Goddess

Imbolc 2009 - Untitled Poem For Brighid

Brighid, Exalted One,
Mother Three,
Fiery arrow,
Reborn of of the Old One
Bringer of new life
Builder of fortunes
Inspiration of divine word and song.


Liminal one,
Born in between,
Forever upon the threshold of death and birth
Bringer of the flame
of creativity
of rebirth
of craft,


I offer myself.


To the Mother
Of all things
You who nurture
Who offer healing
To all beings
You who offer blessing and protection
On my home and hearth
I am your beloved son.


To the Smith
Forge of the new
Through metal, fire, air, water
Your gifts shape this world
Through your craft
You give to me
Abundance beyond measure.
I am the builder of your fortunes.


To the Matron of Bards
You who inspire
Divine muse
Whose voice rises up through me
Weaver of words
Cauldron of lore
Voice of the three enchantments
Joy, Sleep and Sadness,
I am forever the singer of your songs.

In the service of the Queen

One doesn’t suddenly wake up one day and ‘decide’ to become a Shaman. The journey of the poet-seer, the wandering mystic, or the healer is a continuum which ultimately has no beginning or end, but is wholly sourced from the inner and outer world, the sacred and the profane, the spiritual and the sensual.

Even so, the ‘awakening’ of the Shaman, the Awakening of the Warrior Sage is a singular experience. As my spiritual journey has deepened, dramatically, over the past three years, I have had several such awakenings - moments of pristine clarity of the Truth of my existence, my purpose, and the omnipresence of Love in its many forms and expressions on this plane and others.

However, none of these awakenings have been so profoundly humbling as the journey I took recently with the Mother of all plant teachers: Ayahuasca. What follows, below, is an account of my initiation, my journey with the Great Mother.

What It Means To Be Wet

For years now I’ve stood
along the edge of this river.
The shallow water shifting over
pebbles and sand, playing
games with driftwood and fallen leaves.


Watching, wading,
here I’ve learned part of Her story.


But sometimes - when no one is looking -
I’ll lay down
and pretend that
this
is what it means to be wet.


As I lay here, submerged,
I hear Her whisper from
further out.
Her long, cold fingers invite me
to deeper waters,
yet I still hold
to roots and branches
along the shoreline.


I have sometimes believed it to be enough -
this hesitant immersion -
though, in truth, I cannot call it
surrender.
Her wells run deeper
than my willingness in wading
has ever shown.


Today, instead of clinging to the rocks,
I’m letting go.
Look for me in the ocean -
I’ll be learning to swim.


West Latta - 2009