Tuesday, June 16, 2026

Handsigns and Mudras for Wicca

tinyurl.com/wiccan-mudras

In memory of Raymond and Melissa

Wiccan ritual in the Circle typically involves a lot of equipment, for example: an altar, often with altar cloth; a metal pentacle or paten, which lies flat on the altar to represent the element of Earth; a chalice to hold water, wine, or ale, and represent the element of Water; an athame (black-handled straight blade) may represent either Air or Fire, depending on the tradition of Wicca being practiced; while the wand may conversely represent either Fire or Air. Candles are set at the four cardinal directions, each for an element and guardian in itself, but also of course when lit host real Fire. Figurines represent the God and Goddess. Many traditions expect each participant to have a nine-foot-long knotted braided cord or cingulum, for measuring the radius of a ritual circle among other purposes. There are symbols of rank, crowns, for the High Priest (with horns or antlers) and High Priestess (often with lunar symbols like crescents).

It has been said and written, over and over, that these ritual tools are symbols for manipulating spiritual forces, and consecrated to that purpose. The athame, for instance, is never to be used for the shedding of blood; that would so befoul it as to require its destruction.

However, security guards at prisons and hospitals do not, cannot, see it that way. Wiccans who have been prison inmates and hospital inpatients have — like everyone else in those facilities — not been allowed to bring in knives, no matter how consecrated to nonviolent purposes those might be.

The conjunction of a physical athame with a chalice will not be allowed there... which impedes the practice of Wiccan religion as it does not impede the practice of (say) Christianity.

The loophole Wiccans could take advantage of here is the word "physical" — or to put it another way: if the blade itself is only a symbol for manipulating spiritual forces, why not use another symbol?

Eastern religions — Hinduism and Buddhism — have been using handsigns (mudras) to represent both physical objects and states of mind for thousands of years. The Shuto Uchi ("knife hand" gesture) of Shotokan Karate derives from Buddhist mudras that signify the sword of enlightenment cutting through ignorance and delusion. I do not propose that Wiccans adopt Eastern mudras whole — unless they also practice Yoga, and find Yoga mudras helpful. However, I am recommending the concept, the technique, of being able to use handsigns when the physical tools are not available.

I also suggest this more broadly to Wiccans holding group ritual where shouting for tools you want makes distracting noise — and being able to handsign for them silently would be more discreet.

As distinct from the existing ASL handsigns used by the deaf community, I wanted as much as possible to use one-handed signs (for either hand), not involving the face or body, so that "tools" could be "used together" — ale or wine poured into the chalice, athame conjoined with chalice, wand (or other tool) laid upon pentacle/paten for consecration, spears crossed in the protective symbol, etc. — or a physical tool silently requested across group ritual when one hand is already occupied by another (e.g. a stang or staff).

Otherwise some handsigns may look familiar to ASL users, e.g.: "Chalice" is a one-handed version of the two-handed ASL sign for "Cup", except movement is not required to sign it. Here, "Candle" is signed with one hand (even an optional "flickering" for clarity) instead of two.

The "crown" handsigns are deliberately context-dependent:
  • By themselves they mean "(bring me) the crown";
  • Preceded by, say, "telephone" or pointing to a person, they mean the respective coven leader;
  • Preceded by, say, "draw down" or "pray to", then the respective deity.
(Cf. the spoken/written word "crown" when referring to the headgear worn by a king, vs. the king himself, vs. the king's legal personification in court cases he himself may never attend or even know about — "The Crown against [Defendant]".)

The HP/HPS crown can be signed with the back of one's hand against one's forehead, and thereafter visualized through the rest of ritual... which brings me to another point.

Some of you may have encountered the very old (dating back to classical times) memorization technique of the "Interior Castle", in which one practices visualizing an interior over and over until it is as familiar as one's home, linking sections of a speech or any other text one must memorize to the areas of the "Castle" one systematically wanders through. Clearly this is a visualization mode one can also use to practice ritual — again, where the now purely visualized tools are symbols for manipulating spiritual forces, no less than the physical tools were. Verbum sapienti sat est.

License

For public benefit, I am releasing these handsign and mudra designs under a Creative Commons License (CC BY-NC-SA 3.0, meaning Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike): I intend to make no commercial profit from them, and anyone else is welcome to use them with proper attribution if also making no profit, and likewise sharing the designs.

Font

Text in these cards uses the "Ale and Wenches BB Bold" font by Nate Piekos of Blambot.com — and please note, anyone who DOES print these cards (or anything else using this or any other Blambot font) for a profit owes Blambot a $40 license fee.

