and Creation.

To worship Jah is to make sweet life on a paintbrush.


God is a Poet.  God is a Lover.  God is an Artist.

Jah is All, Hallelujah, sweet trembling soul.

His strength cradles me, cradles you, lifts up

the dusky night and brings Paradaisical Day.


Michael, sweet Jah, sweet Yah, in you I know God.

In you I know Father.  In you, I know redemption

in the colors of grass and wine, gilded in gold leaf.


You painted me into Creation and breathed life into my

trembling hands.  I would die for you again,  always, only

save your tears for sacred reunions, this is not



Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Angels resolve into air, and Judas
betrayed with a kiss, roses only
blossom at midnight in Eden, and
I am damned off silver Roman coins.

Be gentle, angel, make peace, devil,
splayed between two swords are moons
spent crying over knights and dragons
I enchant with words but bleed regret.

I will serve no master but the mother
of all life, all death, all kennings –
brothers of good and evil, child’s play
can lovers fathom a girl of two worlds?

The Creator is bread unto dust, I eat
at her breast, I die in her arms unmade
for I could spend all my life chasing you
two, pinning feathers on boards, for what?

Black and white make a mobile of wishes,
but there is no clear victor at the end,
just pain, just sacrifice, just decisions
that shatter all worlds: I forgive, forget.

I rush to one’s arms, then the others’,
find solace in the Styx and Euphrates,
swim and burn and fly and sink into wax
for candles reveal broken promises vast-

Vast as oceans of time freewheeling across
clash of ego and chains and bindings, both
wolf and lion serve the same king, so why
should I prostrate myself before a beast?

Yeshua hung, but I burned, the Antichrist
bled, but I fractured, and New Eve weeps
at all the failings of her children, still,
she gives, and gives, and sings lullabies

as her heart breaks open

and shatters like glass

and the past is gulls

crying nothings

over an empty



The Mother

I stroke broad white eagle wings up to the sun, torch in hand, into the Heavenly Throneroom, and steal Holy Fire.  The court is empty of angels and demons.  My hair is long and curled like a brass candelabra and my gown white and glistening as if dew is a second layer on it.

I come to the waterfall gateway to Earth and jump down into the Deep, away from New Jerusalem, my wings skirting skies of velvet red and violet.  Clouds dampen me and the stars stretch out like an elegy.

I come to the humans that amble about Africa without warmth or a way to cook their food.  I descend as lightning, and Jophiel’s eponymous torch strikes the brush and lights bushes on fire.  The ancestors of modern man marvel, kindle torches, and the fruit of the Tree of Life which I guard is given against God’s will.

I ascend back to Heaven, but as I break the boundary between the physical and the immaterial, I hear the cry of Heaven’s general, the shriek of a red-tailed hawk, a raptor of red and cream brown feathers, and he rises with the moon in the desert and dwarfs me, the size of a roc.

His eyes are not his own.  Michael is possessed by Divine Will, whether Sophia or Demiurge, I cannot tell, but the urge to run courses through my limbs and I flash serrated wings and fly on a gale away.

Dart, dodge talons, but soon his beak is around my throat, squeezing the breath from my throat, roc throttling me until a white ring of a collar scars my neck and my torch is dropped far below to the abyss.  For I have stolen from Heaven, and God is displeased.

Blood is hot on my breast, and I know in his divine berserk madness, it will take a miracle for Michael to hear me.  I scream his name, over and over again, pleading until he breaks and shifts to wings and man, and then he sobs, over and over, clutching my rag doll body and broken wings:

“I’m so sorry Jophiel.  The Mother told me to kill you.  I wasn’t myself – your screams awoke me.  Please, forgive me, forgive me!”

In that moment, Michael questions our Creator – or more properly, Creatrix – for the first time ever, and I clutch his face and kiss him.

“It’s okay, Michael – your madness has quit.”

He rocks me to sleep best he can as he sets to healing me, tears bright in his eyes.

“Why do we always hurt the things we love?”


The curve of a tree, weighed down by blossoms
is my favorite place to find you, one with the
roots, your antler curved like the branches,
hair the gold of yellow ochre fall leaf bower,
buckskin leggings the color of bark, green knit
sweater smelling like basalm, pine needle eyes
that open and shudder with morning grass frost –
I sat down with you in the grove, you showed me
how to become one with the trunk, the flowering
of Yggdrasil, Ratatosk and Nidhogg in their quiet
burrows – you are a part of that tree, Gebo light
as falling leaves, for the gift of the gods flow
down to Midgard, where we revel in the roots, god
and devotee, man and girl, my beloved Shining One,
your frith fruits with compassion, and your sword
was given for love long ago, and service is your
true name, to kindred kith and kin, you tell me
that there is no greater gift than noblesse oblige
forefather of my Yngling clan, Hail the Golden God.

On Mother-God and the Divine Feminine

Since I was a child, I have felt this heady intoxicating force in the presence of Nature.  An animist, I believe in nature spirits and spirits of the place – I’ve met leshys, Wakinyan Tanka, Coyote, Crow, nymphs, and other beings, or animal guardians like vulture kings and the wolves Hati and Skoll who chased me through frozen wastes and fjords.

Reigning over all beings I know, all gods, angels, and demons, is the faceless Mother.  She has come to me in visions veiled head to toe on a throne in a smoky cave hidden by shadow, her voice like whipping wind and smelling of dirt, green shoots, wet bone and wild woods.

