Invocando a los Muertos
Model; Mark Azito
What is Magic
.The clearest and most concise understanding of what magic is from a modern perspective would be hard to find. In fact most of what Alan Moore has stated in the short video i would take as a Magical Manifesto and encourage all artists to engage consciously in their creations
They are gasping for air retching their last breath
They had gathered to be with us to bring wisdom
Yet you took their beautiful necks and strangled them
Looked into their loving eyes and poisoned them
With twisting hands you stole the golden promise
Choked life from their broken hearts and beaten bodies
I thought you were different not one of them not like all the others
But you became far worse than the innocence killers
More murderous than the greedy simpletons of yesterday
You dressed as a queen in a gown of white feathers
Spoke tongues of angels and whispered togetherness
Forever was the promise you spoke so delicately
They had gathered around us under the willow weeping
Two young girls smiled sweetly as you held me
A naked boy stood as silent as a statue before us
Naivete perfumed the floral setting of our dreams
We were beyond space entwined within time
Together finally like two birds flying into eternity
Your beautiful hand reached out to beckon them closer
As the feathered flock encircled us like priests and priestess
You smiled and they came nearer their fear falling behind them
Come closer come into me i will never hurt you i promise
They believed you in that moment they trusted us
Then you took their necks and shook them violently
One by one they lay jerking and shaking before me
Their divine bodies in spasms like snakes burning
The young cygnets dark eyes pleading with me
Why did you do this why would she lie to us
I turned to you in disbelief but you had disappeared
And all that was left was green grass soaked in black tears
Wordz by ‘ Y ‘ MagickalChild
A ‘MagickalChild’ is birthed whenever ‘The Other’ is communed with through the combined
soul of creativity and intention.
The Powerhouse of Potential
'If the Gods and Spirits are anything at all they are creative potential. Offering vision and power to those with the integrity to wield it, but make no mistake it is our truth that create's from this powerhouse and it is our lies and games that destroy it !
We came from heaven, falling from the sky
Like angels tumbling through the night
The seraphim’s scream their wrenching cry
Forgetfulness now claiming its delight
Oh how we wandered shaken and forlorn
Our senses shattered from what was done
The golden mantle now tattered and torn
Our withered wings singed from the sun
And how we yearned to sing the songs
That sung the celestial realms awake
Yet silence gripped our tethered tongues
Like dying swans on poisoned lakes
What of prayer and gods covenant to man
When so much suffering upon the earth
Our arms spread wide to touch the land
Our hearts entwined to her rebirth
This pain was caused by us after the fall
The gaping wound not well disguised
As we wait for harp songs budding dawn
The woe within her darkened eyes
And now we know the plight of every man
Of how it feels when praying to the wind
It’s only God that knows and understands
How angels cry for every hand that’s sinned
For every breath of life and love we take
An angel watches dreaming of the day
When we would raise our eyes and hearts again
And kneel on bended knee to pray
We would never want to see your likes again
So far fallen from the firmament
Your tears of love that washed our guilt away
Returned at last to those that were heaven sent
Fallen Angel: Jolinde Nijland
Photographer: Carlos diaz
'The series of images and poetry entitled 'MagickalChild' is an exploration into revealing the essence of the people involved through imagery / art / poetry, creating an invocation through Magickal intention to birth an aspect of themselves into the world'
Click on 'MagickalChild' link on blog to see more
'What if i told you i had a dream and in that dream i found myself dreaming and in that dream i found myself dreaming and in that dream i found myself dreaming.
Until finally i awoke only to find myself dreaming !'
Ode to Herne
Oh, to dream of Herne and the pleasures there in,
Lies a selkies dream of oak trees daubed in golden mistletoe.
Tales tell of sweet honey nectar,
Drawn from parasitic roots leaves and berries.
Mabon be the child,
That on the day of its kindling,
Be bathed thrice in the sacred pools of Annwn.
Harpies call to those such as these,
That ponder plant life and poetic in their searching,
Seek the gift of the Golden tongue.
Taliesin’s tempered telling, told of tales,
Twinkling in twilights tasting.
Amergin quelled with rosemary rhymes,
Of gifts to be taken,
With those who dare to dawdle down dingily dells,
Of dew drops dripping from the lips of the Queen of Fay.
You my Queen of all hearts seeking,
Who’s bed of pettaled pou porri pours pleasures on my thick skin.
You the Queen of summers game ,
Wild huntress of the morning.
Rise up from your Fairie fort and shower me in blessings.
Wide eyed wandering wonderers of willow trees winding their spindling vines,
Through nooks and crannies of old wives tales telling.
Deep into this sodden earth and boulders of basilled breads burnt backing,
Betrothing of their making.
Worms of wooded wild wilderness,
Intent on investigating.
Baal and Bacchus,Dionysius dreaming,
Arianrod, Hecate ,Demeter’s distant calling.
Lead us through this Devic dance onwards towards your dwelling
And there beside the Queen of Fay,
My bed lies for the making.