She is transcendental mist,
the glow between the veils,
bright spirals of madness,
strung together heartbeats
in my beloved darkness.
© Angela Bigler 2020
I meet her on a street corner in Brooklyn.
Turquoise hair, smoky shadowed eyelids,
Dark smudge lipstick cigarette.
She exhales a dragon.
She says she’s dying anyway,
and living, and dying again.
It never ends, like a labyrinth dream
like a myth.
I notice the angry scars on her wrists.
“Did it hurt?” I ask, pointing.
She shrugs and flicks an ash. “Doesn’t everything?”
“What was it like on the other side?”
“Same thing—dark and light.”
Young Nyx ©Angela Bigler 2020
Two Leo moons orbit the heart of my sky.
Warm gravity bonds – flows with love.
Love, the essence of our days together.
What was it they said about love?
It’s everything. It’s all you need. It’s vast and unexpected.
Two Leo Moons – mother and daughter, soft and bright.
We take big chances in the life – rearrange the heart,
accommodate each other’s limbs and prayers.
Mother Moon, I wanted you to stay with me,
but your path led to heaven’s spirit place.
Daughter moon, I wished for your safety,
but now I see your path must breathe.
Follow your paws to uncharted islands,
rainforest jungles, oceans and sand.
Journeys, wishes, wisdoms born of you.
Beyond the moments our hearts beat together,
our celestial roots stretch endlessly,
beam across your distant lands,
where lionesses roar and dream.
We reach up to the heavens,
through realms and mysteries.
Two Leo moons, one Libra heart
spin through the galaxy.
© Angela Bigler 2016
In 1908, when Emily Carr painted the First Nation totem poles in British Columbia, she heard their strong talk roaring across the wild beaches. They were still speaking their truth even though they’d been wind beaten and faded, even though many were abandoned. This was forever strong talk.
Emily Carr was alone in the sweltering heat with the relentless mosquitoes when she talked to the ghosts and inhaled the strong talk of the ancestors. She could have wished for comfort and gone home, instead she kept on painting and that old talk spoke again through her determined paintbrush.
Sometimes you want to tell the world your story. Or maybe tell one person, just one truth.
I was scared when I was little, there were voices in the dark and they were sneaking in the window, mean and ugly. They told me that my voice was insignificant, told me I must be quiet to survive and I believed them.
What if I became a totem and told my own story? What if I was thirty-feet tall and blue, yellow, red and green and carved with the strength of my voice? Could there be strong talk in me? Would someone like Emily hear it? I’d like to think she would paint me with riots of color, thick coats of bright paint and layers of voice.
I want to be an instrument like that and make my own strong talk, spitting my words like wind on a reed. My breath would travel upwards from my roots to my heart, over my chords and out of my mouth, gaining power as it flowed over the wood to your ears, then strong talk would roar out of me.
Her songs are earth deep mantras calling names of constellations into being.
Her light soaked in, released the magic pine and herbs.
All those folded flowers lifted up their sacred prayers – water, light, dirt, love.
Her gifts – who could forget them?
Did you see her gentle curves?
The way her spine supports her children?
It’s impossible to live without her heaven/earth transcendence.
Aren’t we all turning, turning with the planet that she raised?
I knew there was no god
When the mother rabbit came back later, looking,
After the crows swooped in and took her hidden babies.
Still, it comforts to believe in something, to connect.
There is heart, there is light,
There is nature, lovely and mean.
Maybe we aren’t preordained beings
or soap opera stars watched by gods.
Maybe we are just living,
Praying to our own creations,
Helps me breathe sparks of
Divinity, miracles, hope.
Keeps me going when the crows are closing in.
If I were like you I would dive in nose first,
and bark and protect and attack.
I would cover the house in layers of fur
so you could forever breath me.
Now your fur is up in the trees;
tucked in the crows’ beaks,
they built the spring nests,
warmed their eggs in your softness;
the chicks hatch in your wolfy fleece.
I imagine you curled up asleep while I dream
and you eating apples with me.
When I watch the birds, you are hunting;
When I walk the block, you’re ahead.
They talk about seasons and life and its wheel;
I hate it and I want you back.
I want to be nuzzled,
I want to be loved the way you love;
The way no one can.
All I can do is go on just like you;
snout first and crazy and free.
Never give up or be caged
That’s what my Bailey taught me.
© Angela Bigler 2014
It was sad to watch; your
Wild life ether
There on the pavement’s edge.
Eight points knocked off
Clean; soft fur like my dog.
A moment like that
Is your life rushing on
In webs of thought
The slushy past
And what if futures?
Be on the road; awake
As roads are shared
Who do not see
Our armored rush.
Did you know life had value?
Yours and mine.
And also those who
Run and dream on
© Angela Bigler 2013
I rattled all the chains
in the old kingdom.
Thinking I was wind
or dirt, or rain.
the miles thick earth.
A whisper stoked
or armored friends.
The bark fed climb
and I’ll be rising.
Find me calling
© Angela Bigler 2013
Just another way to talk to myself in public...
A blog that will explore various topics designed to educate, entertain, engage, encourage, and empower both English-speaking and Spanish-speaking readers via writing and audio-video expression.The primary vehicle of self- expression will be Poetry and Essays but other forms of writing, including fiction, will make an appearance from time to time.
Only the Sense of the Sacred can Save us
Literary News, Reviews, and Events in Central PA
EDGAR NOMINATED CRIME WRITER
Nail Your Novel - Writing, publishing and self-publishing advice from a bestselling ghostwriter and book doctor
thoughts on life, love & a bunch of other deep shit
Sexuality in Young Adult Film and Literature
Complex PTSD: The Art & Work of Healing
Quarterly Literature, Speculative and Otherwise
Night Thoughts of a Literary Agent
Science Fiction and Fantasy Author
My healing journey.
A wise man says what he has thought about; A fool thinks about what he has said.
Writing by Alan Annand
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