Your invitation didn't note
that masks were required

when I joined your
October masquerade
I came naked face
tender hands
as we fluid bonded
within the musical strains
of our mutual pleasure

and when, beneath
the soft snowfall
of November's ballroom,
our eyes danced
as you kissed me still
I thought the catch of your breath
revealed a beginning
rather than obscuring an ending

see, I only had eyes for you
I didn't know this
was less a date
and more a party
animal themed
within the savagery 
of social niceties.

so when you donned
your magpie plumage
plucked from the
epiphanies of summer
I couldn't see that 
your corvid gaze
was looking through
the kindred spirit
of my teal-winged eyes
parading postures
before the empty room
all my held space
afforded you.

I didn't hear
that masked owl
in the shadows
preying quietly with
taloned words
and the contortion of
turned head retrospect,
a romantic kind of danger.

for you see
owls kill magpies
and every true magpie knows
there is safety in numbers
in mobbing threats
through built tribe trust.
I long ago inked her
long-tailed clan
upon my back
to have my back.

still, my thin skin
is no mask,
my magic doesn't come
from costumed defense.
It has always been
humbly present
in my close kin connections,
the way I unmask myself.

imagine then, how small
how vulnerable I felt
as you unveiled
the hidden world
of your masquerade
while I stood
in the center of
all the lavish word finery
an unadorned fool.

after all
every magpie knows
one is for sorrow


they find me
these broken boy men
by the isolationist culture
that created them

they sit before me
their words, trauma, and light
(but never their tears)
into the chalice of my understanding

my mother instinct
has always been strong
the space of my holding
soft. vast.
Wendy in the never (ending) land
of lost stories and souls

they think I am safe
I am. and I am not
for my mother love 
slowly dissolves 
the dissociative magic of stasis
gently coaxing infectious pain
to the surface
to be felt. heard. healed.

this is my gift
and my curse
the creation of safe space
for unsafe self-truths

each time after
as I drive home
all the unshed tears
from the eyes of their
desensitized PTSD
spill from mine
a transference counter
to the complex lonely needs
of my grown up heart

Grains of Sand 

He bullies me still
long past the carnage of divorce
in barbed words and cold dismissal
of the stretch scarred landscape
of my motherhood.

He writes and rewrites
the history of our together
as though his pain could
change the tangents of time
As though he was the
the colonial author
of a story that isn't his;
figments to justify the
the bitter taste
of his vulnerability

I watch quietly
as he dismantles my past
a tiny dictator desperate
to control every narrative
even as they fall through
his tightly clenched fingers
as irreverent as wayward
grains of sand.




In the midst of the crushing
my mother love turns inwards
soft edges of hard truths

She says:
my fierce wild one
your determination is
tautly built bridges
of traversed hardship
Strong grip 
tempered mettle

Your determination is not what is needed in this.

Your love is
deep cavernous callings
of transformative connection
Dripping notes 
heart-strung songs

Your love is not what is needed in this.

Your shine is
bright searing exaltation
licking the edges of night
Smouldering words
burning catalyst

Your shine is not what is needed in this.

My dear one
forgive the solitude
of your singular voice:
one will
one heart
one light

Forgive your vulnerability
your humanness
your limitations
and let go.

that raw resolve
bleeding heart
blazing light

to the magic 
that is so much more
than this one 
small moment

Oathbound - Prose 

The wind is singing in the trees, the night swollen with untamed mystery.  Every moment with you has a timeless quality, as though I were searing them each in real time into the storied memory of my deeper self.  The wind is in the trees, the sensation of that wild power already enmeshed swirling in the lingering taste of your ravenous lips; entangled in the incorrigible pounding of my heart through my flesh.   I don't want this to end, the way I experience you as both an evanescent moment and an incandescent promise.  I don't want to watch you leave me, I want to draw you back with the magnetic pull of my fervour for you.  All this and more fills me as I watch the curve of your back, and the measured steps you take towards tomorrow.  The mist of rain tingling on my skin.  The tendrils of my hair lifting ever so slightly to the turbulent sea of air all around.  The heat of your body still rising within me, like a waking dream.  The expresso cadence of your voice still sliding down the softness of my wanting skin.  The notes of blue morning running through me, subjugating me to its insistent truth, that I am yours, already oathbound to our visceral connection.  

