ISBET's WRITING
Prose · 
Poetry · 
Haiku-Artwork
INDEX
ALMANDINE
© Lughnassad 2007 by Tiffany E. Reed
Blood of Au·Set
congealed
solidified
into a stone
gleaming
deepest, darkest red
almost black
but not quite
icositetrahedron
behold the garnet!
ALMOST FULL MOON NIGHT
© Mabon 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
Blessing for a Friend
© Beltane 2002 by Tiffany E. Reed
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Through the waters of Life I hope you sail with ease Like a swan
And know with every ending
I wish the Moon to guide you
And may the faeries dance
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CHILL OF NIGHT
© Beltane 2007 by Tiffany E. Reed
dance dance
by the ocean i dance
shifting sand
under my feet
until night falls
blackness rolls in
like fog
billowing blackness
obscuring my eyes
glints of fire
fading in my eyes
glints of fire
the twilight fades
my veil has dropped
my skirt has fallen
darkness has come
i am all that remains
will i survive
the chill
of night?
DARK DREAMS
© Mabon 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
DRAWING DOWN A STORM
© Lughnassad 2000 by Tiffany E. Reed
When I was a child, I would go outside whenever thunderstorms approached. I would stand barefooted so that I could feel Mother Earth beneath my feet. Watching in silent expectation, I would witness the storm gathering force and moving closer to me. The winds would blow with increasing intensity as the sky grew darker and the flashes of lightning came closer. When the raw power of the storm began to make my heart leap with its wonder, I would lift my arms high over my head and attempt to "Draw Down" some of the power of the storm into myself.
Strange as it may seem, I was never afraid. Instead, I reveled in the awesome power that was larger than myself, yet seemed oddly as if it were a part of me. Now, older and wiser, I know why — the rhythms of The Cosmos are as much a part of ourselves as the rhythms of our own bodies. Rivers flow across the Earth as the blood flows in our veins. Lightning flashes in the sky just as neurons transmit signals in our brains. The winds blow through the trees just as our breath enters and exits our lungs. The Moon waxes and wanes in Her course just as the Moontime waxes and wanes in our wombs.
I came across a particular translation of Faust, by Goëthe, in my high school's library. In the beginning of the book, where the archangels are speaking in "The Prologue in Heaven," poetic verses appear. I was so entranced by them that I carefully copied them down onto paper. I commited the powerful lines to memory, and began to recite them whenever I was in the act of Drawing Down a Storm, for they seemed most fitting to me for that very purpose.
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The sun-orb sings in emulation, 'Mid brother-spheres, his ancient round; His path predestined through Creation He ends with step of thunder-sound. The angels from his visage splendid Draw power, whose measure none can say; The lofty works, uncomprehended, Are bright as on the earliest day.
And swift, and swift beyond conceiving,
And rival storms abroad are surging
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This particular translation of Faust into English ©1870 by Bayard Taylor. It is rendered in the original meter of Goëthe's German work. 
DRUMMING THE SUNRISE
© Imbolc 2002 by Tiffany E. Reed
In a dream one night, Grandmother was sitting with me, outdoors, in the pre-dawn hours of an early morning. She wasn't one of my actual grandmothers, but rather, an archtypal Grandmother figure.
We were talking, and sharing precious female-bonding time together under the crystal clear sky scattered with beautiful stars. As a ribbon of red along the Eastern horizon gave way to pinks and yellows, heralding the coming of the Sun, she taught me a drumbeat which she said was appropriate for welcoming the new Day.
With our small, sacred drums laid across our laps, we sat and drummed the sunrise together.
EMERGENCE
© Beltane 2007 by Tiffany E. Reed
I emerged from the Earth, whole...
I emerged from my Mother, whole...
I emerged, Fire and Water, whole...
I emerged Earth and Air, whole...
I emerged Breath of Spirit, whole...
I emerged Goddess, whole...
I perform the Ritual of Life, whole...
I perform the Ritual of Death, whole...
All is as it should be.
Fish for Dinner
© Samhain 2002 by Tiffany E. Reed
Standing
Standing still
Standing still as a tree
No movement
Can't give myself away
Waiting
Waiting patiently
Waiting patiently as a tree
Suddenly, a ripple
Suddenly, a ripple and a bubble
Creator provides
Heron strikes
Fish for dinner!
FLIGHT
© Lughnassad 2004 by Tiffany E. Reed
On the breezes she sails
With pigtails a-flutter,
Her heart leaping joyously,
Watched by her Mother
Past houses and trees
And over the hills,
O'er canyons and mountains,
And flowering rills
Dragonflies and birds
Accompany her flight,
Sourrounding to guard,
And keep her from fright
She plays with the stars
For a very long span,
Comes back to Earth softly
With moonbeams in hand
Her fairy wings fold
As she alights from the swing
And runs through the park —
What a wondrous thing!
