After the Woolsey Fire Dec. 17, 2018
A restoring appeal bound for
the Santa Monica Mountains
The highway moves by way of serpentine.
Black mountains and summative clarity of once
Overgrown trees and sage,
Wild Promethean fennel and yucca plants.
Fog embraces
The black burned earth hills
Holy sprinkles of rain upon the concealed seeds.
(11-18-18)
Feet steeping around
In light purple tennis shoes
Morning crisper than it was
Cyprus tree tall as a tower
Dark green tall I upward gaze
Looking straight up
Noticing the ivy that embraces the climb
Wild element of the neighborhood
Sadly, gardeners often slash off all the blossoms
most times, yet not here
Half a block overtaken by tall Cyprus
And wild dark shiny green ivy
Light greets angled points and blossoms
Look up and stand still
Wild order
Sound of harmonic honey bees
Everywhere
Enthusiastic peace
The humming bees
As I gaze silently and listen
A dark crow lands on the tip-top
Upon towering Cyprus tree
Gloria told me once
“When the bird rests on the
Tip-top of the Guest house
At the Rosy Fellowship
It will be a good day.”
(11-24-18)
Today I knocked
An old gentleman
Opened his door
I thanked him for his
Climbing ivy
How he lets it blossom.
He told me he planned
To cut it down
Yet the branches were too thick
He will not be
Cutting the ivy down.
How happy we were
I told him how the
Sound of the bees
Is a religious experience
For me.
He said “thank you:
“For your kind words!”
I know the bees, humming birds
And song birds as yellow as the sun
Love the blossoming ivy.
My chapel is mutable
Here the goddess be
Humming and shining
For all who take the time
To hear, feel and see.
The wild ivy is an ancient plant… let a part of your garden be wild…for her.
` Hudley 11/18-24-18
Posted in extramundane, Holly Duval Cornell's Poems & Prose
Tagged Goddess and Home, poems, postaday
I used to see anarchy & chaos much differently. Today I see it as something I will not agree to. Yet the will of an individual can be applied for the benefits of all or for only oneself. To harm others without caring. I used to think it was to bring all others to the table and to change and make new ways of seeing the world creativity and imaginatively. An individual can uniquely inspire a generation, or a few people, to be good human beings. Or the opposite can happen when an ego causes dark chaos & we are witnessing this now. It is a time to consider this all, .... as very important parts of who we all are!? So much for August… it does this to me.
July moves into August. A time of justice and heat, a time of foresight and deep. For me it is about news… some bad and some good news. I have known this time of the year to be delirious dark and forbidden. Today it has reached an illuminating place of thanksgiving.
Between our psyche and the cosmos is magic. Magic moves between our hidden unconscious coming forth from our dreams. Yes, that Magic coming with psychic foresight of knowing. Real causality or synchronicity does not matter to me. Natural magic! I live all combinations.
Yesterday we went to Naval Air Station Point Mugu. Driving to Ventura from the San Fernando Valley can be harsh on a Sunday. We found a little farming street to follow down to Point Mugu. It romances the beautiful Pacific Ocean. Which is why we were there.
My dad was a WWII Veteran. As kids we enjoyed fishing on the pier that is located on this naval base.
Husband and I sat in our car for sometime. Wondering if we could approach and visit the pier for old memories. We did. A tight solider asked for husband’s driving-license. As the solider was taking the license from husband, I explained my family story. Before you could think we were quickly told to make a U-turn. No good byes or safe journeys.
Point Mugu has since merged with nearby Naval Construction Battalion Center Port Hueneme to form Naval Base Ventura County (NBVC).
We ended up at Port Hueneme Historical Society Museum. A sweet little place that smelled pleasantly old! The building was filled with old women and older history items. Outside the rather small building were many monarch butterflies. Hub bobbing around ourselves like best friends. We were then told the story.
It sounds like a magical potion. Milk weed, Cosmo flowers and chrysalis. It was the story of how someone took the time to love the process of this lovely butterfly. All it takes is a little love and a few nasty weeds to attract the attention of nature’s finest beauties.
