Thirteen

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Day 13: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire
Something Sonnet-ish

Thirteen
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

Call it lunacy or moon-ache,
it could be luck or witchery or grace,
this thirteenth day, this stitching
of seasons, this calendar counting, this
moon sailing round her beloved
thirteen times in a year, while the months,
her zodiac cousins, step neatly
in twelves. She’s just a little off-beat,
number thirteen—the moon, I mean—
and those drawn by her shine,
luna-tics longing, eye-wide owls
yearning to follow her, howling
along with the wolf and the dog,
finding her silver coins in every pool and bog.

Invocation

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Day 12: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire
Some days, I am so tired, I can’t find my way into a new idea for a poem. This will have to do.

Invocation
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

In the name of the raven who calls from the walnut,
and the name of the spider dreaming in the corner,
and the name of the wild child, moss and leaves
and spider dreams trailing from her antlers,
in the name of the grandmothers who were giants,
and the name of the matriarchs who taught us
the magic of the circle, the enchantment of weaving,
the infectious contagion of joyful resistance,
we call for disruption and transformation,
for truth and justice and accountability.

Hold their feet to the fires of justice.
Reflect the truth of their greed and cruelty.
Bind their names to their deeds.
May what they have stolen
return to the people.
Set the captives free.

May it be so.

Morning Commute

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Day 11: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire

Morning Commute
(a haiku-ish sonnet)
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

the Appeal to Heaven flag
at the turn on Kinderhook Road
is gone, taken by the wave

perhaps, or November’s winds,
no more to startle me out of compassion
on my morning commute

still, the House Republicans
seem determined to continue
to protect war criminals and pedocrats

determined to host
the worst urges among us,
the hatefulness and spite—

the light is rising in the east, pink clouds
above, and mist-covered hills ahead

When the Sisters Gather

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Day 10: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire

When the Sisters Gather
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

one witch waves a smoky wand
while humming, like a dreamy cat
another is translating
the language of the wind in the chimes
one has shapeshifted into a wild horned creature
with golden eyes aglow
one draws the roots of the collective
deep into the soil of the Mother
one weaves a web with yarn
and words of gossamer silk
one prepares a feast that satisfies
every need, every craving
one shapes a song into the air
one is howling at the moon
one has taken flight up the chimney
one is deep in a dreamy trance
one is drawing shapes of fire in the air
one is invoking her grandmothers
one is mixing an elixir over embers
they are bringing down the walls
singing down the patriarchy
making the way for the remedy

When Spiders Dream

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Day 9: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire

On Learning that Jumping Spiders Experience REM Sleep
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

When the spider in the corner dreams,
does she see the whirling threads
Grandmother Spider spun,
strung through the cosmos, stars hung
from silken strands, islands of light
in a sea of purple dark?

Matriarchy Rising

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Day 8: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire

Matriarchy is Rising
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

and the walls will fall
and the fortress will not stand
and new life will rise

On the Subject Of Campaign Finance Reform

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Day 7: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire

On the Subject Of Campaign Finance Reform
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

Five million, ten, or more
Buy yourself a senator.
When you’ve got enough to pay
You can make them vote your way.
Red, blue, and purple too
They will sell their souls to you.

The Naked Emperor

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Day 6: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire

The Naked Emperor
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

The naked emperor,
demented and sad
on his throne of artificial gold,
receives his own dispatches
of carefully crafted lies
to shore up his top-heavy ego.

His courtiers avert their eyes,
and no one dares to speak it—
He is naked. He is mad.
They whisper in the echoing hallways,

and feed his insatiable appetite
for fame and relevance,
while drowning out the sounds
of protest in the streets,
the cheering crowds,
the songs of change and justice.

Choose Your Leaders Well

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November 5
Day 5: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire

Anna the Prophetess Appears on the Capital Steps
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

Anna the Prophetess stands on the Capital steps.
At just over two thousand years of age,
it’s no wonder you can see the autumn light
shining through her. Even leaves
tossed up by the breeze sift through her shimmer.

Of course you must allow yourself to hope, she says
You should join the whirling dances in the street.
She points a gnarled finger at your heart.
But spend your trust wisely.
Now is the time for reckoning.
Accountability is not the same as vengeance.
It is not the time to reach across the aisle
unless you know for certain
that the hand you take is not defiled
by corruption, rape, and murder,
or from protecting those who do.

A gust of wind blows through her,
and she fades into a ray of sunlight,
but you can hear her voice in the distance
as if calling down a long tunnel:
Choose your leaders well,
but put your real trust in your neighbors.

On the Nature of a Blue Wave

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Day 4: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire

On the Nature of a Blue Wave
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

On this day in the belly of Empire,
it seems the world might be saved,
when the waves of change
bring in a new tide, widening
the seas of possibilities.

And, too, we knew
that much of the power
behind the flood was
not the ones who’ve kept the good
of our neighbors at heart,
but those who’ve bought the lies
of phobic thinking, who last time voted
robotically in their own self-interest,
and have done so yet again.

Gentle Citizens, today we celebrate.
And tomorrow we get down to work.
Too much has been lost,
(and now so much re-gained)
to let this tide wash out again
unless we secure the treasures
washed upon the beach,
the rights we long thought lost.