(Dedicated, with Love, to Kathy & Larry
and an understanding that we share)
GARDEN OF MY MIND
© Mabon 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
IF I COULD...
© Litha 2007 by Tiffany E. Reed
If I could...
I would run to the horizon
and touch the Moon
as She rises
Slender crescent
arising from the depths
of the Night
Slender crescent
arising from the depths
of my heart
If I could...
I would caress Her face
with my gentle hand
like a babe touches her mother's face
soft skin on soft skin
glow upon glow
curve of my fingers
framing the curve of Her face
cradling Her as
She has cradled me
If I could...
I LOVE THE NIGHT
© Litha 2005 by Tiffany E. Reed
A dear friend of mine once wrote a poem about how she hates the night. Since I love nighttime, I wrote this poem in response, mirrorring the metre and tone of her poem.
I love the night
I am never lonely at night
I roam wild and free at night
I think best at night
Delicious dreams run through
my head at night
Complicated things become
clear at night
My heart dances at night
My soul flies free at night
Memories lose their edge at night
The nightbirds keep me company at night
I explore from shadow to shadow at night
Mother Moon gives me peace at night
I occupy myself with many things at night
I try not count the minutes until daylight at night
I wonder how much more beautiful Darkness there is of the night
I love the night.
JACKO's STICK
© Imbolc 2017 by Tiffany E. Reed
Jacko's stick suddenly burst into flames. The startled child dropped the wood that had suddenly become a torch while the other boys excitedly yelled, "Wow! Lookit that!" and "OMG, how'd you do it?"
Jacko had grabbed the stick earlier and dragged the tip along Mrs. Magruder's picket fence as he ran, letting it make a loud "tat-tat-tat" noise. When the boys reached the Wall, they turned to run alongside it and the stick's tip then dragged along the masonry. They didn't notice the small trickle of smoke that preceded the flame, but the fire certainly got their attention. They looked for more sticks and found them, each boy holding one against the Wall as he ran. Every time, the results were the same, as if each stick were transformed into a large match by the power of the Wall.
They told their parents about it that night.
The following morning, men with white coats and hardhats were scraping samples from the wall. Then, they retreated to their lab to study them, and sent the reports to the city officials who had ordered the tests. No information was ever forthcoming to the public about it.
The next time the boys tried the stunt, the sticks didn't burst into flame. They wished they hadn't mentioned it to their parents.
This story is part of my contribution to "The Tales of Azza-Jono," a collaborative effort of a dozen people.
JUICY
© Mabon 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
Micro-poetry
© by Tiffany E. Reed
Beneath the Veil
The Veil...
Ancient and Mysterious...
Is it keeping us in?
Or keeping them out?
Sounds of Life
Drums beat
Hearts beat
The Sounds of Life
The Dance
my body sits still
as soul leaps and dances
a joyous journey within
Togetherness
from the womb of my mind
i pluck a thought
that grew as a flower
that started as a seed
a twinkle in my husband's eye
Warmth
between the lines
between the lions
Bast and Sekhmet
red and yellow
glowing orbs
brilliant power
give us warmth
in this bright hour!
Woman
part of every woman
is the little girl
that lies within her
MIDSUMMER'S DANCE
© Litha 2005 by Tiffany E. Reed
The Earth, She lies in stillness
And the sky is painted black
Scattered stars are shining bright
Cool breeze is on my back
The silhouettes of trees, they stand
Like sentinels all around
Guarding my silent passage,
Feet gently graze the ground
The grove provides protection,
The Night provides the way
To watch the faeries flit about
And frolick as they play
To them, I am a kindred soul
They do not flee from me,
But lead me deep into their world
My soul shall be set free
We celebrate Earth and Spirit;
The Mesh connects them still
With silver threads of Moonlight,
To see them is a thrill
We dance upon the strands
That shimmer just like glass
A dance profound, yet simple
As dewdrops on the grass
Not till the Night is over
And the Dawn begins to break
Do we part our ways with kisses
And our way home we make
Retreating deep into the cleft
Of dreams and blessed sleep,
The Solstice of our lives belie
The secrets of the Deep
MOTHER MOON
© by Tiffany E. Reed
The Moon, She hangs in eastern sky,
Mid stars, Her crescent beaming,
The Primal Seed within my soul
Hails back, with joyous gleaming.
Were Thee my Mother, true and right
In every sense of meaning,
There still would be no difference made
For all my heart's fair leaning.
MY HEART EXPLODES
© 2009 by Tiffany E. Reed
Life is so beautiful at times, it's overwhelming.
Life is so ugly at times, it's oppressive.
