Category: Spiritive

come back, come back

On By ©️K.T. 2025In agraria, aviary, birds, bucolia, crone chronicles, dirt road chronicles, Essay, goodbye city life, hummingbird, Kahlo, Lament, ornithology, poemo, ruralia, Spiritive, Spirrative, wildlifeLeave a comment
hummingbirds where have you gone?
ADDENDUM: the hummingbirds did come back, and as of September 8, 2024 10:00 AM EDT, they are still here.

mid-late april, optimistic
early may, expectant
mid may, consternation

meticulously,
i sanitize the vessels,
bases and perches
soaking and fastidiously brushing the red and yellow flower parts to clean them of all gunk and lodged debris
i employ two, simple, pinched-waist, glass hummingbird feeders //
there are more beautiful, ornamental, more expensive or cheaper feeders available,
but this design functions best/ i am a seven year veteran of hummingbird joy.

age-old recipe for hummingbird feeder nectar:

1 part pure cane sugar.

PURE. CANE. SUGAR.

to

4 parts water.

the end.

not beet sugar, not organic sugar,
nor turbinado, nor raw, never brown sugar

this so very important – other sugars are too susceptible to mold, to bacteria, or contain too much iron in the form of molasses.

pure, white, refined and granulated cane sugar, chemically and nutritionally, most closely approximates natural flower nectar

never ever, use store-bought nectar mix* or pre-mix*;
*and when in a store that sells that toxic shit, bury the packets or hide the bottles behind other merchandise on the shelf — just as when i spot Clinton, Kissinger, Amy Schumer, Dubya, or Sheryl Sandberg non-fiction fictions on the shelf at bookstores or big box stores — i flip that tripe backwards and upside down
so, again:

age-old recipe for hummingbird feeder nectar:

1 part cane sugar

to

4 parts fresh water,

i use pristine well water, here: i am so very fortunate: no chlorine, no fluoride just elements and minerals, no water treatment except for a sediment filter

these two simple ingredients vigorously shaken together, not stirred/
just like my homemade margarita with ice
in the same one-quart glass mason jar

i check the feeders
throughout the day
i obsess, i pray, in my own way

first incantation songs
then lamentation songs

a carpenter bee tricks my ear while i am on my knees digging in the garden

was that her? is she back? are they back?

no, that wasn’t;
no, they’re not.

i google:

“do hummingbirds return to the same summer nesting and feeding grounds each year?”
&
“how long do hummingbirds live?

Continue reading “come back, come back” →

the mourning cloak

On By ©️K.T. 2025In butterfiles, Crone, Crone Consciousness, Death, Funerary, grief, Lament, Lamentations, liminal, liminality, mourning, Poem, poet, poetry, spirit, Spiritive, spirits, thresholdLeave a comment

near invisible,

imagine silk organza, chameleoned

peach-pink colored, when i Am naked,

the color of water as i bathe.

sky blue, golden, sherbet, grayed or midnight black,

when i Am outside

ever-shifting with the time of day and weather,

once, even green,

as i knelt down in the cold grass

while diaphanous to all the unobservant

i Am dressed in this cloak of mourning

and the hem is lined with lead

Continue reading “the mourning cloak” →

3rd sunday of lent

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Gnosis, Gnostic, Spiritive, Spirrative, transformationLeave a comment

We don’t decide to become Gnostics, but we discover that’s what we were all along. We don’t adhere to beliefs or views imposed from the outside, but our worldview comes from our inner experience. Sometimes that experience comes with the sound of cannons. Most of the time it happens quietly and gently but nevertheless is life altering, even though most external observers won’t notice the difference. We are un-made and remade from the inside out rather than from the outside in.

~ Tau +Rosamonde Ikshvàku Miller+,
Bishop, Ecclesia Gnostica Mysteriorum, 2013

holy ghost: a statement

On By ©️K.T. 2025In art, exposition, memo, Narrative, poemo, Spiritive, Spirrative, velveteenLeave a comment

“The most important thing for everyone in Gringolandia is to have ambition and become ‘somebody,’ and frankly, I don’t have the least ambition to become anybody.”

Frida Kahlo

in the end, we are all just holy ghosts,

ghosts who sometimes want to feel, or be seen, or be felt by others who are also seeking, whether they know it or not — whether they become known forever after or become, forever unknown — to us.

if anyone were to speculate — or attempt to draw definitions or executive summaries about me — as one particular, ambitionless, ghostly being 






as a mother, poet, crone and Earthling — about my collection of words, opinions, ideas, poems, photos, ephemera, art, beliefs or altars — now, or when i’m dead and gone,





— in the end, and at the beginning,
this is and was, always a place for me to fundamentally 
better understand





my Self — for my self & by my self.





for me,





to try to understand my relationship to Others, to the World, to the Earth;





and also,





for me,





to try to understand my relationship to my creativity – the conception, process and act of creating 





and finally,





to try to understand this strange existence, in and of itself.










no one else has ever been essential to experience, interact with, interpret, interrogate or validate any of it — of mine, ever — yet, they are welcomed to do so — if they happen upon me





yet, my nearest and dearests don’t even know this collection exists




 Continue reading “holy ghost: a statement” →
			
					

	




			
				


			
				


			

		

			
Crown

						

				On  By ©️K.T. 2025In Aesthetics, Assay, Beauty, Essay, Eve, Exegesis, Exxay, Feminine, Gnosis, Gnostic, Her, Knowledge, Narrative, Ode, Poem, poeme, poetry, Rebirth, She's, Shes, Spiritive, Spirrative, UncategorizedLeave a comment			

