anitalorrainemoore

Musician devoted to Justice, Creativity, and Courage


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Alone in my thoughts without you

Alone in my thoughts

without you

The river rose above its banks

as the rain in the night passed by

prints from night animals

and driftwood

still fresh where they lie

I remembered Your enchanting smile

and mountainous heart

distant

memories to me now

The black-capped chickadee and cardinal

as captivating to me

as fire to a cold wanderer

My heart warms with the thought of you

And I move on

Like you did

Like the still raging river


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TuesDay News-day, special edition. Invisible Winds: Poem for greiving the unknown losses of the times and praying for barometers

Some thing is hitting me hard. I can’t even see it. 1000 lightning strikes in my fingertips; 1000 floods in my heart.

Something has been buried, but I never got to go to the funeral. 1000 memories stuffed in synapses in my mind. 1000 miles I would have walked if I’d known I’d get to say goodbye.

Something inside is throbbing, not just the daily aches and pains, remorse and regret, creeping feelings. Thousands of them, swimming, then nothing’s left.

Something needs to be felt, not figured out. 1000 changes, 1000 wind chimes to signal when it changes direction.

Feeling the need to retreat and unplug. Craving more disconnect? Doesn’t seem real.
Praying for my grandparents’ upcoming ordeal, MM is having surgery. She fell and broke her wrist and PP is struggling to be present in his own hard-of-hearing world. I pray for our loved ones who are hurting.
Better days when we could play outside, our dear friend is experiencing cancer and I pray for him and his dear partner.
Up close and questioning…
Covid? Well yeah, it is.


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A grim fairytale of the Tower, late night poetry

Wrote a poem list night from a bad dream, inspired by the tower card. It’s kind of a magical, dark fairytale about trauma responses, in our most vulnerable relationships.

They’ll say she’s crazy,
For predicting the truth
That they all, deep down inside
Have the power to drop the other shoe

A whispers trace away
Only unknowns save the day
One can never tell
What moment it was
When she cast her own spell

It is madness
Born of a caged child’s tears
A feared tower built so high
She throws herself from it
Every few years

Each time it gets steeper
The price ever taller
The depth of this child’s fears
The moat grows deeper

What is this curse
of cunning she prays
She was only a girl,
had no choice but to stay

As one man betrayed
Mother looked away
As one man betrayed
Time pierced her Spirit barricade

Now with every tick
Of a clock no one sees
The awaited bomb deafens
Scoured by her company

Darkness lives within
Only the broken can satisfy her brokenness
Calling out, abandoned dogs,
Knowing she will someday free them

She will hold and coddle their egos
until they’ve had their fill
Then they run scared,
after her doubts crack their seals

“Why”, she silently moans,
“Why can I not look away
Why is it only this curse is my lot,
I am a Magnet to the highway.”

Because memory is all you know,
You cannot hold what does not hurt
You cannot know the solid
They feel that you yearn
For deeper seas
For sadder pain
For the rush of fury
For the pouring rain

Step down tonight
Lay down this dream
Carry me home, to the sky, dark Moon,
To my Queen.

My teacher card, the Tower
Language of Letting Go: Melody Beattie


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Greet The Dawn, Foster The Wild

The dawn greeted our hermit

Cool it was

Wind swam through the thorny vines

Dewey shrubs

and tall tree shadow lines

I dreamed of the absentee’s return

The whisper of the path which led to me

The window held my vision

As my eyes drifted

No explanations

Sand crept into my shoes this morning

On my trek away from isolation

In the dark

The Star illuminated

My lessons

Though still dim, they tasted

Of potent potions, salt, fantasy oceans

The chapter I began today

Spoke of caution, beware

Of self-neglect – dear hermit –

Let that light be your guide

Sacred compass

I am the gift to which I bestow

To you my love

Feeding your inner glow

Only when you re-member

Stitch back

The missing pieces

Can affirmations be upheld

Rejoiced, embodied

Love increases and releases

Bless you my sprite,

Rebellious child

I’ll hold you in the dark

The light

And foster you

Wild.