And somewhere along the way, we're crushed between the overwhelming and oppressive until we're as flat as a pancake. Then warm, sticky syrup is poured over us and we are eaten alive. Thus begins our journey through the bowels of God.
(Written after my husband was given a terminal diagnosis
of Pancreatic Cancer)
Nanofiction (55-word fiction)
© by Tiffany E. Reed
Challenge: End of the world as you know it
Lines of religion, lines of nationality, lines of race, lines of culture, lines of status, lines of thinking, blurred lines, dozens of lines, lines everywhere, crisscrossing lines, lines in the sand, don’t cross my line. Then we wonder how we reached the end of the world — it is the inevitable end of the line, folks. [Jun-2016]
Challenge: Your parents have selected you to be frozen
I was at the lake with my twin sister, H, and brother, O. Suddenly, we felt a whirlpool underneath us. It was horrible, the feeling of being dragged under, and into a pipe. Next thing I knew, we came out a smaller pipe and into a plastic tray. Then hands took us towards… the freezer! [Jul-2016]
Challenge: You have traveled in time to make something right.
I carefully set the date on the Time Capsule control pad to September 18, 1965, and dialed-in the proper longitude and latitude for the beach. When I arrived, I carefully searched until I found the beautiful, antique, long-necked bottle and held it very closely. This is such an epic day! Jeannie is mine! [Sep-2016]
Challenge: Build a story using the words: respect, susurration, Hineininterpretieren, no, spring, galore, love, fuck, blubber, moist, peculiar, vulgar
His teeth left a moist spot on my skin. I winced and yelled, "Fuck!" He drank, then kissed my vulgar little mouth. We made love galore that night, no stopping us, broke a spring on the mattress. His susurrations of affection made me blubber. Peculiar, my newfound taste for fresh blood. Respect the hineininterpretieren. [Oct-2016]
Challenge: a vaguely medieval fantasy story about a fictional version of yourself who starts as a young child and rises to prominence.
I sat, crosslegged, in deep grass at the schoolyard's edge as if in meditation. The teachers realized I disappeared, so they combed the schoolyard, searching. They screamed in horror when they found me, sitting quietly with ants crawling all over, so many that flesh and clothing were hidden under them. I was their queen now. [Nov-2016]
Challenge: What if the universe we perceive is contained within another universe?
Horton, Horton, heard a Who,
But didn't quite know what to do.
And what if I were Wendy Who,
Looking up into sky so blue?
Would I see old Horton's trunk?
And if so, what would I have thunk?
I think I'd be quite mystified
At that big schnoz my eyes have spied!
Oh, my! [Apr-2017]
NIGHT HERON
© 2004 by Tiffany E. Reed
We had no rain for a long time, so the water in the lake was lower than normal. With decreased water levels, a sandbar appeared, stretching out into the lake. On a beautiful, balmy summer night, I went out there alone, barefooted and wearing a casual summer dress with flowers on it. I walked as far out onto the sandbar as I could and sat down with my drum across my lap and began drumming the night.
Sometime later, a very faint splash made me look further out, across the lake. I was serenading a Night Heron as he fished for his dinner. It might have been years ago, but I am still drumming, and Heron is still fishing — that night never ended, because I can see it now.
ORANGE
© Mabon 2015 by Tiffany E. Reed
To the drone of cicadas on a scorching summer day, she draped herself in orange so she could hide among the day lilies. When the sun bent down to kiss the horizon, she ran to get a kiss, too. Mother Moon watched over her as she slept. In the morning, she awoke in a field among the ripening pumpkins. She drank some dew, then flew up into the trees to dance with the leaves. They loved her orange so much that they began to dress themselves in earthy colors, too, for the oncoming Harvest Moon Ball. They turned and pirouetted, dipped and curtsied, serenaded by crickets, caressed by the wind, until the night melded into eternity.
ORBITS
© Beltane 2017 by Tiffany E. Reed
The fire burns, flames leap up and over, and up again. The smoke holds back until the flames briefly disappear, then billows upward and dies back when the flames resume. It's a choreographed dance between flames and smoke, smoke and flames, as the drums beat their rhythm around the fire.
Words are mumbled, soft chants are sung, all witnessed by the crescent moon hanging in the western sky. The children dance in glee in another circle, behind the adults and away from the fire. A few family dogs cavort near the children in a still-wider circle, like orbits in a solar system. Fire burning, adults chanting and drumming, children dancing, dogs cavorting, and then — in the outermost areas where the light of the fire barely reaches — the somber specters of the past, robed in gray, trudging somnambulantly in an ever-widening spiral around the circular orbits.
Fire burning. Life unfolding. Moon watching. Jonovian night.