Other resources

You can print the cards on cardstock yourself, if you like. However, I have taken care to see that these files fit the required sizes at www.makeplayingcards.com in case you prefer to have professional "playing cards" made. (I get no kickback if you do.)

If your intention is (as I hope) to get one or more such card packs into the hands of imprisoned Wiccans for their study... and perhaps, once memorized, relay through the prison library... then let me offer one time-saving caution. Prisons don't let prisoners accept publications from friends and family, due to risk of smuggling — but only directly from publishers. Just have the card printer mail the cards to the prisoner rather than to you.

Groups needing further organizing handsigns might well gain from the U.S. Army's field experience, which offers handsigns ranging from "stop", "silence", "ready?", "come forward", "depart", "disregard last", and "I don't understand", to how to show all ten digits (0-9) on one hand. (The Army stresses one-handed signs because the other hand may be holding a weapon in the field.) www.wikihow.com/Army-Hand-Signals

For Wiccans traveling, who don't want to lug along all the altar gear, but DO want to be able to worship while on the road: search on internet shopping sites (Etsy, eBay, Amazon, etc.) for "portable" or "pocket" or "travel" altar kits. These may be small enough to fit in Altoids-size tin cans with hinged lids, and have small candles, small pentacles, small athames, small chalices, etc. Not prison or hospital safe, maybe not TSA safe for airports.

Another option: Wiccan printed symbols for every tool needed, on small tiles (possibly wood or ceramic), which can fit in a box or pouch. (One useful font toward this: Symbats, by Feòrag, with handy reference manual.) If worst comes to worst, you could hand-print all those symbols yourself on a piece of paper, and cut or tear them apart — remember, all you need are the symbols. Again, you could print them on playing cards if you chose, using the link above.

Thursday, April 23, 2026

The Winter of Their Indictments

A Song of Overdue Justice

tinyurl.com/winterindict

• Item: war crimes prosecuted for WWII include aggressive war (starting a war with no need to defend oneself), wanton attacks on civilian targets, and even killing helpless members of the military such as wounded and sick soldiers, shipwrecked or capsized sailors, prisoners of war, and anyone who has surrendered or is otherwise hors de combat. Thus giving the order "Take No Prisoners" is inherently a war crime.

• Item: US Supreme Court Justice Robert Jackson, while serving on the Nuremberg Tribunal, made a major point that the very same principles imposed upon the Axis officer defendants would — if the issue ever came up — be imposed upon Allied (e.g. US) officer defendants.

• Item: Among the Axis defendants executed for war crimes was a civilian head of government, Japanese Prime Minister Hideki Tōjō.

No sirens first — no shattered glass,
but paper sealed, and hours that pass
with something gathering, cold and slow,
in rooms where buried ledgers grow.

The ink is dry. The names are set.
Each line recalls a living debt.
Not whispered now, nor cast aside —
but read aloud, and verified.

The chambers fill. The record stands.
No crown can steady trembling hands
when oaths return, no longer bent,
but sharpened into evidence.

They come not robed in myth or flame,
but clerks who call each given name,
and voices — steady, sworn, precise —
that weigh a life against its price.

No rally’s roar can reach this place,
no gilded lie can mask a face
when every claim is turned and tried
against the truth it once denied.

Impeachment spoken, count by count,
no spectacle — just weight that mounts,
a ledger balanced, hard, exact,
where power yields at last to fact.

And farther still — beyond the shore —
where older statutes wait their hour,
the crimes that crossed both land and sea
are met with jurisdiction’s key.

No single bench, no single pen,
but nations speaking, now and then,
in measured terms that leave no doubt:
the world has called the record out.

No sudden fall. No tyrant’s scream.
A verdict carried, slow, supreme —
the closing of a long-deferred
and long-resisted final word.

They stand — not martyrs, not repealed
by force, but by what's revealed;
and in that light, so clear, so plain,
no mask survives, no boast remains.

The convicts leave. The portals close.
Not chaos — but the fate they chose:
a system, strained, yet standing still
enough to bend — and then to will

that law, though late, is not denied,
that truth, though buried, will be tried,
and those who fashioned harm as art
will pay the cost of every part.

No fire falls. No heavens break.
No spectacle for vengeance’ sake —
just something firmer, harder won:
a reckoning that does not run.

— 23 Apr. 2026

© 2026 by C.M. Joserlin, "Raven"
Created in collaboration with Perplexity,
an AI writing assistant powered by GPT‑5.

