I’m feeling spectacularly bad tonight and don’t particularly feel like writing but I need to. I didn’t work on my story today. I was busy with cat stuff for the rescue and then went to lunch with a friend. That was fun but I really wasn’t up to it. I haven’t been sleeping, especially the last two nights. My stomach hurts and I’m pretty sure there’s a dude living in my skull that is slowly digging his way out through the bone.
It’s getting to be allergy season and that’s not helping. I never had allergies until I moved to the South, so it sort of surprises me every year. When I first started getting them I didn’t know that’s what it was. I thought I had a rotten tooth! The dentist took an x-ray and told me the teeth were fine but my sinuses were showing as a solid block on the x-ray. Fun stuff.

I have my Merlin kitty here blinking at me while he purrs. As far as he’s concerned, life is good. 🙂 I’ve been working on some new collage art for my S6 shop but haven’t listed anything new on redbubble for a couple of days. Ugh, ok sorry this is short tonight but it hurts to look at the screen.

The Stolen Child

W. B. Yeats1865 – 1939

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.
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Oldie

An old poem I wrote that I came across tonight. It was published in a magazine but I don’t remember which one off hand. I wrote it when playing around with experimental styles.

Victim #6

Your eyes, soft like

a moon moth’s wings,

liquid with the

terror of impending death,

see my secret soul twisting.

I’m tumbling,

overlapping

with your urgent pleas

and your sharp scent

of fear excites me.

Your body,

trembling with

rushing adrenalin,

and I can feel your bones,

hard under your

slippery smoothness,

crushing between my

fingers as I

pull you closer.

I want to taste you,

feel the sensual

satisfaction of

teeth sinking through skin,

and your blood,

filling my mouth,

as it spills over my hands

slowly pushing

steel intrusion

into your

sacrosanct heart.

 

Julie Shiel

I am working on something but not ready to show it yet.

 

Revival

“Revival” was written after my grandmother told me about going to a snake-handling church when she was younger. This was probably in the 1930s, and the church was in the Appalachian mountains. She wanted me to write her life story, but I don’t think she gets what that entails. Still, I should have done it, and should still try to do it. I loved to listen to her talk to me about her life and the hardships she had endured, and I always wished I had recorded it but I never did. She’s very old now and I know she doesn’t have much time. When she goes it will tear me apart. My mother has been dead for a very long time, and my father is probably dead (and good riddance). Anyway, this poem was published in a magazine called “Penumbra” and collected in my chapbook “Psychoentropy”. I hope you enjoy it.

Revival

They share the taste of strychnine,

liquid faith like crystal purity,

bottled in a mason jar

scented with the ghost

of last year’s peaches.

 

Dusty boots thump,

and patterned skirts swirl,

keeping time with the choir

of shivering tambourines,

as they cry with broken voices

of the rapturous divine.

 

The Reverend handles serpents,

armed with shining words of God,

and preaches fervent sermons

with the cadence of

the hissing snakes,

sliding coils through grasping fingers

scarred with memory of sin.

 

He sways,

moves with strange conviction,

and teaches salvation

to the undulating devout,

singing in blind ecstasy

in obsolete tongues.

 

They dance,

caught in serpentine embrace,

anointed by the Spirit

with sacred revelations,

as the congregation burns,

wrapped in spiraling religion.

 

~Julie Shiel

Rainmaker

Rainmaker

He sifts through grains of sand
the color of Sky and Earth,
creating clockwork spirals
on the cracked canyon floor.

He is an artist,
painting with the ashes
of deities burning in rusted cans,
and stirring faded colors
with the bleached bones
of a desolate coyote.

He opens worlds,
singing obscure twilight myths
etched into his skin
with blood and soot,
and carries the aching sun
into the darkness of desert chill.

He calls the spirit eater
from collapsing constellations,
and dances intricate patterns
to the pulse of the howling moon,
as the sky mutters thunder
in complex indistinctness
and burning stars drip
from a black liquid sky.

~ Julie Shiel

IMG_4245 copy

One of mine

Here’s an old one of mine, included in “Disturbed“.

Room 3A

I sit melting,
bound to the bed and
watching windows of white
re-forming into
ebony abyss
of startled nothingness,
screaming with the
pain of the cosmos.

I leak and drip
Universes

into the fragile dust
And swallow rivulets
of galaxies
into my exposed soul.

I breed
poisonous echoes of
memories past
and birth the
stars of madness
in my veins.

~ Julie Shiel

At this time of year, holiday parties often include festive lights. When galaxies get together, they also may be surrounded by a spectacular light show. That's the case with NGC 2207 and IC 2163, which are located about 130 million light-years from Earth, in the constellation of Canis Major.  This pair of spiral galaxies has been caught in a grazing encounter. NGC 2207 and IC 2163 have hosted three supernova explosions in the past 15 years and have produced one of the most bountiful collections of super-bright X-ray lights known. These special objects -- known as "ultraluminous X-ray sources" (ULXs) -- have been found using data from NASA's Chandra X-Ray Observatory. This composite image of NGC 2207 and IC 2163 contains Chandra data in pink, optical-light data from NASA's Hubble Space Telescope visible-light data in blue, white, orange and brown, and infrared data from NASA's Spitzer Space Telescope in red.

Bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

  • Charles Bukowski

For Jane

225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.