As the night trudged on, so did the specters of the past. All wore identical robes with hoods, like The Hermit in a tarot deck, but of a dark gray color. Each trudged, head slightly lowered, arms in front with hands — if they had them — tucked into the sleeve of the other arm of the robe, as if completing a circuit.
The spiral that their walk comprised fanned out from the fire circle and into the night. It was dark at the outer reaches of the spiral, as the light from the bonfire couldn't pierce the distance. Likewise, it was quiet because the soft chants and mumbling were inaudible. It was a transitory area — between light and dark, between sound and silence, between life and death.
As each spectre progressed along the spiral walk, it steadily became more transparent. There was a point where they become so dim that they were almost completely cloaked by the darkness. As each walker, in turn, reached that point, it raised its arms out to the sides, away from its body, and slowly floated up into the air.
Each floating phantom followed the ones before it, steadily augmenting the spiral into the air, rising higher and higher. The spiral continued to grow in size as it ascended into the sky. The figures continued to become fainter, but the light from the crescent moon made them sparkle slightly, almost imperceptibly. When the spiral had reached enormous proportions, the faintest apparition began to dissipate, turning into a puff of smoke. Or a cloud. Ready to rain down upon Jono another day.
This story is part of my contribution to "The Tales of Azza-Jono," a collaborative effort of a dozen people.
PARKOUR
© Mabon 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
PEONIES
© Ostara 2015 by Tiffany E. Reed
the garden hose burst
and with it
her peonies,
because they're delicate,
that way.
the petals were carried off
by rivulets and sprays and streams
of water.
since it was raining,
no one else noticed —
they thought the rain
disassembled them...
some thought nothing
at all.
but she knew, because
they were her peonies,
and her mother's,
and her grandmother's,
and a thousand-thousand grandmothers'
before them.
all washed away by rain
or burst garden-hoses —
because they're delicate,
that way.
PLACES I'VE NEVER BEEN
© Samhain 2005 by Tiffany E. Reed
In the twinkling of an eye
He takes me to places I've never been
His touch makes me quiver
With excitement and longing
In the twinkling of an eye
He takes me to places I've never been
To the depths of my pain
Where I find cleansing tears
In the twinkling of an eye
He takes me to places I've never been
Where Body meets Spirit in
A thunder of ecstasy
QUE SERA, CEREBELLUM
© Beltane 2017 by Tiffany E. Reed
In antiquity, before the Wall appeared, tensions occasionally flared between the Azzine and Jonovian sides of the city, as between any adjoining communities. The river separated the two, like the falx cerebri in a human brain, and each side was a like a cerebral hemisphere unto itself.
When tempers flared, Azzine soldiers would march down to the river and across the bridge. No Jonovian soldiers ever met them, but the Azzines returned, defeated, somehow, each time.
This story is part of my contribution to "The Tales of Azza-Jono," a collaborative effort of a dozen people.
QUITE FRANKLY, MY DEAR
© Litha 2007 by Tiffany E. Reed
There's water in the air. I can feel it. Having been born and lived in the Deep South all my life, I am accustomed to the high humidity that hangs over much of the South in the summer. The heat can have an almost oppressive feel to it with all that humidity behind it. The trick is to yield to it, to go with it, to bask in it.
I went into a store the other day and their air conditioner was cranked so high that I had goosebumps on my arms and legs. I almost wished I had brought a sweater into the store with me. When I went back outside, it was a relief to be enveloped in the warmth again. I got into my car, which felt like a sauna after having been closed-up in the direct sunlight while I was in the store. I closed the door to the car and just sat there, feeling the heat penetrating my skin and warming my heart as much as my body.
Yeah, there's water in the air, more than is usual this time of year. I can feel it. Hell, I can see it, hanging like a haze all around me, enveloping everything in a dense, moist wrapper. I love the South, but I thank the Goddess that I don't have to wear a hoop-skirt and petticoats as I am transported back to my Tara, as did my foremothers.
RED POPPY
© Imbolc 2017 by Tiffany E. Reed
Nothing seemed to come easy for Ardia. She was a sensitive child, and the weight of the whole world seemed to fall on her heart sometimes.
"Tell me again, Momma!" she asked as she climbed into her mother's lap. Her mother pressed a finger to Ardia's tiny lips and softly reminded her, "But, we mustn't speak of it often." Ardia pleaded, "Oh, please, Momma!" Her mother relented, finding it hard to say, "No" to the deep pools of soulfulness in her daughter's big, brown eyes.
Ardia's mother told her again of the man she once loved, the one she loved so deeply that she felt they were soulmates. Their time together was pure bliss as they courted and made plans to marry. Then, one morning she woke up and found that an enormous wall had gone up overnight, separating them, for her beloved was on the other side. "Who built the wall, Momma?" asked Ardia. Her mother replied, "We do not know. We also could not figure out why it appeared, or how it could have been built so quickly."