Minutia of Day 

During the long days
orphaned thoughts float
through currents of mind
I want to write beautiful words to you
to paint the colour of my desire;
the depth of my love. 
I want to be the reason your laughter fills your room.  
Yet it is the minutiae of day
that become the weight-bearing bones of us
small cells of time strung together
to create the shape of our forever. 



If love is stripped in layers

peeled in tiny ribbons 
of shredded dismissal
from the casing 
of hearts home
If love flakes away
in such small increments
dismantled by time and neglect
until it is nothing
but the dusty artifact
of a lost emotional civilization
Then surely it is also built in layers
a spackled patchwork
of small moments and small words 
that seek restoration 
rather than ruin  
that build upon the 
good bones of what
already is.
Surely each thoughtful stroke
deepens the colour rich
art of we
until the two of us 
are a living mural 
of our already shared life.  

Sacral Calling - Prose 

The imprint of your fingers is on my skin, last night lingering like a thin meniscus held in place by the subtle tension of my longing for you.  Your words tell me you want me, love me, desire me.  Your words ring in my body like a bell, and yet it is your fingers that spill love notes onto my paper skin.  Your fingers tracing the shape of the space I inhabit, as if you were learning the contours of me.  Your words, a gift, and yet your body had already whispered what your lips were afraid to say, that you have lost and found yourself within me as deeply as I have within you.  
No-one has touched me the way you do, as though I were a sacred landscape to experience rather than to cultivate.  As though I were a sacred song that you let vibrate the strings of your being rather than plucking discordant.  You delve deeply my love and I cannot help but feel that you do see me, your eyes rich with light and shadow calling that chthonic sacral swell within me.   A call, primal and true, to which my body answers over and over...and that song, ringing overtones of rightness between us.  


You fit so easily
into the minutia of my life
As though you had always been
hidden within the colourful threads
of my woven life.

This is how you come to me
sparkle of silver within<BR< an already full life. 

intuitive call of body magic
weaving spells between us.  

moonlight shimmer on a darkened sea
quickening the moist edges of tidal longing

alchemy of emotional sychronicity
a merging so bright
—so soulful—
that I cannot imagine that we were ever apart.  

Unfurling - Prose 

I wanted to tell you I love you within the first days.  I didn't, holding back, afraid to rip the delicate tissue of our still merging filaments.  Each night as the elixir of your voice-- sweet as harvest wine--filled me up I wanted to overflow into your arms, into the softness of the space you held just for me.  I ached to have you, all of you, within me, around me; to welcome you to find home within the landscape of my body.  Torrid words rise within me, endearments still moist from the wants of my impatient lips.  Still I wait as an us slowly unfurls, a transmutation so precious, I want to to cherish each subtle shift; each sighing moment.



Find Me



Previous events


Shades of the Living Light The music of Hidegard von Bingen

Yoga MCC, 2028b 33rd Ave. SW., Calgary, Alberta


Shades of the Living Light

The music of Hidegard von Bingen

March 12, 2016 7:00-9:30pm

$30+ gst

Vanessa Cardui - voice, guitar

Sora - voice, piano

Dorothy Bishop - cello

Trudy Hipwell - percussion

Prashant - bansuri, guitars

"The beauty and depth of theme found in Hildegard’s theology, philosophy, cosmology and medicine can all be found condensed in her music as in a jewel."



Sands of Time Exhibit

Essentia, 1113 Kensington Rd. N.W., Calgary, AB

We would love to invite you to the Sands of Time Opening Reception where you will be able to view Liba's incredible peices of art, while contemplating time. Sora will also be singing Celtic melodies that are sure to put you in awe! Liba Labik is a local visual artist who explores in her latest work time and its impact on life. She is using mainly oil, encaustic and mixed media in her work. During Liba's Opening Reception for "The Sands of Time," Sora will be singing.  Sora is a World/Celtic singer, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist whose soaring voice and poetic lyrics have garnered her international acclaim.  *30% of each art piece sold in January at Essentia will go to the Calgary Wildlife Rehabilitation Society. For more information, please visit:



Annual Candlelight Shindig

The Lantern Community Church, 1401 10th Ave SE, Calgary, AB

A Christmas story interspersed with holiday music.