2009
These pages share my work with my Muse, The Red Queen, also known as The Phantom Queen or The Morrigan.
...The Red Queen...I know Her well...and all my secrets to Her I tell...and She whispers upon the breeze...and finds for me solidarity. ~ Carole Anzolletti ~ author of "Whispers of the Goddess"
...She has cut through the forest and fields with a scythe in Her hands and a trail of blood behind Her. She is the Warrior of the Spirit of Sovereignty and She is Speaking...
...The Red Queen...I know Her well...and all my secrets to Her I tell...and She whispers upon the breeze...and finds for me solidarity. ~ Carole Anzolletti ~ author of "Whispers of the Goddess"
...She has cut through the forest and fields with a scythe in Her hands and a trail of blood behind Her. She is the Warrior of the Spirit of Sovereignty and She is Speaking...
"Before the Fall"
September 3, 2009 / 12:07 am
The street smells of rain, children and wet feathers as the school bus rattles by. A torrential downpour of emotions rises in my throat as phantom feet trudge past. The need for preservation of this moment begins to burn in my temples, in my throat, my fingers...finally settling in my solar plexus. Her voice permeates my foundation, it shines through like slats of sunshine, reminding me how small I really am. How small I can ultimately become.
Her voice swells around me like a tide, washing up and back - leaving strong words like sharp stones and shells upon the shore of myself. A fragile yet frantic dialog takes hold of me as Her angelic voice rings truth in my ears:
...The Silence is the key, but it is not to be misread. Intravenously, quietly, it directs itself to strength and wisdom and freedom. It will help heal you. LET IT...
Then it's back to the sirens, the incredulous saw slicing wood and dust drifting everywhere...everywhere...cars and dog shit by the street sign. My mother being upset. My sons being teenagers. My job being dramatic. My love being enormous. My anger directed wisely. My blessings and gratitudes.
Then the darkness falls. The fear and the pain, the slow reminders, slowly sliding down the walls around me. Shadows and shameful thoughts, those of the mortal beasts we call ourselves...forever hidden in the sands of time...working in circles...working in cycles.
The street smells of rain, children and wet feathers as the school bus rattles by. A torrential downpour of emotions rises in my throat as phantom feet trudge past. The need for preservation of this moment begins to burn in my temples, in my throat, my fingers...finally settling in my solar plexus. Her voice permeates my foundation, it shines through like slats of sunshine, reminding me how small I really am. How small I can ultimately become.
Her voice swells around me like a tide, washing up and back - leaving strong words like sharp stones and shells upon the shore of myself. A fragile yet frantic dialog takes hold of me as Her angelic voice rings truth in my ears:
...The Silence is the key, but it is not to be misread. Intravenously, quietly, it directs itself to strength and wisdom and freedom. It will help heal you. LET IT...
Then it's back to the sirens, the incredulous saw slicing wood and dust drifting everywhere...everywhere...cars and dog shit by the street sign. My mother being upset. My sons being teenagers. My job being dramatic. My love being enormous. My anger directed wisely. My blessings and gratitudes.
Then the darkness falls. The fear and the pain, the slow reminders, slowly sliding down the walls around me. Shadows and shameful thoughts, those of the mortal beasts we call ourselves...forever hidden in the sands of time...working in circles...working in cycles.
...Melusine's Morality...
