It has been said of the song, Wildfire, it arose from the artist’s subconscious
–a Native American tale about a ghost horse
mythical and sweet
a golden Palomino mare carrying sunlight upon her hide
how she would warm your aching body
settle your bones
ferry you to another place
distant from worry
away from strife
all you hear
rhythmic patter of spiriting hooves
lemon-white mane wrapping your bare skin
keeping you secure
she gallops across the planet
without grazing earth
your stomach lifts
your heart steadies
peace she finds
never the same place
if you should call her twice
if you should summon Wildfire
to guide you away
she may just bring you
back home again
sketched on the way to New Hampshire last week, after listening to Michael Martin Murphy sing his Wildfire
I want to again thank those of you who sometimes read my verse. I’ve been amping up the language or at least trying to. I’m not always comfortable pushing the pub button with some of these posts–last night’s is a good example. I challenge myself to step out of my comfort zone. I hope by doing this, I’ll discover other directions to pursue. I do admit it is fun dreaming up saucy voices–though these ‘characters’ make me the saddest after they’ve been fleshed out. With each piece I try to get away from who I am and write as if I’m someone else. Sometimes these ‘personalities’ beg the question-okay, AnnMarie–what’s the next move. I’m not always sure. It is this uncertainty that pushes me onward.
Thank you, again.
I’ve called on Wildfire more than once:)
Have a lovely weekend.
I’m on my way to Shangri-La
carved deep within a mountain valley
and steeped in lush promise
if I enter this harmonious climax
I’m not sure I’d be willing to share
my lips might seal like Tut’s tomb
toward those who covet rejuvenation
or perhaps I’ll surprise myself
enlightening others of a place where
words find themselves and settle into their meanings
wine, nectar and willow wind for all
maybe I’m not good that way
tempted by a steaming paradise born of sublime art
to wet my back and feast my eyes only
might be asking too much of me
what good all this knowledge
if only to give it out and end up with precious little
“to the victor go the spoils”
fantasies are kindled by motive
an exotic kingdom of one
defining a life’s work like treasure in a gilded casket
while existence survives in willingness
but fortune bears better threading
The legend of Wampus Cat speaks of a Native American woman of breathtaking beauty who possessed a passion for knowledge. A passion that would ultimately bind her in fur and claw.
Daring to learn the sacred stories of magic, she stole under the cloak of night and mountain cat-hide to eavesdrop on tribal elders. Medicine Man sensed something amiss and she was soon discovered. As punishment, Medicine Man transformed her. With one stroke of his mighty hand, her body absorbed the mountain-cat hide she wore. She morphed into a wicked creature destined to roam the woods and hills forever alone. She never acquired the knowledge she so desperately desired. She was educated in rage. Her mind knew what she’d become. Forever…
So if you venture into the forest deep, and should you hear the crack of wood or the soft patter of a two-hundred pound cat woman, you best run. There is no smooth-talking Wampus Cat – you’ll only piss her off.
Thank you. May you cuddle with sweet kittens and pampered pooches. And hopefully, Wampus Cat stays in the forest.
Wampus Cat sketched today while beautiful snow was falling. This sketch is unfinished. She needs work and I’m unsure about the tail – could look unnecessarily ‘phalic’ (might be a bad thing for an agitated woman). Final render will cover Wampus in black fur and white teeth 🙂
All last week, before the giant husband and I began our daily 5 AM walk, we could hear the ‘local’ coyotes howling with abandon. Their sad, almost infant-like wails echoed through the woods at the end of our cul-de-sac. The raw cacophony was lyrically unnerving.
This morning, however, the coyotes melodic cries were too close for comfort. Though the giant husband and I probably outweighed their pack by at least two-hundred pounds, I gripped my trusty Swiffer and the giant husband carried his heavy-duty halogen flashlight. I guess our plan was to dust them off, then show them the light 😉
When I mentioned to the giant husband that the howling could be from the elusive Chupacabra, he howled like a coyote. I told him that in Puerto Rico, 1995, goats were found with lethal puncture wounds and their bodies drained of blood. The name Chupacabra literally translates to ‘goat sucker’ in Spanish. And since the discovery of the gruesome ‘vampiresque’ goat scene, there have been random attacks on all manner of livestock. Eyewitnesses have reported Chupacabra sightings from Maine, USA to Chile to Russia…
Some folks take Chupacabras’ legend quite seriously, while others believe they are simply coyotes with mange… Below is my version of the mysterious Chupacabra. So, what do you think: Are there coyotes with mange prowling about, or could blood-sucking Chupacabras be real? Or should I just continue toting my trusty Swiffer?