Today upon my waking up I enjoyed a very good dream. A dream I have been waiting for since my mother’s death. It was a closure dream. In this dream husband opened the front door to the usual UPS knock. There was another package, another calculus book, or similar book, for the kids. Then we heard another knock on the front door. This time I opened the door. From top to bottom the front door was filled with packages. My husband gave me a guilty look. A pouting praying mantis face.
“It is not Christmas time,” I said.
I pulled out one of the packages. A large white one. A box that might conceal a dress or new pants. Then I saw on top the name ‘Holly’ written in cursive.
“How could mom give me this after her death?”
A wonderful gift from her. That is what mom would do. Write our names on top of our gifts. It was her writing…. I know it by heart!
Today has reached an illuminating place of thanksgiving.
Would you could you travel miles and miles for delicious deep-fried artichoke hearts? I wanna go to Castervile CA and eat some deep-fried artichoke hearts with spicy mayonnaise. Near the lovely coastal region close to Moss Landing, a fucking pint at The Whole Enchilada with a shot of hot vodka with my anniversary man. Take a walk on the beach Smell the garlic in the air mixed with the salty smell of tide pools under the earthy breaths of golden-green eucalyptus trees. Lovely multicolored Monarch butterfly sweet bites of yellow-white lemon margarine pie Pacific Grove embraces never-ending waves breathless roller coaster rides.
My oasis
And cave.
Not reaching out
But reaching within.
Agathos daimon holds my heart
Humidity holds me back.
“Coninuctio” “in mercurio”
Planting seeds
Which do not ripen.
Outside my oasis
Seeds dry in the heat.
Inside the cave
I listen to Mercurius speak.
“The desires of the mind
Will take you nowhere.”
The Yucca Poem
pon the wall was a painting Simply framed of a Yucca plant My parents’ home enfolded it Hanging on the living room wall always smiling at me The artist’s hands painted it upon a wild hill I looked at it all my life From babe until the painting Was stolen away after my parents’ death. It had a constant white bloom. Curiously I looked at the flower many times I am sure it sung me to sleep. The Yucca is a wild plant Growing along The aromatic California coastal ranges further into the valley and hills Tall thin and tenuous boldly spread throughout valley canyons. Yucca calls us to our nobility of character Yucca calls us to a wild uniqueness Singing if you listen quietly A hum older than we know.
Posted in Holly Duval Cornell's Poems & Prose
Tagged Goddess and Home, Oral Tradition, poems, postaday, Yucca
Urania is talking to Uranus Ambassador to the planets and stars She calls to Earth As a friend of friends, Catalyst of goodness and humor, to Uranus ascending electric magma Eccentric insect antenna muses Human Beings To be the best we can be.
Receptive, illumination and synchronicity, I’m a wise old blooming flower, waiting to be pollinated, I’m receptive to what I shall become, Let life approach me, I do not have to go seeking, I have all I need to succeed, I’m a beautiful rose,
wise, good and ready.
I can be trusted, I follow things through, I speak my mind, Let the spirit of god / goddess, move over my deep dark waters.
Receptive as an open flower. Now, waiting for life to impregnate me.
“The Rose makes honey,” the rose gives honey in return.
Posted in Holly Duval Cornell's Poems & Prose
Tagged Art, beauty, Depth Psychology, Esoteric, Goddess and Home, poems, poetry, postaday, spirituality, Synchronicity, Women, Writing
The wild fennel is growing in my garden, From the Santa Monica Mountains, Only a few seeds thrown around my land, From the staff-sheath that I have, Near my hearth. My wild Promethean fennel, Smells of licorice and earth, Feels like numinous beats, Waves from the coastal region, Myths revealing through my soul. Prometheus freed by Chiron, Fire consumes my heart, Compassionate green healing, Of my mind and dreams, Love will grow tall and strong My wild Promethean fennel.
Posted in Holly Duval Cornell's Poems & Prose
Tagged beauty, Depth Psychology, Oral Tradition, poems, poetry, postaday, Women, Writing
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