Category Archives: Paganism

Chap Books Are On The Way

I am in the final stages of putting together poetry chap books. Stay tuned for when they go on sale, and where to get them.

Each will have color covers, and contain 20-30 pages of poetry.




~ Esther Mitchell, 2015~

Silent, she sits,
Her body is a drum held quivering,
A beat hangs ready to pound from her mouth,
A booming clap, like thunder off the canyon.
Her words are a weapon,
Forged to draw her own blood,
Not lines on a map or stains on a battlefield,
She offers up her own blood,
Her own flesh,
Says “Hear me, for I am the body you’ve forsaken.”
Every life into this world is bathed in her blood,
Every life out, in her tears,
Oceans filled with her weeping,
Until the world is pulled under,
Gasping against her unwitting vengeance.
Her heart pulses with fire,
Shoots sparklers into the night sky,
Bathes the heavens in white-hot lightning,
Dances the night sky with streamers of light,
Until her frenzied celebration slips into the dawn,
Peels back the curtain to embrace bright heat,
Unwilling to be thwarted by its burn.
This is the birthright trapped within every woman,
Which frightens men to violence,
Trying to tame that which refuses to be anything but wild.


“Fae Kisses”

~Esther Mitchell, 1985~

A sprinkle of crystalline drops,
A gossamer robe hung to dry,
The whispered song of mother to young,
An echo of sweet lullaby;

The rustle of unseen footsteps,
Upon lush, color-strewn rugs,
And the tickle of bubbling laughter,
That wraps ‘round you like a hug;

Each wooded glade knows,
The sweet song of Morning’s mist,
As each pathway glows,
Touched by a Faery’s sweet kiss.

I wrote this poem what seems like a lifetime ago, now, as I sat in a tiny grove of trees, listening to the spirits of Nature all around me. In that morning light, I found feelings that forever linger, and made a friendship that’s followed me all the years since. I decided to share the thoughts I could only find words to put to paper in a poem, all those years ago.

Angel Child

Brief Acknowledgement and Thanks

This isn’t a poem… But I wanted to take just a moment and thank everyone for your interest in my poetry. Your support and interest is heart warming and very much appreciated!

Thank you!


~Esther Mitchell, 2013~


I am the daughter of my mothers,

Stretching backward through all time,

The Maiden, the Mother, the Crone,

Each in turn a piece of who I have become;


I am the daughter of my mothers,

The Earth, the Sky, the Sea,

Born of holy Fire,

My spirit, from eternity, set free.


I am a child of the Wheel,

A creation of Destiny, of Fate.


I am the daughter of my mothers,

The Harlot, the Priestess, the Amazon,

I know where my soul belongs,

My heart, my center, my friend.


I am the daughter of my mothers,

And to their teachings I turn,

To be true to myself, to all that I am,

Is the greatest lesson I’ve ever learned.

“No Fear”

~Esther Mitchell, 2012~

I know no fear of the night.

On stealthy feet,

I find my way through every darkness,

With eyes that see more than mere light,

I embrace the starlight as joyfully as the dawn.

I know no fear of the unknown.

Without hesitance,

I follow where the tracks lead,

The hunt leads me onward,

and Truth, Honor, and Compassion keep me from harm.

I know no fear of my own Truth.

With confidence,

I follow my own paths forward,

With joyful abandon,

I hear the whispers of promise that dance ahead.

I have no cause to fear,

For the spirit of Wolf walks with me,

And the beating of wings stir above me.

There is nothing of this world,

That can take from me what is of the Other,

And no matter the trial, on this Path I will walk free and unafraid.

Wolves 06

“Mortal Eyes”

~Esther Mitchell, 1988 ~

Mortal lips have never told,

what mortal eyes do behold,

but mortal hands and mortal works,

is where Eternity’s power lurks.

Immortality can never know,

what wealth passing on may sow,

Never imagined are such things,

by those who, of Eternity, sing.

The briefest glimpse, as fragile life knows,

allows imagination to open the rose,

The sweetest lines are always made,

by those only briefly in Life’s shade.

No care do immortals have of creating,

for they will never feel breath bating,

and they have no desire to make,

for they do not have to cling to life or break.

No, they do not see even a glimmer,

of what, to mortals, shimmers,

for theirs is not an ending dance,

and they have no regret of lost chances.