Her mother detailed her attempts to go around the wall, but it stretched for too long a distance. She had heard rumors of tunnels that might go underneath the wall, allowing access to the other side. She finally found one such tunnel, the entryway to which was hidden down a narrow, dead-end alleyway. She entered with her lantern, carrying a baguette with her. As she followed the twists and turns of the passageway, with many side-passages branching in different directions, she tore small pieces of bread to leave a trail.
Finally, she became too tired to continue and her lantern began to dim, so she retraced the breadcumbs back out again. At one point, the crumbs disappeared and she realized rats must have carried them away and eaten them. She panicked but pressed on and, thankfully, discovered more telltale crumbs to find her way out of the tunnel. As she emerged from the narrow alley into the main street, an old woman, back bent in a curve and leaning on a cane, toddled past. She stopped briefly to gaze long and hard at Ardia's mother, then shook her head and moved on without a word.
Months passed, hope waned, and then she met the man who was to become Ardia's poppa. Although not her soulmate, he took care of her, provided well for her, and was a good, hardworking man. "Speaking of whom," Ardia's mother concluded, "he will be home soon and I need to finish preparing our evening meal. Have you finished your schoolwork?" Ardia nodded her head, and said, "Yes, momma!" As her mother gently slipped Ardia off her lap, she suggested, "Why don't you go out and play for a bit, get some fresh air?" Ardia grabbed her cloak and headed outside.
There was a beautiful plot of red poppies outside, which her mother had planted. They were now blooming, and Ardia paused to look at them, deep in thought. An idea flitted into her head. She bent down and picked one, perfect bloom with her small hand, clutched her cloak closed against the breeze with the other, and started walking down the street. Her steps moved more resolutely until she was almost running. It was only two blocks from her house to the wall, and her neck craned backwards to look up at the imposing structure.
The little girl glanced off to her right, where a small plot of land had been turned into a miniature park with grass and flowers and shrubs. In the middle stood a man, dressed in stately attire, his stance and face frozen in a bronzed pose. He was looking ahead, straight at the wall. Ardia wondered what might be going through his head, if statues could think, just staring at that wall, all day and all night, year 'round.
She squatted down and carefully placed the red poppy at the base of the wall. She stood, placed her palm against the stone and stared hard, hoping to bore through the wall with her eyes, to see the beloved man who might have been her father, her mother's soulmate. But only masonry stared back at her. She sighed a little sigh, then turned to head home. Her mother's stew was always good and warmed her heart.
This story is part of my contribution to "The Tales of Azza-Jono," a collaborative effort of a dozen people.
RIPPLES
© Yule 2003 by Tiffany E. Reed
ROSE OF SHARON
© Mabon 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
SACRED GEOMETRY
© Beltane 2007 by Tiffany E. Reed
stream of consciousness comes
in the form of images
pictures, patterns, colors
lines swirling, branching, arching
doubling back on themselves
euclidean shapes — the gamut of
simple, complex, profound, laughable
mirth
merkabah
mirthkabah
welcome to the casbah
SACRED SPACE
© by Tiffany E. Reed
The gray stones of my Sacred Space
Reverberate the music that is playing
In harmony with the music of my soul.
The music, in its power,
Flushes my Being with psychic energy
That I convert into unique sensations and feelings.
In harmony with the music of my soul,
The light reflects off the beautiful soft-gray stones
That stand so erect and strong,
Symbolizing security and safety.
All too soon, it is time to go
For the music dies down and
The lovely stones tell me that
The World is calling me, once again.
SAGE
© Imbolc 2017 by Tiffany E. Reed
SCHLOG OF FOAM
© Beltane 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
i am nothing but
a schlog of foam
floating
on the vast Ocean.
prevailing winds...
floating...
currents and tides...
floating...
bobbing up and down...
floating...
on the vast Ocean.
i see other schlogs of foam
sometimes we wave and smile
sometimes we come close
sometimes we touch
on the vast Ocean.
when the bubbles pop
we shrink
we change
we diminish
and then we disappear
into the vast Ocean.
SILVER, FRANKINCENSE, AND MYRRH
© Yule 2006 by Tiffany E. Reed
frankincense.
and myrrh.
burning now.
but no gold —
i prefer silver.
Lunar. Feminine. Dark.
the depths of the Night congealed into a metal.
sparkle in the eye of the Goddess
that is Me.
crystalline.
crysalis.
the Seed awakens.
i give Birth.
the Solstice.
SNIPPETS FROM A DREAM
© Mabon 2005 by Tiffany E. Reed
felt, ripping from a pool table... frame exposed underneath... an argument from someone who doesn't even try to understand me... music, playing in the dark... need headphones... my father... the house... rose quartz... feldspars and feldspathoids, gleaming... moonstone, labradorite... the little girl watches me, she learns, she is me... crystals, spinning, changing... crystals within crystals... it was my experiment, they liked it, i am famous... the crystals, all the pretty crystals...
