Tonight without leaving my bed I make my pilgrimage to the darkest corner of the forest. The shadow of black granite rises to pierce the rumbling sky. I do not let the chill in my bones slow my determined progress. I drag the ache in my heart behind me as I place my well worn doll into the empty chamber for safekeeping.

At the moon chime, sleep gave way to dreaming. Last night I found myself wandering back through time. Having laid my body down, my soul slipped out to set sail on the old currents that still sometimes lap at my shore.

The water always called, whispering in strange tongues as her blood rushed and the tides surged. Between the moon and her there were no secrets. Nothing hidden from the gloaming that promised its night of strange fables, already stippling her skin as she dreamwalked the shoreline.

In the dark she lay coiled, comforted only by the proximity of her own body and its tangled histories. Wildness coursed through her veins, cauterising any cares she had left and stretching her hunger to breaking. After so long spent itching in her skin and burning for change, transition began without warning. Alone in the belly of the cave when no moon hung in the sky.

Even after such a long dark middle ages she resisted the cocoon until finally the gossamer weave was placed gently over her sagging shoulders. She folded herself into it gratefully and balled up to swim her way through the transition.

The Phoenix Motel languishes at the end of a long dusty highway, the bugs on your windscreen betraying how hard and fast the drive has been. The rooms are filling quickly as they always do this time of year. The smart money is getting locked in for the scorpion's moon.

Last night I found myself wandering back through time. I lay my body down to sleep and my soul slips out to set sail on the old currents that still sometimes lap at my shore.

Every dark moon found her wandering these enchanted moors, a practice she had employed for lifetimes as she bore witness to painful rising and falling in the world of men. For far too many centuries now she had held the terrible cost to her aching heart as the moon turned her face to darkness. They wept together, tears turning to crystal in the frozen night air and falling from the sky like diamonds to litter the landscape with hope.

Last night I found myself wandering back through time. I lay my body down to sleep and my soul slips out to set sail on the old currents that still sometimes lap at my shore.

Because this is my birth-ing day, it seems entirely perfect to announce the arrival of my very first book baby.

Morsel, a collection of poems and tales, is due for release when the stars align in just a few short weeks!

Not all moons are created equal. The journey through the deep treacle of the Aquarian balsam is no ordinary dark mooning. Descending like an otherworldly cloak as beneath its soft sparking folds you are transported, this caravan of selves.

There are three things that have always soothed my soul, no matter how my head is rolling or my heart is crooning. The first is the ocean. She is never the same girl twice. I love her wild storms as much as her glittering glassy calm. The second is birds and their signature songs. Winged creatures are my allies and friends. The final and always most effective at settling understanding into me is to write.

Today without leaving my bed I make my pilgrimage to the darkest corner of the forest. The shadow of black granite rises to pierce the rumbling sky. I do not let the chill in my bones slow my determined progress. I drag the ache in my heart behind me as I place my well worn doll into the empty chamber for safekeeping.

I was chatting with this old bird today and he told me a story from once upon a time in my backyard. In the beginning when his kind had arrived to this lush paradise, he gestured wildly with his wing, life was simple. They ate. They squawked. They flew. They slept.

Neptune is doing a roaring trade at the Zodiac Bar. Most every night booths crammed with strange cosmic couplings, the kind that crack the haze just the way he likes it. The room has been tilting and heaving with the constant choreography.