Waldeinsamkeit – A Poem

Waldeinsamkeit – A Poem

Let me fall down into leaves and soil, the colour of scarlet, deep into the
eternal oak of earth, the hollow, the fill of my decadence.

Let me lay my head to rest on your large limbs, let my feet become your roots,
weaving, engulfing. Let my hands find your topsoil, the dig deep of my desire.

Let my feet become your roots, limbs for branches, an aching, arching trunk.
My back bends and gnarls and snatches light from sleepy, passing clouds.

I slumber. Not asleep, dream-awake. And you, my lover, my forest, a precious
blackness I enter to decorticate.

Walk by, and find the girl lying on the ground, the forest floor and autumnal
leaves her precious grave. Peonies, her pillow. Darkness, her reprieve.

Belinda

March 25, 2020

ABOUT THIS POEM:

With everything that’s happening right now in the world with COVID-19, I yearn for the Black Forest … But maybe that’s what this is all about? Social isolation is giving Mother Earth a break?

Facebook Twitter Google+ Pinterest
Circles
Get your free Chakra Kit and Belinda's Spiritual Support to create a life of magic.

Like this?
Subscribe
For more!

Get your free Chakra Kit
Weekly White Light
Healings and tips to
Create a life of magic.

Facebook Image
Bottom triangle

Latest poems

The sky is ashen pink from the bushfires south, lightning strikes, thunder growls, the fruit-bats fly out. I think of the preacher’s mouth, telling us in the End Times the…

Belinda Davidson

We will all make our way down that corridor into white light where time stands still, death our guide. If you harbour any doubt your body won’t fall to ash—dispel it. Your mortal body will surely turn and pale.

They say eventually we’re all drawn back to the place of our birth. We must follow the bloodline. It leads to the gold centre of the heart.

Belinda Davidson, Modern Mystic

Incarnation, when your soul takes flight, high over the cosmic sky, blue, black, sometimes indigo, the heavens hold you until you enter the womb.

Belinda Davidson, Modern Mystic

If there were but a thing called time, I’d stretch it out like a long rope; I’d thread it through all my past lives, watch all my human drama on display, me, me, in many different forms.

Belinda Davidson, Modern Mystic

I lie in bed, unwell, unable to move my body or head. Paralysed, dependent, like a newborn, or the very old. My husband hovers. I feel sorry for him; a wife that’s become a sack of wheat.

More latest poems

How I came to suffering blindly, choking, lungs filled with dirt—red hair, red dress, and shoes, skin the colour of thick cream, she stamps her tiny feet up on the mound that will be my grave, and the earth shudders.


What if I told you you didn’t truly love me, but her. The one who visits when you sleep, wrapping you in her blue arms, telling you she is the anima; the soulstar lover—the one whose light mirrors yours without reflection.


Love—the centrepiece, the missing piece of our life puzzle; bright, beautiful star, in pieces …


Belinda Davidson, Modern Mystic

If fire is my destiny, and we’re to dance for life, how do I grasp the passion end of the straw, and leave pain hanging?


In the tradition of women in my heritage, I did all I could to hide—Red hair dyed black, green eyes dulled, mouth pursed, cheeks pinched, balled fists turning to bruise.


Stretch your face towards the wind, and feel it making love to your face, lips, cheeks, chin—


Circle images

Elevate your life  with these resources!