SQUIDDLY McSQUID
© Mabon 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
Rhyme & inky-dinky-doo by me, you see?
STREAMS OF CONSCIOUSNESS
© Lughnassad 2007 by Tiffany E. Reed
streams of consciousness
doodles and words
flashes of lucidity
and creativity
burst forth
between the shadows
of the ordinary.
which is more real?
the steadfast?
or the exceptional?
THE STORY OF CREATION
(From a Dark Fae's Perspective)
© Imbolc 2005 by Tiffany E. Reed
In the beginning, there was the The Void, the Great Darkness that is the Womb of the Universe. There was nothing in existence except for this Void of Darkness. After countless aeons, The Void became aware of itself. As it did, a small Spark of Light appeared within the Darkness like a Seed forming within the Womb, and the Universe was now Fertile. The Spark was restless, suddenly expanded to a Shaft of Light and became the God, the Lingam within the Yoni. Yin had given Birth to Yang, the Goddess had conceived of, and given Birth to, the God.
This Shaft of Light began expanding in all Directions, forming a huge Meshwork within The Void, an event that would come to be known as the Big Bang. As the Light expanded, it broke apart into billions of Photons of Energy. These photons transformed into Electrons, Protons, Neutrons, Quarks, Neutrinos, Tachyons, Muons, and other wonderful particles, the building blocks of all Matter. From the God Particles, all Things were formed — planets, stars, animals, birds, fish, trees, flowers, and people. Since all Things are composed of God particles, every Thing is Sacred. Every Atom of your Being is composed of God particles. Every Atom of my Being is composed of God particles.
An electron-microscope will show that there is Dark Space between the bright God Particles; this Dark Space is Goddess, the Womb of the Universe, which still contains and nurtures every Thing. Without the Dark Space, the God Particles could not exist; without the Bright Particles, the Dark Space would be barren. God and Goddess are both intermingled within Us, within all Things. The Dark Space and the Bright Particles are in constant motion, orbiting, shifting, vibrating, humming — this is the Great Dance of Life, the Dance between the Goddess and the God. The Goddess and the God are dancing in us, around us, and through us. This is the true Beauty of Creation. 
SUMMER IMPRESSIONS
© Litha 1973 by Tiffany E. Reed
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The envious weeds Rising in conspiracy To choke and destroy The wild flowers growing In the green meadow
The spiteful green poison ivy
Twigs and leaves
Childrens' bright voices
The caves and hollows
The sweet-tasting berries
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The gray Spanish moss Bearding the strong, silent Oaks with beauty and Widsom that mature And ripen with age
Smooth pebbles laying
The birds, masters of
Rays of light swiftly
Hands gently touching rough
The aromatic freshness
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THE ARMAMENTS
© Ostara 2017 by Tiffany E. Reed
The winds had been particularly rough lately. Several massive thunderstorm systems had blown through the area, toppling trees, including one of the massive oaks nearby. Blew the whole thing over, exposing the roots, which now rose from the wet ground over two-and-a-half times the height of a man.
Sven hammered away, hoping to finish before the next storm hit. Already, the sky was darkening. And from his rooftop perch, he could see the storm advancing rapidly. Almost there, almost there, just a few more nails.
Sven finally reached the last step of his project, that of attaching the large piece of burlap to the frame. His ancestors were Norse stock — Vikings, dammit — strange as it was, this had to work! He crawled into the small structure of the boat he built, perched on the rooftop of his smallish, three-story home, and waited.
The storm arrived. Rain lashed all around as the winds picked up, and lightning flashed periodically. Suddenly, the boat lurched forward a few inches, then a foot, then nothing. Two minutes later, another gust, and another shuffle of a few inches, then nothing. This cycle continued for a while.
Finally, the mother-of-all-gusts hit the sail and launched Sven's boat airborne in one quick updraft. He was flying, he was really flying! He could see the wall ahead, and pulled on the ropes to adjust the sail, sending him higher to clear the structure. He so longed to see what was on the other side, that mysterious other-half of the city.
The wind calmed again, too soon, too soon, oh no! One hundred feet from the wall, Sven's vessel sank to the ground, splintering into a heap. Sven was splintered into a heap, too, but he gallantly rode his mission with determination, like his ancestors.
It was shortly after this event that armaments were added to the top of the wall.
This story is part of my contribution to "The Tales of Azza-Jono," a collaborative effort of a dozen people.
