Pomegranate

 

The pomegranate tree, a sentinel old,

In Maya’s garden, stories it told.

Its gnarled branches, reaching for skies of blue,

Had witnessed sunrises, and tasted the dew,

For countless summers, a steadfast embrace,

Holding secrets of time and the cycles of space.

 

Young Maya, just thirteen, with eyes like the dawn,

Loved the pomegranate tree, since the day she was born.

She'd climb its strong limbs, with laughter so bright,

A spirit untamed, bathed in sun's golden light.

She knew every scar, every knot in the wood,

And whispered her dreams, as a child truly should.

 

The crimson fruit, plump and heavy and round,

Hanged like jewels, precious treasures were found.

Inside, seeds like rubies, a mystical hoard,

A promise of life, that the tree freely poured.

But Maya saw beauty, and sweetness so true,

Unknowing the deeper meanings they drew.

 

One sweltering afternoon, with cicadas a-hum,

A different feeling began to become.

A strange ache in her belly, a tremor within,

A whisper of change, where a new life could begin.

She brushed it aside, thought it simply a pain,

From tumbling too hard, or dancing in rain.

 

But later that evening, when shadows grew long,

A different sensation, insistent and strong.

A warm, sticky dampness, a stain on her clothes,

A fear in her heart, as the unknown arose.

She ran to her mother, with tears in her eyes,

A wounded small bird, that suddenly cries.

 

Her mother, she smiled, with a knowing caress,

“My darling, come closer, let's ease your distress.”

She led Maya gently, to a quiet, soft place,

And explained the great wonder, with love in her face.

“The pomegranate blooms, in the garden so deep,

And a seed has been planted, while you were asleep.”

 

"But Mama," cried Maya, her voice full of dread,

"This blood, is it sickness? Am I going to be dead?

I don't understand, Mama, why this has to be?

This strange, scary feeling, is foreign to me."

Her mother held tighter, and stroked her dark hair,

"My sweet little blossom, have no cause for despair."

 

"The blood is a river, of life flowing free,

A sign of your strength, and what you're meant to be.

The pomegranate bursts, with its seeds red and bright,

A symbol of womanhood, bathed in soft light.

You're becoming a woman, a creator of grace,

Embrace this new power, and find your own place."

 

But Maya, still frightened, and filled with unease,

Could not grasp the wonder, the feminine keys.

She saw only the blood, and the pain in her side,

The loss of her childhood, where carefree she'd stride.

The pomegranate's beauty, now seemed to conceal,

A burden she carried, a wound she could feel.

 

She dreamt that the tree, with its branches so vast,

Reached down with its roots, holding her shadows fast.

The rubies turned crimson, a menacing gleam,

Reflecting her terror, a horrifying dream.

She woke with a gasp, in the cold morning air,

Her body felt heavy, consumed by despair.

 

She refused to go near, the tree she adored,

Its vibrant red fruit, she now felt abhorred.

She stayed in her room, withdrawn and so pale,

Lost in the darkness, trapped in a gale.

Her mother, concerned, watched her daughter with care,

And whispered a prayer, for the strength to be there.

 

The village elder, a woman of might,

Whose wisdom shone brightly, a comforting light.

She came to their home, with a gentle decree,

"Young Maya is lost, but she soon will be free."

She gathered the women, with faces so kind,

To share their own stories, and peace she would find.

 

They sat in a circle, beneath the old tree,

Where shadows danced softly, for all there to see.

Each woman spoke freely, of their first crimson tide,

The fear and confusion, they couldn't quite hide.

The joy and the power, that came with the change,

The blossoming spirit, rearranged.

 

The elder began, with a voice strong and clear,

"The pomegranate seed, holds both sorrow and cheer.

It signifies life, and the cycles of time,

The sacred connection, to the feminine prime.

The blood is a gift, not a curse to endure,

But a pathway to strength, forever secure."

 

She told tales of goddesses, powerful and bold,

Whose essence resided, in stories of old.

Of Persephone's journey, to the underworld's keep,

And her yearly return, from slumber so deep.

Of Demeter's great sorrow, and ultimate might,

Bringing forth springtime, and banishing night.

