Poetry and Prose

(I wanted a space to share the poetry and prose I have had published. All rights reserved to the author, me.)

Awakening

Elizabeth Horstmann

(Published in the Druidical, A Bardic Arts & Literary Journal, Inaugural Issue, Spring 2019)

All things have a beginning. Sometimes it creeps up like the full moon on the rise. Other times it bursts feverishly over the horizon like the morning sun radiating the landscape. Still others start inadvertently, a stray ember from the spiting fire resets a far off blaze. Or even further from the source, a seed wind blown for miles taking root in a distant valley.

How will it all begin? How will the next incarnation of this life rise to its surface? I’m calling it forth from the depths of my subconscious, from the karmic soil of my Harvest. I am loving it into being. Singing it upward from the darkness, birthing it into the light with this steadfast labor of knowing. I am making it manifest, embracing its newness, celebrating it nearly crowning head as I push and rest, push and wait, for its unfolding.

I am writing its clear and true potential across the page for the first time. An unborn and undying reality emerging. I am calling to it by name, as yet unnamed, but still I callout… pulling it toward me, climbing tirelessly toward its center. I will feed it with the sweet milk of my very being. For it will be beautiful, it will be radiant, and I shall call it my own.

Elemental Love

by Elizabeth Horstmann

Published in Issue No. 292 Pif Magazine~ September, 2021

a quiet whisper

a hushed excitement

your touch

I feel the well inside me open

volumes of water, gushing

rushing like velvet

heavy wetness

smooth in its gurgling

afraid my water

may put out your fire

wash you away to the safety of higher ground

calling forth my air

again, and again

to blow and cool

to whisper to it

to sing to it

a lullaby to a baby

hushing its fierceness

lifting steam above the surface

evaporation

condensation

perhaps the water is gentler

more approachable in its evolutionary cycles

a soft rain

the cushion of white clouds

of us

The Witch’s Cottage
(Published in 2019, in Zig Zag Lit Mag out of Addison County Vermont)

There are so many stories here. Stories of medicine women

and sacred fires. Stories of a Yogini who died meditating in the

cave up the road, or the boy who mysteriously drowned in the

lake.

One day there was a whole rabbit, boiling in a pot on the

stove. I stared in horror. There it lay, its body making a circle

inside of the giant pot. Pink, limp, tiny bones making their

outlines on skin.

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.

Baba Yaga lives in the kitchen. I’ve also seen her reflection in

the tiny steamed mirror in the bathroom.

This whole place drips with magic.

Bathroom shelves filled with odd-smelling handmade tinctures.

Kitchen overflowing with deliciously smelling randomly shaped

jars of spices and herbs.

Stories of celebrations, of starry, firefly-filled nights, and

meaningful conversation over chocolate-covered bananas.

There is an Earth shrine in the east corner of the garden,

where offerings are left. If you stand close enough you can just

feel its power engulfing you, as if it would pull you right in,

devour you.

Billy, the goat, guards the back door, his white skull perched

on a wooden stump. Pointy, sharp horns aimed down and

behind. He seems to stare at approachers with spirit eyes,

from his empty sockets. He will make mischief if he doesn’t

trust you as you try to enter. I remember stuck doors, bumped

heads, stubbed toes, and stumbles over nothing, until he got

to know me.

Crystals, feathers, drums, trinkets tucked into every corner,

hanging from every beam. Wooden beams that were made

from trees that once grew on this property . . . as if they have

evolved into their next incarnation, right where they stood.

Stories of beloved dogs who were bathed in rose petals and

buried with friends.

You can feel this house breathe and breathe with it.

Eyes watching from all around, owl, raven, wolf, bear, spider,

toad, dragonfly, the beloved deceased.

Stories of laughter and music. Of hot summer days spent

gardening, and naked dips in the stream.

A walk around the back will be accompanied by the sound of

the two tiny rivers merging together, on this sacred spot. A

place where energies mix, where things come together.

Stories of the warmth of the hearth in winter evenings, when

the kitchen is filled with a sweet gingery smell. Flowers and

herbs creep in around you, rooted deep, having taken happily

to their home.

Stories of tiny baby bunnies in spring who appeared after

secret liaisons between escaped rabbit neighbors.

This time of year, a giant valerian plant stands taller than

anyone, shiny white flowers seem to sway in greeting, even in

the lack of a breeze.

Next to her sits the brilliantly yellow, orange-faced Calendula,

who has slipped out of her box to find more room to grow.

Sage, bloodroot, chamomile, black cohosh, bergamot, chives,

thyme, elderberry, all live here in this crowded home. Each

may be harvested, made into food and medicine, as they were

meant to be.

Stories of horse tracks followed through the driveway. Of

smoke alarms that go off in the middle of the night to warn of

danger, but not fire.