THE DRUM IS MY LOVER
© Mabon 2004 by Tiffany E. Reed
|
The Drum is my Lover He crouches to please And places his head Between both of my knees
His uprights are taut
His bass tones are deep
He's dark and he's handsome
|
His pounding ensues My soul starts to float In rhythmic ecstasy O'er the skin of a Goat
The climax we reach
The Drum is my Lover
|
THE EDGE OF A DREAM
© Mabon 2005 by Tiffany E. Reed
dreamt that I was asleep... woke up... running late... cruising along... passing bluedream... lovely neighborhood... going to a steely destination... dark grayish asphalt, light grayish fog, green mountain... killing time, smoking... nothing but gray and green... traffic backed-up ahead... gray and green everwhere... see The Edge... turning around... watch The Edge... nothing but gray and green... be careful of The Edge... shrimp on the barbie... on The Edge... tiny, but good... she cooks them so well...
THE FOG COMES
© Samhain 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
THE FORTUNE TELLER
© Beltane 2017 by Tiffany E. Reed
Shaila carefully folded the piece of paper, all four corners in. Then she turned it over, folding corners again. She unfolded it, colored some of the triangles now scored into the paper, wrote numbers in some of the other triangles, and drew shapes on others. Finally, she wrote "You are in Azza" and "You are in Jono" on alternating segments. She folded her paper Fortune Teller into its working configuration and slipped her little fingers and thumbs into the corners.
She picked a color. Blue.
She manipulated the paper device.
She picked a number. Five.
She manipulated the device again.
She picked a shape. Circle.
She opened the flap under the circle.
She read, "You are in Azza."
She looked around, and found herself in the midst of a strange city, with her lane and cottage nowhere to be seen. People were milling about, on their way to market, but no one noticed Shaila. Her heart skipped a beat as she turned back to her toy.
She picked a color. Purple.
She manipulated the paper device.
She picked a number. Seven.
She manipulated the device again.
She picked a shape. Trapezoid.
She opened the flap under the trapezoid.
She read, "You are in Jono."
And there she was, once again sitting in the grass beside the lane that went past her cottage. Did it really happen, or was she dreaming? She folded the paper toy flat and tucked it into the pocket of her pinnafore, promising herself to never speak of it to her parents.
This story is part of my contribution to "The Tales of Azza-Jono," a collaborative effort of a dozen people.
THE GIRL WITH NO NAME
© by Tiffany E. Reed
The girl with no name was bumped and pushed down the hallway by the throng of other children. She was like a fragile leaf, moved more by their motions than by motion of her own. There were moments when it was difficult to maintain her balance or keep hold of the stack of books in her arms. A small trickle of children came down the hallway on the other side, going the other direction.
There were other girls, much like her, but with pretty faces. Many of their faces wore smiles, a few sad ones emerged here-and-there, and some wore emotionless expressions.
There were boys, too, in the stream of faces. A few of them were laughing as they talked to each other in loud tones, some had tough-guy "don't mess with me" looks, and a few had emotionless expressions like some of the girls wore.
All of the children seemed to have names, except for the one girl that was being swept along. She wished she had a name, too. "One day," she hoped, "maybe I will have a name and then others can talk to me."
As she watched the other children flow past her, she could not help but notice that none turned to look her way. She felt so alone. Actually, the other children could not see her at all. Besides having no name, she had no face, either.
the little i
© Beltane 1975 by Tiffany E. Reed
i was in the desert
until i found a road.
i was on the road
until i found the trail.
i was on the trail
until i found a path.
i was on the path
until i found myself —
upon a ledge.
and a chasm yawns
before me.
i am torn between
"what is" and
"what would be" if
i take one...
small...
step.
THE PINE
© Imbolc 1973 by Tiffany E. Reed
I stand, I stand I stand.
I am a tree.
I am a pine.
I, tall and straight, symbolize
Authority, strength, and virtue.
I wave my green boughs
As I keep vigil over the silent earth,
The noisy earth, the dusty earth.
I am reaching up for the sun
Seeking thoughts good and won
Trying so hard to make myself One.
I stand, I stand, I stand.
THERE SHALL BE DANCING
© Litha 2015 by Tiffany E. Reed
Summer Solstice.
Scientifically, it is the day when the sun reaches its northernmost point on the earth, the Tropic of Cancer. The "sol" part of the word refers to the sun, and "stice" means "standing," because the sun briefly appears to "stands still," changing from a northward journey to a southward direction again. Of course, it is the Earth doing the moving that causes this phenomenon, not the sun, but we humans often tend to describe things from our limited perspective.
Midsummer's Day.
Traditionally, it is the day when the ancient peoples celebrated the midpoint of the "hot" season on the calendar. It marked the time when many herbs, beneficial to healing as well as cooking, came into their prime and romps were made through the woods and fields to collect them. It marked the time when wild berries and fresh vegetables were plentiful. It marked the time when the fae (known in various cultures as sidhe, faeries, or "little people") most prominently flitted about, mostly by night, weaving their magic and entrapping the unwary human with their power and wonder.
