Faerie Soup

A tiny gold leaf,
In a hole in a table.
Fall in faerie soup.

A faerie gold leaf,
In a bowl at the table.
Soup for fallen Fae.

– Tanya

fairysoup

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Autumn Fog

AUTUMN FOG

I am so confused at the moment. None of my life’s lessons are helping me. I don’t know how to trust anyone or anything right now. I try to listen to my intuition, but even it does not know the way. I wait for signs and read the synchronicity but even those seem baffling. I don’t understand anything right now. Nothing makes sense. It’s like death, but I don’t know what is dying and what is being born. It’s all wrapt up in grief and time, and holding on and letting go. “Don’t stay where you’re not wanted.” But I don’t know what to hold onto or what to let go of, or to hold onto nothing and to let go of everything. I think I have it figured out, but then it slips through my fingers, and I am lost again. “When in doubt, wait it out.” I don’t know the message, I can’t find the purpose. Wrapt up in responsibility, sacrifice, and joy. How to know when joy should be sacrificed, and to what end, and if ever, and for how long, but what is joy? When does sacrifice yield joy? Does it ever? Is it real? How do you know the difference between self sacrifice that destroys you or self sacrifice for higher purpose? How much do you sacrifice, for how long, if ever? Do you never? What does that accomplish? I do not know the way. I ask the question and wait for the answer but when it comes bearing fruit, it is transformed ever deeper and yields more questions without answers. Dead ends. What do you trust? And risk. I am methodical, I plan, I do not take risks, I do not make snap decisions, and yet that has yielded no better outcome. When do you jump, do you jump, where do you jump, what is jumping? I wait and wait, and time does not discriminate. What is time? What if there was no measure of time? How much time is time enough? How much time is wasted time? I walk in fog, exploring uncharted territory. No beginning, no end. I am looking for a box, so I might open it, and read the message written there, but what if it is a blank scroll? Is there a box? Didn’t I craft a box long ago? Who has taken it away? And safety. And experience. And joy. And why? The autumn and the quickening. Do I allow it to rejuvenate, once again, or do I snuggle under crinkly leaves. Rest. My hair is tired and wet with the fog. Is there time enough? Is it time? Cruel trickster, where are you hiding? Tell me Yakov. – Tanya

Yakov responds: I’m flattered that you ask me. i’m reminded of Alice Toklas who asked Gertrude Stein on her death bed, “Gertrude, what is the answer?” To which Gertrude replied, just before she expired, “Alice, what is the question?”

Tanya: You really do drive a hard bargain. I love you, Yakov. Thank you.

Where the Green Beans Grow

I saw them in the garden first, the fairies danced last night,
Into the weary forest, sugar lanterns shining bright.

A beacon to old loves in green hammocks, singing though my head is bending low, I hear the gentle warbles calling, in the blackness…come on home.

Carry me back on a tee shirt wing all merry all happy and bright. By and by hard times come knocking at the door, but my old Kentucky home, fireflies.

-Tanya

The Winter of My Discontent

I shall call this the Winter of my Discontent
(Inspired by Marcy Playground and The Lumineers Angela)

Dreams collapsed together so that all remains
Is some ephemeral blue flying thing
Nondescript Soul in snow
Like a blue lady fingers, fairy flower
On the hills of County Clare.

Slipping through my fingers
Kill it or die
In a home baked pie of
Bumble Berry
Blue.

Smash it in the pages of that book, before it gets away, free forever
In the Nethers
Of a nook
Or cranny
Hanging on a hook
Unused long
In a Rosicrucian song.

I come to Narnia
Pregnant or not at all
Remember the Fairy Tale?
A cloaken robe of elvin kind
Hangs in the back of my wardrobe behind
All those things that Mother said were
Improper for a boy
Put it on, in the playground
Blue
Wear it new
On the back of a wild cuckatoo
perched in some river run down tree hidden.

Tails dusted through the leaves
Of Fall
As I danced
In oh some just a Dream
Theme in
feathers jest so cruel
In rouge
In Rainy rouge
Running down a white faced blouse in the river wood true.

Real
I wore it once in Spring.
Removed all the impossible things now
Nothing left,
Just Me
Mold on the holly hock branch
Under a morning cold recliner cider in frost.

I come to the Temple naked, this time
I’ve been here before.
Core musings.
My fingers grow without a fire
Blazing red roosters cones.
Raising a belly
Pregnant
toasting
In the blizzard
All hail
The steed snorts in the crinkly air
Afair and field and far
Blue tails trailing
In snotty wind
Awind and racing
Onward soldiers
a fiery hawthorn bier awaits
Before
The summer land dance and
I sing softly
waiting under blue covers and black bellies
And fir
Pregnant with you singing softly that soul lost or found or haunted here in Avondale.

-Tanya