 

She spoke of the moon's pull, on the ocean's vast tide,

A mirroring rhythm, that women hold inside.

The power to nurture, to create and to mend,

A magic inherent, that has no end.

She offered a potion, of herbs sweet and mild,

To ease Maya's discomfort, and soothe the young child.

 

As Maya listened closely, to each heartfelt plea,

A glimmer of understanding, began to break free.

The fear started fading, replaced by a spark,

A sense of belonging, that lifted the dark.

She looked at the women, their faces so warm,

And felt a connection, that weathered the storm.

 

They shared ancient rituals, and songs of the earth,

Celebrating the womanhood, and her sacred birth.

They painted her body, with henna so fine,

Adorning her beauty, with symbols divine.

They offered her flowers, and fruits of the land,

A welcome to womanhood, hand in hand.

 

Maya, she smiled then, a genuine gleam,

A seed of acceptance, now starting to teem.

She walked to the tree, with a newfound respect,

And touched its rough bark, no longer deject.

She picked a pomegranate, so perfectly red,

And held it gently, no longer in dread.

 

She opened the fruit, and the rubies displayed,

A tapestry of life, beautifully made.

She tasted the sweetness, a vibrant surprise,

A symbol of power, before her own eyes.

She understood now, the mystical art,

The crimson bloom growing, inside of her heart.

 

The pomegranate tree, stood silent and tall,

Watching the young woman, answering the call.

Maya was changing, evolving and strong,

Embracing her journey, where she truly belonged.

The fear had departed, replaced by the grace,

Of womanhood's power, in time and in space.

 

So listen, dear children, to this ballad I sing,

Of Maya's awakening, the joy it can bring.

The crimson bloom blossoms, a symbol so deep,

Of the strength and the beauty, that women will keep.

Embrace the new season, with courage and pride,

The pomegranate's secret, will always abide.

Turn Him Amphibious

 

The moon hangs heavy, a pearl in the night,

A silent witness, bathing all in silver light.

She feels the shift, a tremor deep inside,

A primal rhythm, where secrets reside.

He sleeps beside her, unaware, untroubled, free,

Of the crimson tide that pulls incessantly.

He dreams of battles, of conquests bold and bright,

Oblivious to the turning, the darkening of her light.

 

The first sign arrives, a subtle, nagging ache,

A discontented whisper, that starts to awake.

He stirs, reaches for her, a sleepy, loving sound,

But she pulls away, a wall she builds around.

He wonders briefly, a flicker in his gaze,

Is it something he has done, some careless, hurtful phrase?

He dismisses it quickly, a minor, passing phase,

Unknowing the power that now completely sways.

 

The floodgates open, a surge of ancient pain,

A legacy of womanhood, a burden and a stain.

She curls up tighter, a wounded animal low,

While the red river surges, a torrent that must flow.

He wakes to the sounds, the restless tossing turn,

The low, suppressed moans, a lesson he must learn.

He sees the dampness, the stain upon the sheet,

A primal understanding, bittersweet.

 

He offers comfort, a hand upon her brow,

But she flinches back, whispers, “Leave me now.”

He retreats, confused, hurt by the cold rebuff,

He doesn’t understand, this feminine enough.

He yearns to soothe, to ease her suffering plight,

But finds himself locked out, banished to the night.

He wanders the house, a ghost in silent shoes,

Lost in the labyrinth of cyclical blues.

 

He thinks of logic, of reason, clear and bright,

Of how to fix the problem, to make everything alright.

But logic crumbles, before this ancient force,

A power he can’t control, a different, changing course.

He remembers stories, whispered by his mother,

Of mood swings, cramps, and the pain unlike another.

He dismissed them then, as feminine excess,

But now he feels the weight, the overwhelming stress.

 

He watches her sleep, a pale and fragile form,

Lost in a world of pain, enduring the storm.

He sees the vulnerability, the strength she must possess,

To face this monthly trial, this cyclical distress.

He starts to empathize, a seed begins to grow,

A glimmer of understanding, in the depths below.

He sees beyond the anger, the tears, the sharpest word,

To the raw, exposed nerve, a truth he’d never heard.

