The Hare’s Song

hare by ellen jewett-5

(image by Ellen Jewett)

My eye is a dark mirror for my Beloved; my face a sun flower of the  night, charting her passing and changes. The winds are sights from my heart, longing for her light. Long ears have I, to listen to her silent voice. And she speaks, oh she speaks. In beams of white across the loch she speaks; in glowing dew across the grass; in a pond of iridescent clouds above, on the sky, where she floats amid the stars. And I ache for her, for those days when I lied across her lap, when her hand caressed my soul with her song of light. I know the day will come when I’ll go back, to her, to her temple of wisdom, to her cauldron of storms and tides. I’m going back to my Beloved’s arms and I shall hear her eternal lullaby; her love song, her enchantress chant; her Bardic poem, her warrior hymn before the war.

Oh, how she speaks, across the grasslands, my Beloved. She lights the lonely room of the forgotten one and guides the sailor across the treacherous lake. She blesses the lovers in their embrace and paints fairies on the baby’s eyes. My Mistress dances in the woods with the Horned One and sits and speaks the philosophy of the ages with druids, crones saints and sages. She spreads sweet dew on leaves for the beetle and the sparrow to drink. She rises the sea and inner waters of the mind.

My Beloved is teacher to all who hear. She hallows all wombs and raises women to their celestial rights. My Beloved is comforter and friend, and opens the gates for dreams that may one day come to pass. She is the Goddess of imagination and imagination is the country of all that is to be. Look, how she shines, how she weaves a tapestry in the silky veins of trees to make flowers grow. My Beloved is a magnolia in the sky, her milkiness nourishing souls and hearts of all who call themselves her children.

How beautiful she is, my Beloved. Her only presence is all I need to gather inner light, for one more day, for one more fight, for one more run, for one more triumph, for one more coming home. She is all I need. My Beloved


Gypsy Hunger

goddess woman walking


There’s a Gypsy hunger in my soul.

A craving to pack it all and throw

Myself into the adventure, any adventure;

Into the insanity, the craziness

Of my unlived twenties,

And walk with careless steps,

Believing it all,

Enduring it all, hoping it all,

Because life still early Spring and storms

Are nothing, but drenched mischiefs under

Which to run, half-mad, half-dressed,

Unmoved by thunders and flash and wet grass,

Aware, only, of the perfect chill

Of droplets playing to be acupuncturist’s

Needles, awakening dormant energies

Trapped since forever at the bottom

Of my Pandora’s Box.

If I dive into the folly,

Will I do it alone or holding your hand?

Would you walk with me over

Life’s hanging bridge,

Wooden serpent whispering

Like arcane women of rotten teeth,

Smiling courage from within their silence,

Calling us to cross over the primeval

boards, just to see if we can make it?

Will you run with me on last time

Before I surrender to venerability

And self-respect,

And cross the threshold of stillness,

Of acceptance of all that for certain

Will never come to pass?

Come my love. Let’s runaway once more

And then blame the dark side of the moon.

Or hormones, or middle-age or menopause.

Let’s put it over the shoulders of the Stars,

Those usual suspects, who painted

Our eyes with the craze of silver horizons,

Or so we’ll say.

No need to talk about the jasmine aroma

Which my body still exudes;

Or the escapade-greedy muscles

still drawn under your skin;

We’ll say it was the Call,

From some incorporeal guide;

The power of misused Tantra;

The world-wide economical meltdown,

Why not?

Or it they insist, just be frank

And tell them is the fever that you still ignite in me,

Which burns and throws aside the corset of my maturity,

Leaving me naked under the dark matter

Of the universe, indifferent of my place,

Which ever maybe, in their card-board game of existence.

Give me a kiss and come with me.


Far away.

Let’s tie the girl to our hips

And become pioneers. Ramblers without paths.

Cartographers of uncharted geographies,

And see her run, unbound; our snow-like she Mowgli,

Miniature Isadora Duncan dancing on Roman ruins

Away from tourists tracks;

Or under the shadows of Amazonian mountains,

Half orchid, half jaguar, tasting the golden

Delirium that makes us human. Come.

Let’s go. With little luggage, free

Of expectations, one day, all the days,

The paradox of the cosmos our cradle,

Travellers with no caravans

Surviving the dunes of life,

Fulfilling, at last,

The Gypsy hunger of the soul

Which make us, both, alive and mad.

She Was There (Inspired by an Alzheimer Patient)

girl rain


She was there.

She was there in the silence;

She was there in the stillness;

She was there in the tiny hint

Of a smile at dinner time.

She was there.

In a look, in a flash,

In a twinkle in her eyes,

In the warmth of her skin and her breath.

She was there, alive, loving, present,

In a different way, yet her usual way.

Words were not needed.

A whole life of love and laughter

And confidences shared,

Spoke for both of us

When we came together.

A wealth of little moments and birthday cakes,

And Christmas turkeys and summer breaks.

They all were there with her.

She was not gone. Not then, not now.

She was there, with me, and within me,

As she is today. By my side. Always.


woman on bench


Running from myself…for how long, so very long,

Have I run from the truth incrusted inside my eyes?

Deep down, where there is no space for merciful lies,

The mirrors of my essence aching shadows prolong,

Twisting in the labyrinth of my evil, my unknown,

My unborn, desperate sins, for my tears to atone.


I stand by the bus stop, the hatred to atone

Searching for saints, for hallowed virgins of long

Veils and soft words, their reality ultimately unknown,

Unproved, unseen but for the faith of hopeless eyes,

Burning by the fire of remorse, their hurt prolong

By the maze of self-delusions and useful lies.


The dark, flawed side of the world within me lies.

It is my home; the inspiration behind the sacrifice to atone

My broken being, the crime of my existence. To prolong

Not this offence and erase my reflection from the sun’s eyes,

I have tried hard to achieve. My obliteration, I permanently long.

I want to be an abomination by angels and mankind unknown.


And yet, the voice of hate gives my spirit an unknown

Blaze of intrinsic determination, a primeval instinct which lies

Beyond the purified, antiseptic virtue that clouds the eyes

Of those who, with suffering concern, look at me, ready to atone

With united palms and bloodied knees the wicked, winded, long

Road of my life, which deep down I know I wish to prolong.


My arms are ploughed by grief. Scars from my wrist prolong

All the way to the grooves of my heart, trying to pay for unknown

Felonies, hidden beneath the imperfection of what I am, which long

Ago brought to the ground the Divine. Lies. Petty, ugly, cruel lies,

My hatred groans. I owe you nothing. There’s nothing to atone.

And with my fear gone, I set myself free from the spears of your eyes.


I now wash with mercy the crystal off my eyes.

I let my hatred and you go, for I shall not prolong

The smouldering shame, nor let rage and pain to atone

The dread of those lost years, that raving agony unknown

By the awakening angel, which in my soul lies:

The child awaiting for my love for so long. For so very long.


No longer running from myself, from that inner hell that for long

Painted sky-high falls of blood in the pupils of my eyes,

My angel and I board the bus. The road of freedom before us lies.