Reflections of the Elder Mother in November

Photo at Pixabay

The winter comes, I feel it, without anticipation.
I know it through my settling earthbound roots.
I know not the animal dread of cold and dark.
My boughs sculptured by summer’s passage to lift my leaves sunwards.
Now I have let them drop to earth, to feed my community the soil.
The soil my home. The earth, the spinning earth.
I draw myself in and wait without anticipation, under the frosted fog.
Playing out my destiny in the eternal moment.
I am the Elder Mother, spirit made tree.
My carefully crafted medicine is of myself, for myself.
I know not the animal dread of age and death.
The vulnerable robin, the clever striving human, they come to me needing nourishment.
It pleases me to give but not to court the animal demon, greed.
They may take of me, by measure, with gratitude.
For I am the Elder Mother, spirit made tree, in cold earth, which will turn warm again.

Julie Carter

Rebecca’s soliloquy

Photo at Pixabay

I do love you, old Max, though now you’ll never know just how much. Danny knew, and my cousin Jack, he called me his little scorpion. ‘Underneath that carapace’ he would say, ‘lies a dark, soft centre, but sting first little scorpion and prevent being stung.’

Oh Max, your face when I told you I was pregnant. What was it? Shock? Joy? Panic? Love? Loathing? Certainly the latter when I said the baby wasn’t yours. I had to sting first you see. And then the gun was in your hand. ‘Kill me’ I screamed inside my head, ‘before this cancer devours me’.

We’re on my boat drifting far out at sea. You’ve removed the bilge cocks, the water will come in fast. Silence, then the slap of oars as you row away. Blood seeps from my body. I touch the flesh where your bullet penetrated my skin. I do love you, old Max. If I had a headstone my epitaph would be, I LOVED MAXIM.

Mary Younger


Photo at Pixabay

In the last two years I have had to surround myself with a city wall of rationality. Brick by brick, it protected me as you encouraged me to hope, no matter how immeasurably slight that hope may be. And now that your medicine has failed, all you can offer me is the fairy stories of religion, with the numbing comfort of an occasional morphine hit. Now that I, by myself, have tracked down one last hope, you want to deny me the scientific, rational, logical conclusion.

I do understand that it’s a slim chance, but it’s been a slim chance all along, and I’m ready to take it if the alternative is no chance at all. Surely you, of all people, can understand that? I want to justify science, and through me, others will see that true reincarnation, true rebirth, lies in this world. I will live as a symbol of hope to mankind. Let me be the true ‘life after death’.

Lorraine Mackay



Eleanor | photo at Pinterest


Entombed in my bridal chamber,
Now my son’s ambition has vaulted
To sting my husband’s pride.
These castle walls are my prison,
And I can only recollect the times,
I gazed over the fields of Aquitaine.
Green upon green meeting the horizon,
Fish-full, viridian rivers, and verdant
Forests, alive with boar and venison.
With all the wealth and power it brings,
I still needed a husband to protect me.
I bore eight children, and your philandering.
But, my fortress is within. Built of sinew
And nerve to develop trade agreements,
With Constantinople and the holy lands.
Potent courage rode with me to the Crusades.
Quick wit and intellect suffuse my bones,
And my daily prayers and readings nourish
My mind and marrow, and save me for tomorrow,
For the days, when I shall reign again. Eleanor,
By the Grace of God, Queen of England.
I need neither man nor glass to witness the noble
Countenance, the admired golden curls and almond eyes.
I know it is the lionheart that beats beneath,
The soul that dances strong and free
That makes me more than beautiful.

Tanya Laing


Photo at Pixabay

Alone in my Trump tower I am locked in a discourse with my own

Conscience doth make cowards of us all.

Will it be nobler to accept the presented poisoned chalice?
Or die on my sword nobly blaming my many critics in true Trump style.

The predicament I am facing is not of my choosing,
The blame must rest firmly upon the shoulders of Hillary Clinton,
She should have won the election, my rantings designed to make it so,
Thus not causing the heartache of a thousand shocks.

I should now be happily engaged in what I am good at,
Wronging the oppressors, claiming a rigged vote, stirring up even more

In this regard currents have turned awry.

Seven score and eleven years ago, our fathers brought forth, on this
continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the
proposition that all men are created Un-Equal

There – I have re-written some of our great history, Trump style.

Trevor Coleman