Baby chicks peep in the shed. But for all their cute fuzziness,

we mustn’t forget, they will be next year’s dinner.

Last year I grew fond of the chicks and fed them. The next

spring, I came to dinner. Sitting down to a lovely meal, I was

soon told who I was eating. I remembered him fondly, I raised

my fork once more, my lips uttering a quiet prayer of thank

you.

The balance of life and death hangs closely, as if woven into

the very tapestry of this place. Stories of slain goats, of Gypsy

horse wagon rides gone awry. And profound messages

whispered into half-sleeping ears.

A long-haired, outspoken cat, Ullr, the God of the hunt, slinks

around the premises. A toy penguin name Mordecai stands

proud at the front, greeting passersby.

Stories of dreams of bears, scratched back windows, where

bear actually tried to enter.

Ravens are often heard in conversation at dusk or seen

balancing their massive bodies on fallen trees over the brook.

This place drips with magic.

Elizabeth Horstmann

Southbound to the city

by Elizabeth Horstmann

Published in Issue No. 294  Pif Magazine~ November, 2021

Dragons in the landscape laid their massive bodies down. Spines outlined by the evergreens, cutting clean green lines through the thicket. Scales thick, snow encrusted, sparkling in the sunlight. Shoulders hunched over, moved slightly as I drove past, bracing themselves to lift a giant head off the frozen ground, to stretch wings, to take flight again. Traveling south gave way to less majestic scenery. More and more cars surrounded me, road signs cluttered my view. Billboards flashed, assaulting my mind, tearing it from its tranquil state. Screaming in my ears; “Buy our products!” Obnoxiously yelling at traffic, not caring for the very safety of those consumers they wish to ploy. Live or Die, as long as you Buy. Tree growth diminished. Concrete taking its place, sprouting up with acceleration into the descent of the city. Low walls emerged, meant to hold back nature, to keep her in her place. They grew higher and taller, morphing into giant bizarre structures, lined with cars up into the sky, looming over head, a menacing, oppressive force. Painted red metal, the blood of the Earth, whose womb was scraped and torn open to extract these materials. I opened the window, in hopes of connecting my mind and body back to some sense of normalcy. I noticed that the very air had been drained of all its magic, there was a certain heaviness to it, and a sickeningly sweet, unnatural smell. I waited; inching along in traffic. Heading towards the bridges and tunnels, an old man with a sign around his neck stood in the center of the street. Waving and smiling, no care for his own safety or that of the drivers. He inhaled the black smoke of the trucks that barely squeaked past him on ever side, as he begged for change. His clueless grin, unsettling, the mask of a marionette, welcoming all the souls to the bowels of this concrete Hell. Was he Beelzebub himself; Calling all his children home? Or Charon, the Ferryman, give him a penny and he will shuttle your soul across the river to Hades.

The First Cut is the Deepest

by Elizabeth Horstmann

Published in Issue No. 294 Pif Magazine~ November, 2021

morning woke me, dream of your taste on my tongue your scent still lingering, twenty years later

I said your name out loud into the nothing, a question forever unanswered

out into cold waking world, into darkness of snowy morning

a murder of crows cackling, dark against the dull slate sky, it was the Ides of March

a woman stumbling off snow covered sidewalks, black hooded trench coat, a harbinger

she stared at me from above a red scarf covered face, her eyes sunken, told a sad story

she swaggered away looking hungry, high, and freezing

I recognized in her the same demons who once possessed you all those years ago

my hopes of a lifetime together, led to slaughter one by one

the child whose life I had taken, lost forever, you may never even know

I drank in more bitterness that day than herbs grown, tinctures prepared from my own garden

I shed more tears those weeks than cells gathering in my Womb

the time you spent in the streets, fighting for your life sent a part of me dying

I felt the atrophy of my young heart, forever devoid of the capacity to love again so completely

my trust in others faded, my trust in love itself, vanished

I wonder if you were my one, my only chance at real love?

The first cut is the deepest, they say

as I drove away I whispered a prayer for her for the shell of you back then,

I sent you compassion backward in time to embrace you in your darkest moments

I sent myself love into those corners of wretched hell born heartbreak

the drugs you ingested, crossed your threshold, entered your bloodstream,

and depleted both of our souls for a lifetime

This photo is of myself and the man who the above poem is about, my high school sweetheart, Clinton Meister…RIP. I think we were about 16 and 17 here?
He was a musician, self taught artist, spiritual seeker, and fellow pagan. He and I were the Priest and Priestess of a Wiccan coven as teens. We learned a lot together.
Later in life we were in touch as friends once again, and it turns out he was also studying Druidry, like me. He made it through his Bardic year, which makes sense as he was a true Bard at heart.
I do not even know if he got to read that poem before he died. It was published only months before his death and I was going to share it with him, but never got the chance.