					


		

			
my hair holds memory,

i know this because


i cut my own hair today








20151002_1838021772227513.jpg
her, at ten.








as i held the ends


in my hands


i said


 


did you touch the Merced with me and my boy?


i said,


do you remember my father?


and my other precious loss?


i said,


do you remember the first dog?


i said,


were you here when


i still loved


and was loved?


i said,


you were there when my mother was so near death’s door


i said,


and when i found and lost,


and lost and found, my Self again?


smiles

sighs

cries

laughs

rage

wail

and

song


i still have possessions from all those times


and places


but no skin,


my skin long shed, my bone resorbed


and renewed over and over


but my long hair is still me from many years ago


that is why hair is so precious,


i thought,


this is the genesis


of what i have always


mistook as phobia


but no,


i know today


that


physical memory is held particularly, and only, in my hair


more than Samsonian


or vanity


or femininity


my long hair


is


my body

my health

my energy

my sensation

my emotion

my years

my identity

my essence


thank you


for growing


for remembering


for showing


for staying


for flowing


for tangling


for blowing


for graying


for glowing


for floating


for knowing


with me


all these years


 


no more cuts

without ceremony


and

i promise

i will never agree to lose you


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Open

						

				On  By ©️K.T. 2025In Adam and Eve, baptism, baptize, Death, Eve, Exegesis, Feminine, Femmes, Gnosis, Her, Mother, Narrative, Poem, poeme, poetry, Rebirth, Sacred Feminine, Shes, Spiritive, spirits, Spirrative, Uncategorized, water, WomenfolkLeave a comment			

					


		

			


I walk bare


out in the open


the Sun, Moon, Rain, Wind, Clouds, Sky and Stars

kiss me at all hours


did you see me open up

this Autumn?


after a Summer spent wailing,

wet, yet fruitless 

after a Spring spent wading into lies instead of soft blossoms and new grass

Winter approaches, maybe the frost will kill this disease,

for good


I bathe


nearly naked in sunshine, cold rainstorms, in wetland pools and moonlight




unapologetically


|out in the open|


unabashedly


baptising

my face,

hair,

and eyes,

my breasts

vulva

and legs,

my lips,

throat,

spine,

and my wild heart


ceremonially, first

with wine, like Magdalene, anointing and anointed,

in the name of the Mother, Sun and holy ghosts


|a cabernet henna|


then, with rainwater from the willow’s edge, like Ophelia,

lying in the woodland and meadow, flooded

to cleanse or drown [to live, or not to live]

in the name of the Moon


|I ponder the stone cistern laden with glacial deposits and ruminant bones|


the woodland is abundant with new mushroom, new overnight growth


the hint of ancient circles supplants my judgment with instinct

and overrides decorum with new delights


|and old delights, revisited |


an aged grapevine is rooted deep, climbing, trailing, snaking

hidden in plain sight, everywhere

and I’ve intuited It as Ol’ Scratch,

I take a hatchet to quell Its influence, here


You,

Your windows are not true eyes

Your lamps are not enlightenment


So, bless the dark


of the night


of the country night sky


And the Moonset


of my moon


it’s been decades,

but

this place wants to birth or impregnate me,


and I want that too

i want it to




|I come here and open up|




 


 


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Famêlée

						

				On  By ©️K.T. 2025In C.G. Jung, Carl Jung, Exegesis, Gnosis, Jung, Jungian, Knowledge, Life and Death, Mother, Ode, Rebirth, Reincarnation, Samsara, Spiritive, Transistion, Word, WordsLeave a comment			

					


		

			
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This feels like an arrow

Made from a tree

That rose from

An acorn

That I gathered and stored

In another life


Scribed with a message continually

piercing my heart


I wasn’t only wounded though,

I was woke

into a clarity

that I was already sighting in my dreams,

writing with words

mortal and eternal


You once said, proclaimed or whispered

Every single thing

that I ever believed

My own truths embarrassed in the shadow of your confidence

My inner voice silenced in your animated persuasion

Believing you so completely – for the better of my years

Becoming like and unlike you because of it,

but not be-coming me,

Un-be-coming me every day


I ain’t even mad

You don’t know this – still,

You don’t want

to hear,

or listen;


Our time is running out

Even this admission

Is sure to haunt me one day,

and guilts me today


But I can’t call you confidant or crone

If you refuse to learn,

to evolve,

From this one archetype


The wide and long view

seems to escape you

You live in the moment in the least way, the worst way

And I don’t worship here or there, any more

The faith in your godliness is gone,

It is unfamiliar

For me to pity you

You, deaf and tone deaf


You had all the answers

In the morning shallows, perhaps

But evaporation revealed even those

Were anchor-less, yet stationary

An algae

Mucking up the colorless perfection of sunlit water


But in the deep, or dark, or quiet pools, you were always so lost

And in the ocean, at night

You drown even in its calm

You have ridden civil swells and storms,

I’ll give you that

But have you ever communed with waves

Allowing them to be part of you

Swallowing and absorbing the mystery

Becoming the colorless perfection of dark water


You seem to stay parched

Your belly’s hollow from impious fasting and pious thirst

You do know that’s where your heart sits?


But let’s agree to come around again, friend

We’ll swap places and next time

I’ll be the mother,

and the son,

and the husband,

and the elder,

and the babe,

and the foreign one,

I’ll become The Other One

because,

I want the chance to know

You