Sunday, July 24, 2016



I've stood at the crossroads
for a thousand years, triple faced, staring
down the choice of roads; a goddess, a witch,
one third a woman, till the times revolved
and made me a ghost.

The curse of a god's eye rests upon me
and the curse of birth sits upon thee.
What once was rare now is common;
what once was common has gone
beyond recall, the library of the ocean

emptied scroll by scroll, the old light lost
and sweetness of air. 
I split the directions to give my visions,
six eyes to see forward but none to look back.
What once was rare now is common

the blasphemy of waste, the apostasy of wealth:
the constants which confer the cruelty of power--
and at the last turning, the helplessness of love
consumed in cold fire--
what once was common is only a tale. 

But the dead past behind me I cannot see
and so, poor mortals, I give you witchery.

~July 2016

posted for     real toads

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Iamge: Triple Hecate, 1795, by William Blake  public domain via wikimedia commons


  1. What a brilliant, wonderful, lovely and sad poem! And the Robert Johnson piece is a bonus! Thank you.

  2. The ominous tone is perfect, the narrative voice is burdened with knowledge, her vision bleak. She seems trapped at the crossroads, out of time, in a place where magic is in short supply.

  3. Hekate is quite right. I think we'll need a powerful thinking and feeling spell if we are to survive the horror that is everyday life. I hope everyone--or at least enough of us--has the ingredients in hand (or in brain).

  4. Though cloaked in mythology, this is a perfect depiction of our national situation right now, imo. Your sight is clear and sharp, very sharp, dear BFF.

  5. Hey Joy--my internet is not very good right now so can't hear the Robert Johnson, but think I have heard it (and it's beautiful.) This is a very complex poem, and vision, it seemed to me, the eyes all looking forward and the Hecate at the crossroads giving up these other vital parts of her nature; although they are certainly overlapping and closely entwined roles. I confess to being a little distracted by the comments so have a harder time reading the poem-- For me the most compelling lines (and they are very compelling) deal with what was rare now being common and the description of the scrolls of the ocean--this is all very vivid and powerful and sad. Thanks. k.

  6. Your poem is beautiful, sad and weaves mythology with truth. My fave lines:
    "the library of the ocean
    emptied scroll by scroll, the old light lost
    and sweetness of air."
    Thanks so much for sharing.

  7. I was sure hoping you'd join this fray -- the divine totem perhaps, turned from the 2011 trope you posted last, become the ghost of the three as the world emptied out (scroll by scoll in "the library of the sea," hell yes). "What was rare now is common" an enantiodromia or anthema, reversed or turned over, so much that seeing forward is just an evasion from speaking with "the dead past." Does the vatic function become a toy or app or video game when its "common" realities become too rare? The deal with the devil at the crossroads here become an escape into the snake oil of futurity, the "apostasy of wealth." The final lines are a conundrum I can't see into -- perhaps that's why there's only witchery, Hekate's whole ground become a spooky whistle. I'm just guessing, the weave here is dark--a fine tesselation of myth and meaning and their ghosts.

    1. Thanks B--and thanks for the new word (enantiodromia) which really is the thrust behind the piece, that the present has altered the very meaning of the past and every value it prized with its pay per view insanity--the last lines are Hekate's legacy, her gift--to see in another way, to find the natural again through the supernatural--spirit or dream or delving psyche.

  8. Such a powerful piece. I like its brooding tone. There's a warning in there, as well as an exhortation to take on the power to change things for oneself.


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats