Showing posts with label Tarot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tarot. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 31, 2018

Tarot Tuesday: You're a Diamondy Star Goddess

Pleidian Star Goddess: XVII The Star A silhouette of a person on a grassy expanse, arms raised to the Star Goddess, who is showering them with sparkly white light.

Be alert for showers of sparkling light, for diamonds within and without. Everything in you is made of the Goddess, lighting you up with both love and bright fury. It's all material, so feel free to make it into art.

Tuesday, July 24, 2018

Tarot Tuesday: Happy International Self Care Day!

Image Description: Tiny altar with tarot card: Four of Earth: Boundaries. Four goat heads form a square-ish cloverleaf shape, closed and secure. Their colors are yellow (north) purple (east) red (south) and green (west)

There's so much magic in saying no, whether you're chanting with a crowd, your voices echoing off city hall, or deciding quietly to yourself: no. Your personal boundaries are beautiful and I love them.


Friday, March 25, 2011

Poetic License Horoscope for March 25-31



Aries (March 21-April 18): (Happy Birthday Month!) The High Priestess: Disentangle yourself from everything but your inner mermaids, they know what to do: live on bioluminescence and sea monkeys. Float and listen. Get fat off the sea.

Taurus (April 19-May 18): Six of Coins: Mindy Nettifee says, “There are some things you can’t write yourself out of.” Give it all away instead. Seal up your regrets in shiny envelopes and float them down spring gutters, fly them away like kites, shred them into slightly sinister-looking Easter grass. It’s a good way to be generous to yourself.


Gemini (May 19-June 21): Temperence: You’ve always been my favorite card, you and The Sun. You’re standing in clear water defying gravity pouring more water from one jar to the other. You balance everything good on your wings. But even serene expressions should be enjoyed in moderation. This week, be immoderate. Overspend on drinks, kisses, and time. The next day, you’ll still be a flowered field.

Cancer (June 22-July 23):  Seven of Wands: Your voice is irresistible. Use it to sway crowds to inventory their privileges, raise their own voices, and march sweet revolutions. Or use your voice to sing lullabies. Either way, magic. Either way, infinite.

Leo (July 24-Aug. 23): Two of Swords: “There’s no flaw in being kind.” (Ian Khadan) Meet someone of equal strength, and offer her anything: love letters, sushi, concert tickets, watching your not-favorite shows on her behalf. Forge something lightning-struck and indelible.

Virgo (Aug. 24-Sept. 23): The Tower: You’ve pulled the disaster card a million times, yet here you still are. Rickety though you may be, you are a structure that won’t collapse. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to reinforce the masonry.


Libra (Sept. 24-Oct. 21): The World: Is what you already have. It’s in your hand like a biodiverse snow globe, a microclimate of your own success and influence. Turn it over. Shake it. See how it settles back down, every leaf and petal obeying your arrhythmic sense of gravity.

Scorpio (Oct. 22-Nov. 22): Page of Wands: Whatever chained you to the ground is gone. You wear the ends of arguments like coats, but it’s getting warm out. Look at the horizon, the very many tiny blue flowers, and go ahead, disentangle.

Sagittarius (Nov. 23-Dec. 22): The Moon: What is there that doesn’t come under the heading of reflected light? You are counted in candle power, a steady flicker, wicking up heat and curling smoke. You are immutable as the tides; risk the current.

Capricorn (Dec. 23-Jan. 20): Nine of Coins: Take a walk in as quiet a place as you can. you can borrow my bird book. Read religions into the insistence of spring.

Aquarius (Jan. 21-Feb. 19):  Knight of Coins: My goodness this horse is huge and powerful, steered only by filigree chains. You can trust this horseman with your treasure, your spices, your silks. He can carry it anywhere you want.

Pisces (Feb. 20-March 20): Justice:  Look around and count your luck. Hand it around like parade candy, like show fliers, like cookies at Christmas. Everyone you see is a million billion stars. Feel free to love them accordingly.


Poetic License Horoscopes is a free syndicated series which appears weekly on such lit blogs as The Serotonin Factory, Critical Mass http://citypaper.net/blogs/criticalmass/2011/02/04/poetic-license-horoscopes-feb-4-10/ and The Legendary http://www.downdirtyword.com/horoscopespage and Apiary http://theapiarycorp.com/ If you are interested in adding the Poetic License Horoscopes to your lit journal / lit blog, please email me at serotoninfactory@gmail.com.

Friday Love Poem: Marty McConnell!

Page of Rods: road song
Marty McConnell

the night owns nothing but the stars
and the asphalt, the moon
a radioactive eye making dim work

of the cloudline. the woman next to you
in the cab of the truck holding everything
you own knows more than three-quarters

of your stories. it will take half
the fourteen hour drive to finish
the job. that is a lie. the job

is never done, and there are stories
you hold between your thighs
like origami swans, red
and waiting. mostly

you speak from memory. the times
each of you were roofied. the drummer
who put you up and whose mother

made you spaghetti. the night in Austin
you broke into the hotel pool to skinnydip
after snatching the black-haired girl

off the sidewalk and away from her explosion
of a boyfriend, how you tricked the man
who trapped you in his hotel room

by getting him to order a pizza
and barricading yourself in the bathroom
until she came to find you. look at you
now. how did you survive each

devastating adventure? the mosh pit
that snapped her finger. the copyshop bathrooms
where you bathed. the leather couch infested

with chiggers. heatstroke and flat tires
and competing for audience
against the ska band in the next room

with poems, a guitar, and a flute. what
exquisite fools you were to drive
into the face of the night with pocket change

and a plastic bin full of bumper stickers
and t-shirts. what did you think the dark
would give you in exchange for your daring?
the moon? an old rock. the road, that pitted

dancefloor? the muscle for long-distance driving
takes eight years to atrophy. it’s 1:17
a.m., you’re three hours from Chicago,

from sleep, you alternate caffeine,
candy, nicotine, and the memories surface
like oil does in the movies, welling up

from the ground. the memories collapse into
each other like paper dolls, face
to simple face, the body gives up

its memories to the waking fever
of the night, one hand on the wheel,
one peeling back the face you’ve made
to get at the sweet fruit underneath.

***********


Marty McConnell is the founder and director Chicago's Vox Ferus, a co-founder of New York City's louderARTS Project, an MFA grad from Sarah Lawrence College, a show producer, poem writer, poem performer, sometime slammer and native Chicagoan. She's been widely published and heavily YouTubed, performed in places ranging from the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival to HBO's Def Poetry Jam to a laundromat-slash-bar in Santa Cruz California. She probably likes you. www.martyoutloud.com