 

He researches quietly, online in the night,

Trying to decipher, to bring things into light.

He learns of hormones, of fluctuations high and low,

Of the impact on emotions, the ebb and flow.

He reads of PMS, of bloating, headaches, too,

Of cravings and fatigue, a constant, wearying brew.

He feels a sense of awe, for all that she endures,

The silent suffering, behind those bolted doors.

 

He starts to adjust, to adapt, to understand,

To meet her where she is, with a gentle helping hand.

He buys her favorite treats, chocolates dark and sweet,

He draws a warm bath, a welcome, soft retreat.

He speaks in hushed tones, avoiding any fight,

He offers gentle words, and holds her close at night.

He becomes an island, a safe and steady place,

A haven from the storm, a loving, warm embrace.

 

He learns to anticipate, the changes in her mood,

To tread with careful steps, misunderstood.

He accepts the silence, the moments she needs space,

He trusts the process, with patience and with grace.

He realizes slowly, this isn’t just her plight,

It impacts him as well, it alters day and night.

He’s forced to confront, his own emotional wall,

To open up his heart, and give his all.

 

He sees the power in her pain, the strength it does impart,

The resilience that defines her, right from the very start.

He sees the connection, to generations past,

To the women who endured, whose spirits forever last.

He understands the sacredness, the mystery profound,

The cycle of creation, on fertile, hallowed ground.

He feels a newfound respect, a reverence so deep,

For the woman he loves, and the secrets she does keep.

 

He begins to transform, to shed his hardened shell,

To connect with his emotions, to know himself so well.

He learns to listen closely, to hear what’s left unsaid,

To offer comfort gently, and banish all his dread.

He becomes amphibious, able to navigate the tide,

To move between the worlds, where both emotions reside.

He embraces empathy, a skill he didn’t know,

He could unlock within, and watch his spirit grow.

 

The moon begins to wane, the tide starts to recede,

The storm begins to pass, planting a hopeful seed.

She emerges slowly, from the depths of her despair,

A little weaker perhaps, but stronger everywhere.

She sees the change in him, the softness in his eyes,

The understanding gaze, that holds no hidden lies.

She reaches for his hand, a silent gratitude,

For his patience and his love, so strong, so understood.

 

He holds her close again, no longer filled with fear,

But with a deeper bond, that makes their love so clear.

He has faced the challenge, the test of every man,

To stand beside his woman, and truly understand.

He has learned to be amphibious, to navigate the sea,

Of feminine emotion, setting his spirit free.

And as the moon ascends, to begin her cycle new,

He knows they’ll face it together, as lovers, strong and true.

 

The lesson learned remains, etched deep within his soul,

That love requires surrender, to make a spirit whole.

To turn him amphibious, to bridge the gender divide,

And find a deeper connection, where true emotions reside.

The crimson tide may ebb and flow, forevermore,

But their love will stand the test, on life's unpredictable shore.

For he has learned the secret, the truth he now embraces,

That understanding womanhood, elevates all spaces.

My Aura

 

The crimson tide, a lunar call,

A woman's secret, rising tall.

Not shame, nor curse, but primal fire,

A mystic turning, a deep desire.

This sacred bleed, a turning key,

To realms unseen, for her and me.

 

The moon hangs heavy, low and bright,

Tonight my aura burns with light.

A subtle shift, a whispered change,

Through ancient pathways, souls arrange.

The iron sings within my veins,

A wildness stirring, joy and pains.

 

Before the dawn, the cramping starts,

A heavy weight upon my heart.

I brew my tea, with ginger bright,

And face the shadows of the night.

No gentle maiden, meek and mild,

But something deeper, fierce and wild.

 

The world perceives a monthly dread,

A weakness spoken, fear is spread.

But they know not the truth within,

The fertile power, where life begins.

The ancient mothers understood,

The surging spirit, strong and good.

 

My cycle turns, a rhythmic dance,

A vibrant, primal, mystic trance.

The whispers rise from moonlit shore,

A potent magic I explore.

This bleeding time, a sacred space,

To shed the old, and find my grace.

 

And yes, I see it in their eyes,

A flicker catching, a surprise.

