RedCat is a lifelong bookworm, that thinks reading, writing poetry and prose, music and dance, makes life worth living.
Her writing spans any topic that currently inspires her, be that love, life, environment, mythology or anything else that pops into her head.
Originally from the deep woods, this fiery redhead now makes home in Stockholm, Sweden, where you might run into her dancing the night away in one of the city's techno-clubs.
She’s hunting the corridors In her once splendid gown Now, just sad tatters of brown Retracing her steps, as countless times before
Where once there were eyes Is now pits of black sorrow Knowing there will never be a bright tomorrow The house echoes with her cries
She will never again hold her children close Or see them thrive and grow Never again see their smiles Or guide them through life’s trials Never again hear their laughter Or have the joy to care and look after
A mother’s love never dies Keeps her searching forevermore Trapped here on the lonely moor Even as the centuries flies
Some say I should curse my love, for making me become this. That I should have refused her hand, as I lay dying on the battlefield. I say she swooped down and saved me, took me to the fields beyond. Gave me new meaning and eternal love.
So what does it matter? How I look, or the horns I bear. I bear them proudly, without feeling their weight. They are a sign of my prowess and courageous heart. Of her giving me part of her essence, meaning she’ll always be near.
Now we fly the skies together. From afar seeing what becomes of man. Diving down to pick up, those that no longer have flesh hands. After we have them delivered, we fly back to our fields. In the soft twilight, there is no need for armour or shield.
There we lay together, exploring the way to each other’s bliss. So truth be told, I’ve never been happier than this.
When inspiration strikes, whether it’s convenient or not, I try to write. And few things are as good at waking my muse as the pictures curated by Paul Brooks over at The Wombwell Rainbow. See all images and read other responses to the Folktober Challenge here.
The other night I never got to fall asleep. Around midnight my youngest started to cry heart-wrenchingly because of growing pains. Aside from heating the wheat-heater, there was nothing I could do beside hold him and comfort him. He fell asleep again, fitfully. Waking every other hour to cry. Sometimes during the night, after crying myself because I felt torn in two wanting to do something and knowing I couldn’t, I wrote this poem.
This year have been different and difficult, not only due to the pandemic.
I found the courage to truly persue my writing dream deciding to take a leap year and go for creative writing classes. I learnt things about myself I never thought possible. Both that I have more strength and courage than I thought and that apparently I’m neurodiverse. (Still processing that one.) I got to know, connected with, got close to, new people who have taught me about myself, taught me to appreciate myself, and given me more love and care than my trauma wrought mind thinks I deserve. I won’t make any new years resolutions but I’ve already wowed to keep writing, keep exploring my inborn strength, keep searching for the right way to pay forward the love and care I’ve been given and keep searching for the most effective way as an ascender to ensure as few children as possible will know the kind of abuse I knew (or any of the other kind available to abusers).
Take care of yourself and through action, not just words, show those you care about your love! ❤️
Birth echoes through all our time Time shard echoes in our minds Minds echo with contact cruel or kind Cruel or kind actions, echo through humankind Humankind echoes, with what was done before our time Time to shed the old, to let new life echo all around
I’m running late for everything it feels like. But mostly it’s about the writing I have left to do. And the fact that I haven’t prepared the advent calendar as I had thought to do. So here a day late you’ll get the post I have thought to re-post to free my time up and celebrate my oldest turning ten.
At first I thought I’d do a re-post today, of my first Echo Poem, to give me free birthday time. But my mind keep going round and round in echoes, so I had to write a new one.
Each year in the day leading up to my children’s birthday I have flashbacks of birth both in mind and body. Not something I mention often as it sound so trippy, but both my own mother and others have described similar feelings. And if your open to it, giving birth is one of the most profound birth-death-rebirth experiences, aka trips, a woman can have.
As the days shortens and the nights lengthens to midwinter it feels like time is running out. Like soon there be no time left to do anything. The awareness of the coming turning does nothing to alleviate this feeling. Add to that a ton of course work left, a child’s birthday to celebrate and only ten days left to Christmas Eve, and the feeling goes from uneasy to alarming. There really is very little time to get everything left to do done.
Time is running out This odd year is about to end Darkness flowing in