Drinking under the moon ( grunge whiskey women scene)

Amongst the flowers I

am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.

The moon and the sea

Whilst the moon decks herself in Neptune's glass
And ponders over her image in the sea,
Her cloudy locks smoothing from off her face
That she may all as bright as beauty be;
It is my wont to sit upon the shore
And mark with what an even grace she glides
Her two concurrent paths of azure o'er,
One in the heavens, the other in the tides:
Now with a transient veil her face she hides
And ocean blackens with a human frown;
Now her fine screen of vapour she divides
And looks with all her light of beauty down;
Her splendid smile over-silvering the main
Spreads her the glass she looks into again.

To the moon
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, -
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Mrs moon
Mrs Moon
sitting up in the sky
little old lady
rock-a-bye
with a ball of fading light
and silvery needles
knitting the night

Yet love in its fullest form is a series of deaths and rebirths. We let go of one phase, one aspect
of love, and enter another. Passion dies and is brought back. Pain is chased away and surfaces
another time. To love means to embrace and at the same time to withstand many endings, and
many many beginnings- all in the same relationship.” ​Clarissa Pinkola Estés​,​ ​Women Who Run
With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype

“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with
these stories... water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you
yourself burst into bloom.” ​Clarissa Pinkola Estés​,​ ​Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths
and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype

“The way to maintain one's connection to the wild is to ask yourself what it is that you want. This
is the sorting of the seed from the dirt. One of the most important discriminations we can make
in this matter is the difference between things that beckon to us and things that call from our
souls.
Nowhere can this be seen more clearly than in the choice of mates and lovers. A lover cannot
be chosen a la smorgasbord. A lover has to be chosen from soul-craving. To choose just
because something mouthwatering stands before you will never satisfy the hunger of the
soul-self. And that is what the intuition is for; it is the direct messenger of the soul.”
―​ ​Clarissa Pinkola Estés​,​ W
​ omen Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild
Woman Archetype​ LOLITA
“There is a time in our lives, usually in mid-life, when a woman has to make a decision - possibly
the most important psychic decision of her future life - and that is, whether to be bitter or not.
Women often come to this in their late thirties or early forties. They are at the point where they
are full up to their ears with everything and they've "had it" and "the last straw has broken the
camel's back" and they're "pissed off and pooped out." Their dreams of their twenties may be
lying in a crumple. There may be broken hearts, broken marriages, broken promises.”
―​ ​Clarissa Pinkola Estés​,​ W
​ omen Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild
Woman Archetype

The doors to the world of the wild Self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a
door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you
almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a
door.”
―​ ​Clarissa Pinkola Estés​,​ W
​ omen Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild
Woman Archetype

“In mythos and fairy tales, deities and other great spirits test the hearts of humans by showing
up in various forms that disguise their divinity. They show up in robes, rags, silver sashes, or
with muddy feet. They show up with skin dark as old wood, or in scales made of rose petal, as a
frail child, as a lime-yellow old woman, as a man who cannot speak, or as an animal who can.
The great powers are testing to see if humans have yet learned to recognize the greatness of
soul in all its varying forms.”
―​ ​Clarissa Pinkola Estés​,​ W
​ omen Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild
Woman Archetype

“Go out in the woods, go out. If you don't go out in the woods nothing will ever happen and your
life will never begin.”
―​ ​Clarissa Pinkola Estés​,​ W
​ omen Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild
Woman Archetype

“Bone by bone, hair by hair, Wild Woman comes back. Through night dreams, through events
half understood and half remembered...”
―​ ​Clarissa Pinkola Estés​,​ W
​ omen Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild
Woman Archetype

In lakeside leafy groves, a friar

Escaped all worries; there he passed
His summer days in constant prayer,
Deep studies and eternal fast.
Already with a humble shovel
The elder dug himself a grave -
As, calling saints to bless his hovel,
Death - nothing other - did he crave.
So once, upon a falling night, he
Was bowing by his wilted shack
With meekest prayer to the Almighty.
The grove was turning slowly black;
Above the lake a mist was lifting;
Through milky clouds across the sky
The ruddy moon was softly drifting,
When water drew the friar's eye...

He's looking puzzled, full of trouble,

Of fear he cannot quite explain,
He sees the waves begin to bubble
And suddenly grow calm again.
Then - white as first snow in the highlands,
Light-footed as nocturnal shade,
There comes ashore, and sits in silence
Upon the bank, a naked maid.

She eyes the monk and brushes gently

Her hair, and water off her arms.
He shakes with fear and looks intently
At her, and at her lovely charms.
With eager hand she waves and beckons,
Nods quickly, smiles as from afar
And shoots, within two flashing seconds,
Into still water like a star.

The glum old man slept not an instant;

All day, not even once he prayed:
Before his eyes still hung and glistened
The wondrous, the relentless shade...
The grove puts on its gown of nightfall;
The moon walks on the cloudy floor;
And there's the maiden - pale, delightful,
Reclining on the spellbound shore.

She looks at him, her hair she brushes,

Blows airy kisses, gestures wild,
Plays with the waves - caresses, splashes -
Now laughs, now whimpers like a child,
Moans tenderly, calls louder, louder...
'Come, monk, come, monk! To me, to me!..'
Then - disappears in limpid water,
And all is silent instantly...

On the third day the zealous hermit

Was sitting by the shore, in love,
Awaiting the delightful mermaid,
As shade was covering the grove...
Dark ceded to the sun's emergence;
Our monk had wholly disappeared -
Before a crowd of local urchins,
While fishing, found his hoary beard