A raw awareness, newly born,

As if a silent, ancient horn

Has sounded deep within their soul,

Beyond their learned, controlling role.

 

They call it "whims" or "hormonal sway,"

And try to push the truth away.

They label "hysteria" and "mood,"

Not understanding, as they should,

The power pulsing in my core,

That opens pathways, wanting more.

 

They sense a freedom, unrestrained,

A primal energy unchained.

A veil is lifted, thin and sheer,

Revealing depths they hold so dear,

But hide from light, for fear and shame,

Lost in the artificial game.

 

It isn't lust, in purest form,

Though physical desires may swarm.

It's something deeper, more profound,

A buried truth, on fertile ground.

A recognition, deep inside,

Of life's great mystery, side by side.

 

They see the earth in blooming red,

The ancient wisdom, long since dead,

Reawakening with primal grace,

Upon my brow, upon my face.

They see the power to create,

And tremble at their own sad fate.

 

They’re trapped within their rigid walls,

Where logic reigns and feeling falls

Beneath the weight of structured thought,

A vibrant truth they’ve sold and bought.

But in my aura, they can see,

A chance to finally break free.

 

They see the wildness they suppress,

The aching need for tenderness.

The yearning for a deeper touch,

That means so much, and matters much.

They long to shed their armor tight,

And bathe within my crimson light.

 

It stirs the hunter, deep and old,

A story whispered, to be told.

The provider instinct, sharp and keen,

To nurture life, a vibrant scene.

To offer comfort, solace, ease,

And tend to ancient vulnerabilities.

 

They see the goddess in my gaze,

A fiery passion, through a haze.

The strength to birth, to nourish, mend,

A love that knows no earthly end.

And in that moment, they are drawn,

Back to the source, from whence they're born.

 

This isn't weakness, as they claim,

But strength refined, a burning flame.

The power to create and to destroy,

To fill the world with pain and joy.

The balanced scales, the ebb and flow,

The secrets that the women know.

 

So let them gaze, let them perceive,

The potent magic I believe.

Let them be humbled by the sight,

Of primal power, burning bright.

Let them remember, deep within,

The sacred source, where life can begin.

 

And let me, in my crimson phase,

Embrace the power of these days.

To heal and nurture, understand,

The mysteries held within my hand.

To be a beacon, strong and true,

And guide them to the world anew.

 

The cramping fades, the flow subsides,

But still, the magic gently guides.

The moon retreats, the tide descends,

A new cycle starts, and never ends.

And in their eyes, a glimmer stays,

Of that wild beauty, through the days.

 

For once they’ve seen the crimson light,

That burns so fiercely, pure and bright,

They can't forget the primal call,

That stirs within them, one and all.

The memory lingers, sweet and deep,

A promise whispered, secrets to keep.

 

So let the world misunderstand,

The power surging in my hand.

I know the truth, and I will hold,

This ancient wisdom, brave and bold.

And in my aura, they will find,

A truth that heals the human mind.

A woman's truth, divinely blessed,

A cycle turning, put to the test.

The crimson tide, a sacred sign,

My aura burns, forever mine.

Moon Cycle

 

The silver sickle, hung so high,

A silent witness in the sky,

To secrets whispered, soft and low,

Of life that ebbs and life that flow.

It marks the tide, the turning year,

The rise of hope, the fall of fear,

And in its light, a deeper grace,

A rhythm woven in time and space.

 

Freyja, fair and fiercely bold,

With amber hair and stories told,

Of magic woven, wild and free,

And love for all eternity,

She watched her daughters, earth below,

Embracing joy, enduring woe,

And felt their pain, a kindred sting,

As crimson rivers took their wing.

 

She knew the whispers, shame and dread,

The burdens placed upon each head,

The ancient curses, darkly spun,

That made this sacred cycle shunned.

But Freyja saw the strength within,

The potent magic, free from sin,

The fertile power, deep and vast,

A legacy that's meant to last.

 

The first moon blush, a sudden bloom,

A maiden trembling in her room,

Confused and frightened by the sight,

A journey starting in the night.