If you believe in angels, then don't laugh at the notion of faeries, for they are likely cousins, cut of the same cloth.
If you don't believe in angels, then surely you will at least concede the fey quality that some of us humans have — those of us who dance to the beat of our own drummers... those of us who celebrate the wild, untamed aspects of ourselves... those of us who walk between worlds... those of us who seem ancient and young, all at once... those of us who immerse ourselves into Life with reckless abandon... those of us humans who have those fey qualities can be your faeries.
And if you look closely, and at the right time, we faeries will be drumming and dancing this weekend under that beautiful, wild, untamed Mother Moon.
THE RIVER
© Beltane 2007 by Tiffany E. Reed
thousands of trickles
flow together
to form
streams
and rivers
thousands of trickles
flowing together
but still different
so, what is a river?
thousands of variables
thousands of thoughts
thousands of feelings...
don't get
washed away
THE SEPIA NIGHT
© Imbolc 2015 by Tiffany E. Reed
THE VOID
© Imbolc 2017 by Tiffany E. Reed
THUNDERSTORMS
© Litha 2004 by Tiffany E. Reed
Thunderstorms...
Dark clouds to lull us into a meditative state...
Wind to blow away the cobwebs in our hearts...
Rain to wash away the pain, frustration, and hurt...
Lightning to recharge and energize our Being...
Thunder to synchronize us again with Nature...
Thunderstorms...
Ritual of the Mother Earth
Mirrored in our Spirits
TREAD LIGHTLY
© Samhain 2002 by Tiffany E. Reed
Tread lightly
Tread lightly on the Earth, your Mother
Feel your feet padding softly
as you walk on the soil, Her flesh
Feel Her bones under foot
as you walk over roots and rocks
Feel the curve of Her breasts
as you walk uphill and down
Feel the damp softness of Her Yoni
as you walk through caves
Feel Her hair blowing around you
as you walk the winds
Tread lightly
Tread lightly on the Earth, your Mother
WHAT THEY NEED
© Imbolc 2017 by Tiffany E. Reed
Runculus knocked on the door. He hardly waited for the reply before throwing the portal open and saying, "It's time." He glanced, nervously, at the glowing sphere in the old woman's hands. She nodded, and Runculus closed the door as quickly as he had opened it.
Kizza carefully placed the heavy sphere into a black square of cloth and folded the corners to cover it. She placed it into a leather bag with long stips of sinew attached to it and slung it cross-body around her. Her clothing was black, her hair was black, and only her face and hands were visible as she went through the door and melded with the night.
The old woman easily slipped down the road, unnoticed, because very few people had the nerve to live in this portion of the countryside outside the city. Even once she arrived in the city, no one noticed her because she was skilled, that way, and in plenty of other ways, too.
She arrived at the river just as the moon was clearing the eastern horizon. She nodded towards the orb and mumbled a few words as she walked across the stone bridge. As she reached the other side and thought about the Wall that would occupy this space someday, she heard a wolf howl in the distance behind her.
After a good bit of walking, she finally reached her destination and ducked down a narrow alleyway that ran between two tall buildings. Two-thirds of the way down the alley, she slowed and carefully began to examine the stones in the building on her left. She finally spied what she was looking for and squatted down.
Only a careful eye could notice that one stone was different from the others, just slightly, and easily pulled out from the wall with relatively little trouble. Kizza reached into her leather bag and retrieved the glowing sphere, still wrapped in black cloth. She carefully placed it into the hollow behind, the slid the stone back into place. She patted the stone with her hand, then quietly affirmed, "Yes, they will need this some day."
As clandestinely as she came, Kizza melded into the darkness again. A bat shrieked, overhead.
This story is part of my contribution to "The Tales of Azza-Jono," a collaborative effort of a dozen people.
WHEN THE MOON WAS FULL
© Mabon 2016 by Tiffany E. Reed
WOMAN'S BLOOD
© Yule 2002 by Tiffany E. Reed
Everyone speaks of
Woman's Blood,
Its sacredness.
Moontime comes,
We bleed,
That blood signals Life.
But what of
Woman's Blood,
Shed with needle,
Mending family's clothes.
We prick a finger,
We bleed,
That blood signals Life.
And what of
Woman's Blood,
Shed with knife,
Perparing family's food.
We knick a finger,
We bleed,
That blood signals Life.
And what of
Woman's Blood,
Shed with toil.
We housekeep, We comfort,
We smile, We listen.
We touch a heart,
We bleed love,
That love signals Life.
[Reserved]
© by Tiffany E. Reed
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