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song:]
Text link to that mp3: tinyurl.com/winterindict-mp3

In the interest of candor: While working on this poem, I was in hospital with severe chest pain and had a stent placed in an occluded artery. I was also remembering people I'd met who bore numbers tattooed on their wrists by those who thought themselves immune and above the law for years — but finally, finally, were proven wrong. It is intolerable to me that our own nation might protect such war criminals from prosecution. Eventually the truth on the record, and their penalty, MUST come forth. "Truth, Justice, and the American Way", right?

Friday, February 20, 2026

The War-Song of Dinas Vawr (1829)

tinyurl.com/dinasvawr

from The Misfortunes of Elphin
by Thomas Love Peacock (1785–1866)

The mountain sheep are sweeter, [1]
But the valley sheep are fatter; [2]
We therefore deemed it meeter [3]
To carry off the latter. [4]
We made an expedition;
We met a host and quelled it;
We forced a strong position,
And killed the men who held it. [5]

On Dyfed's richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing,
We made a mighty sally,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rushed to meet us;
We met them, and o'erthrew them:
They struggled hard to beat us;
But we conquered them, and slew them.

As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king marched forth to catch us:
His rage surpassed all measure,
But his people could not match us.
He fled to his hall-pillars;
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sacked his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off. [6]

We there, in strife bewilderin',
Spilt blood enough to swim in:
We orphaned many children,
And widowed many women.
The eagles and the ravens
We glutted with our foemen:
The heroes and the cravens,
The spearmen and the bowmen.

We brought away from battle,
And much their land bemoaned them,
Two thousand head of cattle,
And the head of him who owned them: [7]
Ednyfed, king of Dyfed,
His head was borne before us;
His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow, our chorus. [8]
____________________

The first poem not written by me to appear on this blog.

Pronunciations: DEEnass. DUVVed. edNUVVed.

Production: the Suno AI allowed me to "stage" this as I never could in the real world:

Performance Notes: As onstage at GenCon, when in troubadour garb I asked the crowd if they'd rather hear a song of war or a song of love, sometimes I knew the answer in advance and this was it. (Sometimes, as for a little old lady in a park, I ended up singing "The Lonely Lover's Lament".) Peacock, that sublime satirist, called this "the sum and substance of military glory", and of course it's about a Welsh sheep-raid. Sheer arrogant bombast must be the note of the song.
[1] Look and gesture "uphill" with one hand, kiss the fingertips of the other hand to sign "delicious".
[2] Look and gesture the opposite direction, "downhill", and with the previous gesturing hand now rub your belly to sign "filling".
[3] Look back and forth, deciding.
[4] Turn "downhill", briefly pantomime picking up a sheep and carrying it off under your arm.
[5] Stab with imaginary sword, lift foot and push imaginary body off your sword. Likewise pantomime subsequent battles.
[6] After "others", pull up your own hair or cap-and-all with one hand; chop at your own throat with the upper edge of the other; hoarsely sing "cut 'is 'ead off"!
[7] I've often thought of getting a prop decapitated head, woeful face, drooping beard, long black hair (no crown, that's doubtless worn by the bandit chief now!) -- but pantomiming with my hands as I "picked him up", one hand over (gripping hair) and one hand under (gripping chin), turning him alternately to face the audience, myself, then the audience again, mocking him with my own expressions, has always seemed to bring poor Ednyfed... not to life, poor fellow, but very much present.
[8] At song's end, bow both your own AND Ednyfed's heads, to all parts of the audience, of course. It's simple courtesy! (If you leave the stage "drunkenly" regaling Ednyfed with a friendly and wordless reprise of your theme, well, who could blame you? His overthrow has, as you just sang, supplied you that chorus....)

Tuesday, February 10, 2026

The Eyes That Would Not See

tinyurl.com/eyesnotsee

In the hall of gentle care,
where frailty wears its honest face,
truth limps slowly with a cane —
but lies, they dance with grace.

Too many watch the brightest smile
and think it wisdom’s crown;
they never test the weight of words
before they strike them down.

The cunning learn the tender’s ear,
they whisper soft appeal;
while those who stand for weaker souls
are branded what’s not real.

Oh, heart that would be kind —
learn first to be robust!
Compassion without judgment’s spine
collapses into dust.

For mercy blind can wound the just,
when vigilance grows weak;
and justice sleeps in silken rooms
where truth dares not to speak.

So weigh each tale, weigh twice again,
before decree is made;
the cost of careless certainty
is even trust’s decayed.

Then let your mind, not beauty’s glass,
be mirror to your heart;
for wisdom grows where courage stands,
and truth must have its part.

