mountain

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Earth & Space, 13th of December, Door 13

Photo: Pintrest

On the darkest day
of the darkest month
the light of the
new moon
reaches out from inside

Lucia is here
to light
to lead
us through

the coming
twenty-four
nights
of transformation

Alba and Rosie had reached the High Glen. From up there it was dark, dark, dark . 
Below in the valley there was movement. Small lights as the forest elves danced their way through the icy fog. Candles being lit in the houses as people woke up to the scent of freshly baked saffronebuns. A gentle breeze of harmonic hymns travelled through the air. The mountain elves were journeying down the mountain in large numbers, looking like a huge glowworm swirling its way descending through the snowy fields. Nissemor and her little ones were cracking hazelnuts and walnuts in front of the barn next to the church. You could hear the sound echoing through the slow dawn.

The largest silver and gold dragon ever seen from this Glen approached from the direction of the morning star.

Author: Cecilia Götherström / Pejuta Wakinayzi

If I am really honest in my heart of hearts
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If I am really honest in my heart of hearts

If I am really honest, in my heart of hearts I
will soar like a bird,
touching the snow covered mountain tops.

I will run downhill

paws deep in the mud,
grass
and moss

like a wolf,
chased by the wind, embraced by
moving space,
scents, a whiff

on a hunt

not for food but
for play,
for life,
for joy.

If I am really honest, in my heart of hearts I
will sing to the dawn, dance
in the shadows of morning
and eve.

I will not
succumb to this mediocre
numbness of
sitting
not to be sitting but
to be seated
where someone put you.

If I am really honest,
in my heart of hearts there is
no resistance,
no pull,
no push,
no tug,
no moving,
without purpose.

Like a reed in the wind,
its movement its purpose.


If I am really honest,
in my heart of hearts I will
throw out all the blankets,
the cushions,
the pillows and
their safety-nets.

In there, in my heart of hearts
is she,
her,
it,
them,
this,
whatever opens,
whatever closes

holding a candle,
enjoying the flickering of the
light,
the wind,
the rain,
the snow,
the sea,
the cold,
the sun,
the wintery, wintery skies.

If I am really honest, in my heart
of hearts

that mountaintop
is my home,
those woods my
backyard, my pantry
that river, my blood.

I sit there,
having chosen
to sit there
myself.

I live there.

Having chosen to live there
myself.

I breathe there,
having chosen to be there,
myself

In my heart of hearts.



Cecilia Götherström, April 23rd 2022
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Ring tone

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I was looking for somebody´s number in my phone today,
and I found yours.

I was in a hurry,
rushing through the list I wished to complete by the end of the day,
and there you were.

In black and white on the screen.

The letters of your name ringing out,
as if you were still there.

A name in my list of contacts.
A cell phone number not dialled for some time,
staring at me as if the signs and numbers themselves
were eyes,
had a presence.

What would happen if I called you?

If I let my fingers slide across the touch-screen,
swipe the call – icon to dial your number?

Would there be a ring-tone?

And, if there were,
how many?

Would there be a click before the voicemail automatically switched on,
at the end of that last ring-tone?

Or would that last one end in silence?

If you could pick up, what would you say?

Would you tell me where you are?
How you are doing?
What you are doing?

Would your voice sound close,
or distant?

Would we talk about the good old times,
the friends we shared,
the village,
the snow,
the new boards of the season?

Would we laugh about what never changed,
or to be more specific ;about the old living legends whom would never change?

Would we decide to meet up the mountain,
or down in the village
tomorrow
with the whole crew?

Would we reminisce of powder days,
of flatlight,
of people held close in our hearts whether there or not there that very season,
of me working for Burton eventually,
of that proving you were right ?

Would you laugh?

Would you let us know,
where you are headed after this,
where we can see you again ?

You see,
I am not the only one
with your number still in my phone,
I am sure.

I am not the only one
whose days lit up
with that smile of yours,
whether it was telling stories
or taking the piss.

I am not the only one
wishing I could just call
those whom departed too early.

0664-2324449.

Cecilia Götherström, Feb 8th 2016

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I am sorry House

Blog4 Blog2

I am sorry House,
that I could not love you.

My heart was closed,
too busy holding on to pieces,
already broken
I was.

I could not see,
your tender care,
your solid hold,
you doing what you do best,
shelter.

I could not feel
warm, ancient soil
underneath my feet
lifting pine trees to the sky
welcoming crystal white covers
to carry us into the depths of the woods
in the company of ravens, eagles, moose and myths.

I was not hearing
the soaring air,
the speaking winds,
the soft whispers of comfort,
the Soul of the land
speaking to my broken soul.

My heart could smell,
could touch the sun,
could caress the moon,
sing with wolves and wonders
– but not under your roof.

I am sorry House,
for not living
while I inhabited your space.

I am sorry House,
for just grieving
in your warm arms.

I am sorry Mountain,
for loving you more
than I love myself,
for finding life, joy, wonder and purpose
on your hilltops.

I am sorry Mountain,
for capturing your soul into mine,
for the bliss of oneness
which only you know.

I am sorry Mountain,
that I cannot live that gift, that passion
for now and ever after more.

If anyone will ever ask,
I shall say;
The Mountain holds my Soul.

Cecilia Götherström, May 7th 2015

Blog5

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The Song Of Me

Song of me1

The Song of Me,

flies over snow covered mountains,

sings a spring time creek to its cover.

The song of me,

crosses hearts and barriers,

opens, moves and births.

 

The song of me,

is for no one else to sing,

but to blend in to

the song of all of us.

 

The song of birth, of cry, of worship,

of destinations

time and again.

 

The song of me breaks open,

moves crystals and rocks

into blessings.

 

The song of me cracks open,

that which is to be said,

to be done,

to be laid down,

to be rendered,

reunited,

rewed,

regained, retwined, regranded.

 

The song of me,

sings to the eyes of the soul

to the song of the gods

the eyes of the stars.

 

The song of me is the soul,

the spare, the twining twister,

the ever splendid galaxy of tears,

of joy,

of magic,

of serenity,

of wisdom,

of class and doom.

 

The song of me

is mine to sing,

thine to hear,

ours to twine

and twine and twine.

 

The song of me,

is of me strong,

of me being creation,

of me being all.

 

The song of me,

is of All.

 

The song of me

is you,

the you that is not

as me is.

I am

the song of me

 

Divine

 

 

Song of me2
Cecilia Götherström, Gävle 13/3 2015