Her grandmother, with knowing eyes,

Would hold her close beneath the skies,

And tell her tales of Freyja's grace,

And find her strength within this space.

 

"Child," she'd say, her voice serene,

"This is not weakness, nor unclean.

It is the moon's embrace so deep,

A promise that you're meant to keep.

The earth itself, it bleeds and sighs,

With changing seasons in its eyes,

And so do you, a daughter true,

Reflecting life, both old and new.

 

"Freyja watches, never fear,

She feels your pain and holds you dear.

She understands the body's plight,

The dance of darkness and of light.

This is the power of creation,

The wellspring of all generation.

Embrace it now, with open heart,

A brand new chapter, a fresh start."

 

The heavy flow, a cramping ache,

A body trembling, for goodness sake,

The weariness that settles deep,

Disturbing slumber, stealing sleep.

The modern world, it offers pills,

To quell the pain, to stop the thrills,

But Freyja whispers in the breeze,

"Listen to your body, if you please."

 

For in the rest, a healing lies,

A chance to look with inner eyes,

To shed the old, the worn, the weak,

And find the wisdom that you seek.

The anger rising, sharp and strong,

A burning feeling, righting wrong,

Is Freyja's passion, fiercely bright,

Defending truth with all her might.

 

The cravings strange, a primal need,

For chocolate dark, a forbidden deed,

Are echoes of the ancient feasts,

Where women gathered, sharing beasts,

And celebrated life's great art,

The power pulsing in each heart.

They honoured the moon, the earth, the sea,

And knew their strength eternally.

 

The emotional tide, a shifting sand,

A fragile grip upon the land,

The tears that fall, a cleansing rain,

Washing away the hurt and pain.

The sensitivity, so raw and deep,

Allowing secrets long to sleep,

To surface now, and find release,

A pathway leading towards peace.

 

Freyja encourages the release,

The letting go, the inner peace.

She knows the burden women bear,

The silent struggles, the despair.

But in this cycle, she imparts,

A strength to mend their broken hearts,

A resilience that will never break,

For her beloved daughters' sake.

 

The moon wanes slowly, night by night,

The crimson river, growing light,

A gentle easing, soft and slow,

Preparing for the seeds to sow.

The energy returns anew,

A feeling vibrant, strong and true,

A clarity of thought and mind,

A purpose clear, for all mankind.

 

This is the time for action bold,

To manifest the stories told,

To create, to build, to plant the seed,

To nurture life, to fill the need.

The sharpened focus, keen and bright,

To navigate the darkest night,

To use the power that you hold,

And write a future, brave and bold.

 

But still, the shadow lingers near,

The societal judgement, filled with fear,

The whispers of "hysteria,"

A tool to silence, to demean, to sear.

The period poverty, a cruel divide,

Denying women dignity and pride,

The lack of access, shame and blame,

Perpetuating an ancient game.

 

Freyja weeps for this injustice,

The ignorance that cuts so deep, it's

Time to rise and break the chains,

To challenge the patriarchal reins.

To educate and to empower,

To plant the seeds of change each hour,

To normalize the sacred flow,

And help true understanding grow.

 

She calls upon her daughters now,

To raise their voices, take a bow,

To celebrate their bodies' grace,

And find their power in this space.

To share their stories, loud and clear,

To banish shame and conquer fear,

To stand together, hand in hand,

And reclaim their rightful place in the land.

 

The silver moon, now full and bright,

Reflects the truth with all its light,

That women's cycles are divine,

A sacred rhythm, intertwined

With nature's pulse, the earth's embrace,

A gift of life, a holy space.

So honor it with reverence deep,

And secrets of the Goddess keep.

 

Freyja smiles, her heart ablaze,

As women rise in countless ways,

Embracing their inherent might,

And shining forth with inner light.

The crimson tide, no longer shame,

But a symbol of life's burning flame,

A testament to strength and grace,

A legacy for all time and space.

 

So let the moon be your guide true,

Through every phase, in all you do,

And know that Freyja watches near,

Her love and guidance, always here.

Embrace the cycle, ebb and flow,

And let your inner goddess grow.

For in this dance, you'll truly find,

The power of a woman's mind.