The Hermit Tarot card, number IX – (9) ~Modern Witch Tarot Deck, by Lisa Sterle~




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It’s Okay To Need A Nightlight

It’s OK to need a nightlight

For those of us who fear darkness

There is no need to feel shame

We simply need a light to say yes

~

A blackout robs even perfect vision

Disorients, distorts reality

We feel deeply, everyone and everything

But inside it is murky, so to the light we flee

~

Violent hands have stolen Me

My sense of peace and security

Through a keyhole I peer

Into a luminous world, perceived normalcy

~

When you are silent, to one like me

It lets the monster out from under the bed

From the closet, from under the covers

In through the windows, crazy fantasies of dread

~

When you give the gift of some notion

Musical notes from your far off song

When you sing the chorus after my verse

Somehow the star shows me where I belong

~

Until I can learn the uncrossing spell

Which lights me from my inside

Please give me something, a match, a blaze

To quell this Jekyll and Hyde


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Grit and Moss

 

    At this moment, all that exists in my sights are the darkness of the night sky through the window, the golden light of a candle glimmering in my periphery and the glow of this computer screen.  Of late, I have read many stories by writers about their influences and writers whom they adore. The most compelling stories depict how the main inspiration was the author’s own life, their own experiences and hardships were their teachers and the stories told themselves, their fingers were merely a medium.

    Songs seem to come to me this way.  Ideas for paintings, projects, special studies… they all jump into my mind and slam the “Go” button, yet, it wasn’t my choice to press it.  Once, I was asked to write my autobiography on one page. That was horribly prohibitive. It takes a half-hour just to get started when telling about my life.  Perhaps I am simply detail-oriented or lack conciseness. I see everything as bleeding into everything else, just like a watercolor painting which starts with too much water.  Except, in life, those bleeding tales need no judgment, at this point, of too much or too little liquid. Those tales exist only in the memories of my body and when I think back to them or something reminds me of them; I can only experience them in the moment or in a dream.  At times, I become overwhelmed with the sound of my heart beating and shortness of breath. Other times, the need to sleep or eat suddenly tips me over and makes me weak in the knees. In more extreme cases, fear fills every pore, unexplainable in the present moment as to why and I find myself floating above, as an outsider looking in, disassociating.  Somehow, I can become a shadow when the worst moments resurface. I get lost in the replay and the mountainous weight of knowing there is nothing I can do to change the stories. In those dark and tremendous moments, there are veins reaching into the future, into the people I love, into the choices I make, into the way I look in the mirror, into the way strangers look at me…  All this is happening under the guise of a smiling, confident, albeit sometimes distracted, woman.

    Imagine what it would be like if those moments disappeared.  What would happen if those shocking and depressing moments no longer plagued those of us who share them?  There could be a light, a blinding light, swirling out of my forehead. I see light emanating from my fingertips and from each strand of hair.  There is no memory in my body, from the earliest of early storage drawers of visions, that does not have a tinge of sadness. I cannot remember ever feeling completely light, free, and without judgment.  Fear permeates every facet of life. I could be beaten for not finishing my dinner or having an accident potty training. I could be abused or taunted by any man who walked by. I could be ridiculed for being imperfect by any movement, decision, performance or by simply existing.  Simultaneously, I was treasured and praised when I was approvable. In public, I was the gem of the show. I was “the rock”. The undeterminable atmosphere of our home, the lack of comfort, the affectation of normalcy, the quid-pro-quo nurturing, the unending sarcasm, perversion, and the predatorial context into which my sister and I were forced to exist has created, in me, a person who needs to come to terms with the impact such a life has had on my body.  The lives and bodies of millions of people in this world are all carrying scars on their beating hearts from childhood. They learned about their lack of importance, their prescribed stupidity and their lack of control so early, the notion that such things don’t HAVE to hold them down may never be realized in their lives. They may never individuate.

    I have the privilege of a new awareness of how my body, heart, and mind are all interconnected and I proclaim that the marks carved into my being are going to be brought to light.  Immunity to sickness and dedication to health are the core of my focus now. The amount of time it will take to begin to feel whole and happy again may be lengthy. Yet, I am here.  I am learning. My body is going to heal. I have magnets in my heart and the celestial bodies and our beautiful, magical planet are connected by those same forces.

I am filled with grit. I am the softest green moss of the forest floor.

In some corner of my mind, I have yet to unearth, there is the North star of hope.

I am seeking Spirit by this river’s shore and in my inner flame’s ashes and smoke.

long exposure of photography of brown tree

Photo by Harrison Haines on Pexels.com