(This poem I will put to music – I am feeling an irish-haunting and playful sound of old..) Listen to the poem, follow along with the lyrics below. ❤
They used to call that old white lightnin “moonshine” in these hills
How many lips have uttered those words; family ties it breaks and kills
Strawberry, apple pie or dark cherry kinds
But I found a new flavor my fingers, my heart longed to find
Paid heed to the unanswered questions I spent too much time tryin to answer
Somewhere down the line I met a Spirit, and she bade me to release her
She gave me the keys to an old wooden shed
Her hair was long and dark, she was only 3 and her granddad’s hair was red
She came from the deep, A dark despair trail of loneliness
She rose up from the ashes and held me through the hunger and distress
In that shed, she showed me the silver, copper and gold
she Showed me the jewels inside me, ones I thought I couldn’t hold
She said the way it works is like this,
“You fill it up here and it makes a little hiss,
What you put in it is who you’ve been
What comes out that Mystery Still is your destiny, my friend”
The Mystery Still, a belly full of unknown
Stands in that shed just waiting to be blown
Up inside, all the ingredients are there
“You just gotta believe” she said, “in yourself, if you dare”
I’ll show you the way cause you couldn’t even see
No matter how hard you tried, that Spirit… What will be will be
“and that’s the magic” she said to me
“Of sacred mysteries that come from pain and grief”
To know her name, down this path you must go
Of surrender and sorrow and even joy you can know
This still don’t make moonshine, but the moon glows here still
Upon deep waters, wet and a tear-stained two dollar bill
The birds are all calling and cannot be boxed in
Your dreams are free and aloof, just like the wind
Ask for them to come and to you they will find
Their way through the core, the ground, from the mines
The caves you dug a long time ago
Were dug by the same shovel that now makes you glow
This girl, she smiled, as I sat down in awe
Bowed my head in silence, in reverence; I had no flaws
Suddenly I was Sacred, and when I drank from that still
realized I’d learned the hard way, then she screamed, her voice hard and shrill
“your mantle, your fireside, your magic, I live inside.
You must often stoke the fire and feed me” she cried
“You never are done, don’t think you’ve made it
Each day, remember to keep the bright flame lit
Don’t let it go out, else you’ll have to start over
An axe to this still… and your spirit sinks lower”
Out of reach, out of time, out of luck, out of rhymes
Just put back on your skates and roll outside all the lines
You’re still is your own,
Every seed you have sewn
Waits and yearns for your return
Build another fire to burn
If you still don’t know what this still is about
Think of a soul, longing to get out
As in distill, intoxicate your beautiful self
Drink the mystery of what is, take it down off the shelf
You open a portal and let Spirit in
Release your control over who it is you’ve been
That little girl who showed me the way
She’s the fire-starter, pyromaniac at play
She can blow up some shit up because she knows no better
But refined… She has genius and shakes a tail feather
The horizon cannot hold her, this child of God and Moore
She put in the time and said Grace for her store
This Mystery Still she’s found out how to use
Is a vertical prayer, open to gnosis and truth
I’m learning to use it, growing day by day
Accepting my feelings, no judgment, in a loving and kind way
As she handed me the keys and I return to make my shine
She lies back, relaxes and daydreams all the time
I long to filter out what I’ve been told versus what I know
My innermost yearnings, the balance, the flow
The gut, the tingles, the pangs and blood, it is still warm
All tell me the truth, like a pouring down storm
It’s like talking to God, From a sacred, me – shaped telephone booth
The Mystery Still takes me, shapes me, and provides me with truth
So at this point, I have begun to realize that the little girl within me can be both nourishing and destructive. To channel the experience of her into a form that serves Creation – that is my purpose. I have to remember each day and since I just started, it feels like I am just entering Oz. I can see if from afar, yet I must enter through the field of poppies, and be mindful not to fall asleep or let my light be buried underneath the tall flowers of distraction. This process I must tap into constantly, for I have chosen it to sustain me.
Cliffhanger series…. more to come.
anita lorraine moore 