Pluto transits, transformation of being,
a permanent change.
People may see transits as temporary
conditionswe get over,
but influences of life's experiences
make us something new.
The challenge and the gift is
to embrace the changing, dance with it.
not static "beings" but amazing ever-becomings.
Pluto in generations
(disclaimer: I am talking about the general mood; of course individual
mileage will vary.)
Pluto in Leo --The Boomers playing out children's
roles, questioning authorities, impudently laughing
at the elders, looking to express ourselves
creatively and with arrogance.
Pluto in Virgo -- got to be critics, of the Boomers and the parents and themselves,
looking at health and jobs, our place as stewards, with critical faculties.
Pluto in Libra -- seem to love to socialize, harmonize, look at partnerships from a
what? more practical? more balanced perspective?
Pluto in Scorpio -- oh how you delve, bringing dark matter into light.
They do seem sexually active, in your face; they will be the aftermath of this
transforming era, leaving behind the dross (hopefully). They will also be
looking at death, sex, regeneration, more deeply.
Pluto in Sag -- oh what adventure awaits, revisioning the big
picture, perhaps traveling beyond the Solar System.
Pluto in Capricorn -- the new world order to come?
like a hurricane
like a natural disaster
wind and rain laying waste to my life.
tossed, torn, left astray and a stranger
in the way, or at least not the norm.
a sad wastrel left adrift in the storm.
sing my wanderers' song tonight.
let the wind carry my fading melody
off onto wind-whipped ports of call.
my breath's been carried out to sea
nothing left to become of me
once the hurricane has passed into the day
the foggy, rainy day . . .
I gaze upon the ragged sea.
Pluto's Wife/ Demeter's Daughter
Persephone, your will is free
Even as your living is in bondage
to forces much older in their power
You are free to reconcile your fractured life
Daughter in Summer's sun
smiling warmly, playing at innocence
with charms long practiced
Saved from that horrible man --
Well, joint custody
Ever Her beloved child
While it is no secret
Down below you are honored Queen
among tortured souls ever needy of your
Far from noblesse oblige, it is your
chosen career, though not chosen by you
Are you told enough:
"You do it proud." or even acknowledged
for the prowess your will gives existence?
Free Will, not Free Choice
It is learning to make of the whole sad cacophony
discrete instruments of harmony, of divine symphony
to find, realize, act with
as child or Queen
or someone between
I have wandered far from thoughtless girlhood,
am woman grown, a Queen
in my own right.
Yet I am treated with the expectations
of a mindless child
in my mother's Summer home.
The Gods are all agog with Zeus,
fickle, abrasive, free to take full stance
above the laws he so imperiously commands.
My Dark King is so much more a man,
sincere, deeply feeling, committed to his realm,
compassionate, if not always kind.
Yet, this season I must obey the crowd,
display charm and grace
in haute couture, make small, insipid
conversation with useless socialites
decorating Zeus' lawn parties.
Up here, life is meaningless,
All flash and doggerel
to amuse, O', do entertain us.
So tiring to endure the ennui.
Those not privy to opulent entitlement,
relegated to the dregs of servitude, or less
endure for their time, brutal, painful, short,
for no good reason.
I hear their horrid tales,
back in my rightful place and purpose.
Shrunken souls, shriveled by life time hungers
still growling beyond the grave.
I am balm and wise mother.
At last they matter, their stories opening in me
a marvelous passageway through which they are
taken into paradise.
My life above, the petulant daughter,
the pampered goddess spawn,
I endure coldly.
Summer's trivialities, properly obedient to
rituals of social condition,
know nothing of my true calling
under Winter's glory.
This is where the idea is born.
Soft green meadows gently transforming into fall
Sounds of dying, scent of woodfire and candlelight
No separation between what is becoming
Accept and be revealed
Summer's wild adventures
Spring was a torrent of clarity, precious rain,
Earth coarse, ready for fecund pleasure
Queen of night in daylight's realm
obsessed in flowering
roses and daffodils
valleys and nubile hills
all is vanity and laughing vice
"But, Mother, I'm not a nice girl.
I'm a creature of the breeze; secure in shadow;
alive on the cutting edge of the storm."
Myth in revision
Standing at the back of the playground
learning theater, tucking metaphors
into interstices of sense and anticipation
In spring, kicking stones along sandy riverbeds
reading the classics
to savor practice: valor, glory, dramatic lines
the stink of rot where flowers bloom
ancient feuds, retaliations, rage
tyrannosaurus feeding future waste,
absorbing a zeitgeist of want, of predation
Within greed-swollen seed infectious fear
makes merry with misery’s habit
Mythology frustrates, curls back on its own ash
Eyes burn with hazy summer wine and wilding
Feet connect dust to sky -- but only in designated
spheres, with designated peers, self-selected inhibitions
Sweat out poison into the ground; now, eat the bounty
Midsummer farce, far from honor, far from sunrise,
counting out the chimes as if time were treasure
Silly summer madness as if what matters
is so circumscribed, so predictable
Early autumn firelight
reminiscent of witch hunts, ghosts of calvary,
dire warnings and endless hide and strike
The game, the funhouse, turns deadly
Sanctuary calls, demanding sacrifice
The noble phoenix fed on frankenseed
can not rise
Skies descend, dark mirroring
Smell the woodsmoke, intoxicating, soft and sweet,
masks the taste of bitter bile, secret vomiting,
starving despite harvest's gay array of treats
Faded, nearly blind, falling in and out of
shamanic fever, primeval native callings beyond sight,
ripple of tribal beat at the periphery
ecstatic vision dark/light/agony and brilliant breaks
seasons, years, moments of clarity
no need to navigate, to invent boundaries;
dance of the highlands warmth and sustenance
taking on colours Plutonic, ambient dark
encrypted in the depths as if in death
(and the meta)
Old enemy a friend in waiting – teaching
if I will but listen instead of running,
beating my breast from within,
re-breaking, re-breaking a heart
not to reset but to bleed
and then, a whisper: "yes, reset,
remember with new respect for who you
have always been but feared to see"
This ally silently screaming within
my deepest heart, my darkest dreams
"Listen, love and revere this wild child
who laughs at whirlwinds and dances
to life's changing, challenging melodies.
Be free to sing along without inhibition
or internalized mockery.
This is our time, yours and mine,
to be wonderfilled."
It Is Written.
I stand, open and defenseless,
waiting for Pluto to overpower me,
take me where he will,
suit me to his purpose.
Or, is that my sister Hecate
coming to meet me,
to embrace me,
to set me free?
Wondrous are the ways of the shifty,
We peek out through rainbow slits
onto a sinuous landscape. Slippery bits
of meaning slither along
hissing out of forked tongue Oracular riddles.
"Oh, yes, my love awaits me.
In the tall grasses we will twain.
Great fortune is to befall us.
It is written."
And rewritten, and rewritten
on and on through the fever.
Burning molecules, organic fuel,
dancing, wildly, within a fiery pentagram,
within channeled schematics,
ignited by a living passion.
I am beyond words. Tumbling through
shiny bubbles and iron-wrought hieroglyphs.
There is nothing to depend on but pure will
and the ability to suspend belief.
As long as it matters that I exist.
As long as I’ve something to go back to.
As long as there is a community of
which I am an integral part.
The rest is just details.
And though “the devil is in the details”
So are the gods.