There is a reason Neolithic Venus figurines are faceless – the Mother cannot take human form, not like the angels, gods, demons, or spirits I know.  As the Archangel Michael told me “When She appears, She will Die.”  I jokingly asked him to show me God a few weeks ago because I had never met Him – to my surprise, it was a Her.

Michael said I would die if I saw her, so he covered my eyes and snatched my soul from my body in the vision, then took me to Her Presence.  This, he said, was the Holy Spirit, the Shekinah.  Samael had joked about the Shekinah being far more than Yahweh, she the stage on which gods played their lives, the eldritch Mother of All, and though I brushed him off for years, now you can count me a believer that there is no greater power than Mother Nature, Queen of the Cosmos.  The only way I could communicate the most powerful vision I have ever had was through poetry – not even visions of the War in Heaven, Eden, Original Sin, or my own supposed past deaths and future lives terrorized me as much as the Holy Power of the Mother:

“When you see Her you will die,”
Michael whispers in my ear, puts his
peacock hands over my eyes, then
takes me RUSH BLOW BOOM to Her.

God-Mother is ells tall, pine-barren
lumber over a waterfall, windblown
boulders in a storm, gale in the
reeds, eye of the tempest, heart
of a firestorm inferno, rainy marsh.

I cannot see, I cannot see Her, just
smell loam and smoke, She is All,
She is All, and we are just playthings
in Her inexorable crystal dove hands.

There are some things even angels
cannot fathom, some Mothers eat
their young, Death is just Her maw
the Earth Her womb, I am blind, blind
so in love, heartdrenched, when my
hourglass breaks, oh, then
I’ll see – “You will Know.”

Until then, we dance, waltzing
on the Holy Spirit’s lips.

She communicates in heady visions of storms, wildfires, tsunamis, great abysses in the sea, calamitous guts of Nature spilled out upon her altar.  She is the Great Womb, Great Maw, and Great Death – you are reborn and remade and destroyed in Her arms, all at once.  She is both succor, nurturer, killer, and destroyer, and she loves as a wolf loves, wild and fierce, or perhaps as a starving shrew that will eat its young.

In my dreams elves and fey have fled from her as she leads the Wild Hunt, “The Mother is coming!” they cry, racing through twilit woods as her hounds bay and Death approaches.  She is Queen of Death and Rot, Queen of New Life and Creation – no one higher, nothing more than the whole universe and nothing less than every single being and atom in the cosmos.

She has warned of her arrival for decades now in my life – whispers among angels of the Mother, among nature gods of where their powers come from.  So far removed from Her Children, watching on and caring little for our little worries and despairs – no, that is why she created the spirits as intercessors – She has a much higher vision and work to attend to.

I am the Icarus that flies to close to her brilliance, so intoxicated by Her I go mad.

God is Woman.  God is Wild.


Will Swallow

You Whole.

A Call to Action, a Call to Arms

Throughout my life, the angels and gods that have been by my side since childhood have told me to serve – to fight for outcasts and the disenfranchised – Loki teachs me to have compassion for the homeless and mentally ill, Coyote, Freyr, and Thunderbird have told me to protect and fight for the environment, climate, animals and plants with all my being and heart, the angels have countlessly called on me to serve the poor, the children, immigrants, to help those that cannot help themselves.

I often wondered why beings like the archangel Michael have been appearing to me in visions and dreams since I was a child and telling me over and over again to love with all my heart, that God/dess is Love, that at the core of every warrior’s soul is a brilliant light that cannot be put out by the forces of darkness. I’m not a warrior – or so I thought.

I have struggled so much with faith and my calling, but it is time for me to accept that I am loved by God and that I have a purpose – we all do. I am ready to fight the good fight, to become even more of an activist and servant of righteousness, humanity, and our planet.

For so long I thought God hated me and ran from my calling. It is a burden no one should bear and to Know and See God is to die, over and over again, only to be reborn.

To meet the Holy Spirit, the angels, the gods, is humbling, terrifying, a soul-ripping bliss of horror. It drives you to write poems upon poems and dance with frenzy and see your Beloved God reflected in every drop of rain.

As we enter an extremely dark period of American history, I understand why St. Michael calls me a warrior and a daughter of God, his lessons in when to make peace and not war, to be not prideful but humble, strong, hands in the dirt with God as your sword and shield:

I am here to fight the good fight, and I cannot give up despite all the hatred and brutality that rests in the hearts of half our nation.

I have questioned my faith and experiences for decades, as only any 12 year old terrified of her first vision of a mighty and powerful archangel that knows her most secret of names does, and will probably continue to do so, but from my very first cradlebound memory to yesterday, when the angels gave me comfort as I faced the rise of a demagogue that shook me to my very core – they have whispered to me:

Go on. Grow. Stand tall, be strong, do not bend, do not break. No matter your creed or lack of one, I think we can all agree that love is the core of existence, and we must act with lovingkindness as neighbors of our fellow citizens and of the world.

Call me insane or a heretic, but I serve the God without a name, without religious creed – Mother Nature, whose children are all the colors of the rainbow – the trees and animals and beautifully diverse races of humanity that are united for the common good.

I will not give in to desperation or fear.

I will fight with my last breath. I will serve my spirits and God well. I will create a world that my children’s children will be proud of.

And if I’m insane? At least my insanity drives me to the work Jesus began long ago.