— 10 Feb. 2026

© 2026 by C.M. Joserlin, "Raven"
Created in collaboration with Perplexity,
an AI writing assistant powered by GPT‑5.

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song:]
Text link to that mp3: tinyurl.com/eyesnotmp3

Monday, February 9, 2026

No Glory in Duty

tinyurl.com/nogloryinduty

(A Soldier’s Song)

Harness the bay and saddle the grey,
Tighten the straps an’ girth;
The dawn is cold, the ground’s like stone —
That’s the glory you’re owed on earth.

There’s no grand song for a shovel or spade,
No crown for the dung-cart crew;
Just the smoke that stings, and the cook’s rough bread,
And the work that falls to you.

March, my lad, till your soles wear thin,
Through mire and sleet and rain;
The road runs long when your belly’s gone
And the rations taste of pain.

There’s no bright bard with his harp in tow,
To praise what duty buys;
Just breath and bone, and a grunt, and a curse,
And the look in a comrade’s eyes.

On! said the knight with his gilded spur,
On through the smoke and din;
You’ll shoulder pike while the banners shine,
And pray for a scrap to win.

There’s no gold glow in a clashing line,
No glory in steel or gore;
Just men who hope they’ll see the fields
They left a year before.

But should you come to the hearth once more,
And find your kindred hale,
You’ll bear the scars like a pilgrim’s beads,
And smile at an old man’s tale.

There’s no bold fame in the soldier’s tread,
Nor laurels that never fade;
The glory, lad, is the roof o’erhead,
And the peace your labour made.

— 8 Feb. 2026

© 2026 by C.M. Joserlin, "Raven"
Created in collaboration with Perplexity,
an AI writing assistant powered by GPT‑5.

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song:]

Sunday, February 8, 2026

The Last Storm Moves On

tinyurl.com/laststorm

(After the fall of the Warming Age)

When north winds loosed their ancient chain,
The world recalled its past in pain;
The steel grew still, the rivers froze,
And silence fell where no one knows.

The storm descended, vast and pale,
Through city spire and mountain vale;
Its voice was old, without remorse —
A god unmade yet set its course.

Four towers met the cutting breath,
Each reared to barter life for death:
One held old bones, one elder’s claim,
Two living men to meet their shame.

“Here,” cried crowds, “their works were done —
They sundered pact and poisoned sun;
The storms they sowed now reap them whole,
Cold judgment on the nation’s soul.”

The people prayed — no mercy came;
The frost entombed each vaunted name.
Ice sealed their crowns, their glories gone,
And still the storm went moving on.

For countless hands had shaped that hour;
Their comfort fed the engines’ power.
Now every hearth, each sleeping town,
Must wear the ice their choices crown.

— 8 Feb. 2026

© 2026 by C.M. Joserlin, "Raven"
Created in collaboration with Perplexity,
an AI writing assistant powered by GPT‑5.

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song:]

Saturday, February 7, 2026

Moonlight

tinyurl.com/moonlyt

Moonlight,
Falling ’cross the field and forest,
Shines through trees and drapes, and no rest
Will be mine again tonight.

Cool white,
Fading ev’ry other colour,
Seems to make the world much smaller,
And much nearer to my sight.

Hunt-rite,
Freeing all my pent-in power,
Sends me run as swift from tower
As an eagle in full flight.

Bone-tight,
Forming new my frame and motion,
Sears along nerves like a potion
Given by a witch in spite.

Prey-fright,
Fresh from seeing my approaching,
Soon is ended by my poaching;
Thus the mercy of my might.

Daylight:
Flowers deck my dining table;
Sit wherever you are able;
Venison’s my cook’s delight!

— 7 Feb. 2026

© 2026 by C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song:]

In 1984's "this is not a poem", I stated: "something besides the writer is sharing the writing / in a sense the poem is wroting itself" — that felt very true in this case. In the middle of the night, as I pulled my blanket up to my chin, moonlight through a gap in my bedroom curtain struck the back of my left hand, and before I could even get up to write anything down, the first stanza was complete in my head, demanding I stay true to that format. The second stanza came quickly and easily. Somehow I felt "Daylight" might start the final stanza, but what in the world would rhyme to start the stanzas in between? There weren't that many suitable two-syllable words rhyming with moonlight, daylight, and cool white, to tell a story with! And then where would they *take* the story? As it turned out, not someplace I'd the least bit expected when I got up.

The primary instrument is an archlute, played in Phrygian mode, the sometimes deeper notes compatible with a sometimes growling singer.