I am seizure

of intent

moldering down the firmament,

casting seasons

from the net,

for the one iridescent



Would you take my soul?


I will let you.


I am pure gold,

gushing from the

mountainside of God.


Do you know me?


This is it. This. Here. Now. The riches of abundance are found by digging right under your feet.  Don’t miss it.

© Andrea Mathews 2014

2014-09-27 19.07.43




 Security is my moon,

a lion’s face

swimming in black sea,

a woman’s hair

in shiny barrettes.

Security is where

I tie myself

in here–

out there

in here,

where a lion prowls at night

on global feet

in silence,

stirring the grazing, the lumbering

            into the light,

   a ram,

a bear,

a bull,

            a lion


for the moon.


In the Western world, we’ve been taught to fear our emotions along with everything else in the inner world. They should be kept at bay in the name of the rational. But that stance assumes that the rational knows what it is doing. Further, like the moon rules the tide, there is an invisible but very viable force that wants us. Instinctive and raw, it wants only the pure essence of itself in us, as us.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

2014-09-08 22.08.52


Dragging around the light

is like hiding it,


head tucked, bleary

from beating against the cage.


Skeletons creep through my room at night

cracking bones

on cold wooden floors.

Fence posts call for more

privacy, sound the alarm.

Dogs bark alone

at my midnight snack—

skillets frying mad women,

small and unharmed.


Fear of the dark

is my excuse;

there are far too many bleak dead-ends

where I wake, unable to scream,

praying the light will loosen,

drop hot into sacred silence,

burn a hole for the moon.


We’ve been taught to drag around the light, asking that our performance measure up to some righteous standard. But as long as we can’t find it inside of us, the only thing that will awaken us is our nightmares. Even then, however, the light is the longing for light.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

2014-09-08 22.08.37


Slip under the covers with me,

wrap yourself in my sweat

and plead my case to the heavens

when we’ve gone. . .


into Southside, an old house

a dark woman that I hold,

and though I am not certain of her love

I tell her of mine and don’t know why–

outside on the curb someone holds an ancient picture of my mother

and I discover that we are cousins—this chthonic woman and I.


Back into the old house, there’s a man downstairs

who thinks I should be able to see through

the floor boards, that he should never have

to tell me that he’s holding one of my numbers—

that I’ll just know.


These are the equations, the convergences,

the quaternities. 

Perhaps there is nothing else.  


There is a river of image, story, metaphor, a river that tells us who we are, what we want and need, and the things that keep us from having them. We dive under the currents of this river at night, when the lights go down. And we float without breath in the underworld, the images, the stories and the meanings running through us. We become whole there, only to awaken in half-time, half the meaning of life only partially revealed. Perhaps, if we could just hold the dream, like a fish caught by hand, until we have skinned, filleted, cooked and eaten it–perhaps then we could know the whole story, live the whole dream. 

© Andrea Mathews, 2014



Cool slips of reddened leaves

fly—an eagle—past


Here you become the nothing

sky is,

whispering past hearing

into the silence,

capturing pieces of memory

hope, dream;

scattered ashes


as blood, bone,

scheme, memory, whisper.

I am that I am not

to be I am.


Part of becoming who we are, is realizing that which we are not–but that which we have been attempting to be. We cannot say “no” to who we are not, however, until we have a place to land in the Authentic Self.  But discerning the difference is an inside job where we sort out the distinctions in the dark by braille. Yet, either this or something as profound as a near death these are the pathways past the blindness of identity, mask and costume and into essential beingness. 

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

2014-09-01 19.23.59


Blood, bone, clarity,

intention wide as sky,

milked for weed and forest,

dried for desert and snake,

the shadowland of sacred waters

sings the cry of the loon,

singular and plural as the moon.


There is yet no I,

in the circles of the shadow,

in the shades of meaning

drawn of blood and bone,

drawn from the bag of skin

thrown, thin, over discovery.


A skater sheers the thick veneer

masking the flooded healing,

coated fisherman drop their lines

through a man-sized hole,

hungry, mountains rock the world

on steam and shimmer,

until the dawn of spring.


When she comes she shakes

shadow from eclipses

fingers the banks of every lake

pushing back the hard places,

pulling on the knotted hair of roots,

holding on, holding in

the sky roiling and raining

down through the valleys

into the abyss

to partake of her first round drink

of her own waters.


Make of it what you will, but it is possible to live an entire life bereft of soul–it drifting above your head, your body just a string below a balloon. Coming home to soul means also coming fully alive to body.

©  Andrea Mathews, 2014




There is another sound

other than that you hear,

escaping off the edge of rock;

she runs dark,

deep, like night in river

stays at bottom

all day.

Silence is her way.


But listen to touch,

or, sometimes you can see her

running through rain

on hot breaths of white air.

It is there, just

in that changeling place,

where she screams loudest

her local gods,

selling her wears

in the street.


Be still to know that I AM, you are, divine.  You will find the stillness in the profound simplicity of breath, heartbeat,  the climb of a rose from seed to bloom, the arrogance of bird on the air, the thunder of wind….yes, she is, in fact, everywhere.


© Andrea Mathews, 2014

crystal palace