Weird One

Catch-Wyrds!

Fall backwards,

catch My falling star!

Play a game of catch; juggle

with Me in poetry.

(Yes, there’s a catch

somewhere in there, the jugular:

fly in the ointment,

sob in the song.)

A cache is hidden, a ‘catch’ a prize,

watershed catchment for the flow of life.

A prize must be prized out, to gain surprise.

What jewel more rare than to be wise?

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I spring: bud, bloom.

I fruit full, blessing all.

I fall, wane, daring, bare.

Becoming Crone, I come into My own.

I reweave threads that have been broken,

re-spell wyrds misspoken,

weave spells, break shells, explore hells.

I make all well again,

from My well-spring of well-being.

I embody

the living Void, the creative tomb,

within the vast black chaos

of My womb.

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018