Fire And Rain

Leave for me
a flame in my heart
and rain inside my soul –
ability to love with depth;
for that, I’ve no regret.
I’m like a gypsy spirit
never finding
the way home.
Fall foliage
now yellowing,
fringed brown
like ancient lace
the same as I;
weathered
and waiting
to be discovered.
May my weaknesses
be forgotten… somehow
while my strengths praised
for the remainder of my days.
Tender is my heart that burned
with some lessons that I learned
silent murmurings drop like rain
whispers now to my spirit flame
under this ever-changing sky;
another day bids goodbye.

© Roxi St. Clair

When Life Disrobes Us

Before we are born, we are pure energy. We are more than a random cosmic happenstance and casual cohesion of particles. We are all unique, like a fingerprint, yet we are all of the same Universal Source. Our uniqueness is what gives value to the whole. Our individual experiences become a catalyst for many changes to that energy. At this vibrational level, we begin to absorb the world we find ourselves in, even within the womb. We are born in the clothing of promise until life disrobes us, and then we become subject to human emotions, attachment, bonding, abandonment, suffering, pleasure, trauma, joy, sadness, and disappointment. We become a product of cause and effect. We are influenced by our environment and those who ‘people’ our experiences. We are magnets that attract a myriad of polarities from both negative and positive energies. We are grounded or off-balance depending on our perceptions, beliefs, relationships, boundaries, the safety of body, mind, and spirit. Social conditioning determines our Continue reading “When Life Disrobes Us”

Old Soul

From Pleiades and Pegasus
to Cassiopeia and Centaurus –
our Souls are Seeds of the Cosmos,
cultivated from all that is infinite.

I am from the clay of ancient lands –
sculpted by Viking, Celtic, and Saxon hands
in forgotten times, forgotten history…
long and long ago.

From my longhouse to my longship,
I sailed upon cold Nordic Seas
‘neath a procession of stars
to navigate the night,
and drinking light…
from the Moon’s
immortal cup.

I’ve traveled far to every temple,
obelisk, and pillar of mystic stone
where I bled and perished,
and rose anew…
paying passage for my homage
with ancient gold coins
stamped in the mint
of my memory.

Beneath the Celtic sunsets
of amethyst, topaz, and crimson reds…
I walked in tangled fields
of thistle blue
and primrose brimmed with dew…
all of it veiled under
every Equinox and Solstice
and Midnight Star;
they were the jewels
that I wore.

I’ve heard the murmurings
of Saxon benedictions –
as they broke
my bread
and heart;
my head bowed
while on bended knee
in St. Æthelwold’s hall.
I whispered in supplication –
a prayer by candlelight dim…
my shadow, humbled against the wall.

The Ancients eclipse me ‘neath waxing moons,
sharing their wisdom, like Oracle Runes –
scattered upon my primeval spirit
through the strands of years…
brushing me, hushing me,
shifting, yet whole…
writes the poet,
in sanctum,
old soul.

© Roxi St. Clair

The Séance

I remember the candle burning
hands on a clock ever turning
sometime in the warmth of May
in the parlour across the way
the medium whispered very soft
next thing I knew, I saw aloft
a form that hovered in mid-air
with blue eyes and blonde hair
trying hard to catch my breath
watching her return from death
phantom passing through a veil
it never spoke and didn’t wail
circle of hands on table round
hearing a noise, I spun around
to the floor, fell an old book
I saw the title, my body shook
I asked the lady in the trance
know the author by any chance?
looking at me while she smiled
and with gentle voice beguiled
“Turn the page and see your name
you’re the author, one and same
the life of poets is very hard
for the wordsmith and the bard
consider Plath, Shelley and Poe…
that’s the way these stories go.”
Understanding what she had said
I soon realized that I was dead.

© Roxi St. Clair

Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat

Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat. Vincent van Gogh (1853 – 1890)

That’s me— van Gogh.
The quiet one.

I’m the one wearing the hat.

So many days blended unknown,
people who come and visit
can’t hear me speak
and sometimes
I’m maddened
by this
stillness.

Generations
stop to give me the
same blank museum stare
of my life signs; suspended.
A life brushed out on canvas…
those abstracted attempts on my
mouth that won’t be noticed by
any but me. I put it there
and I’ll be damned if I
can’t talk now.

First
my ear
and now this?

And so—
I hang in silence.

© Roxi St. Clair

Hush

Some silences have many eyes that see through many an armored soul. Subtle self-defense from life is what keeps each spirit whole. Some hold comfort in their shade, anointing all who shelter there—in hushed velvet serenity; sublime peace they all share. Silent sepia serenades, hang like old portraits upon their walls—until the world has disappeared—until the sound of silence calls.

© Roxi St. Clair