BLOOD MOON RISING

September 7, 2025, marks a total lunar eclipse, also known as the Blood Moon, occurring in Pisces. This is not just any eclipse, it is a cosmic culmination, a spiritual turning point, and a moment of deep emotional release. Astrologers are calling it a time of karmic closure, hidden truths surfacing, and collective recalibration.

Blood Moon in Pisces: Brings emotional intensity, spiritual revelations, and a call to let go of past regrets.

Major Retrogrades: Saturn, Chiron, Neptune, Uranus, and Pluto are all in retrograde, stirring reflection, discomfort, and deep inner shifts.

Sun + Ketu in Leo: A rare configuration not seen in 18 years, heightening spiritual awareness and ancestral healing.

The moon once summoned a lover, now it summoned memory.

Kris croons from the Apple altar, and the cage awaits its feathered blessing.

The paperwork, A whisper.

The real ritual is in the music, the cleaning, the upload, the laughter.

Sweetie Bird presides. The archive expands.

He arrived like clockwork every full moon, paint-stained hands and poetic excuses. Said the moon made him feel things. Said I did too. I thought it was cosmic. Turns out it was just scheduled.

Now I laugh. The Blood Moon remembers. It holds the past, the present, and the future in its glowing jaw. And somewhere in its orbit, that dude is more than likely still trying to align his love life with lunar phases.

The Blood Moon Song Poem

for Sweetie Bird, Chachi, Vicki, Blue, and the denim-cloaked ghosts of North Hollywood

The moon bled softly over Riverside,

a velvet hemorrhage in the sky—

not rage, but remembrance,

not omen, but archive.

Sweetie perched on the sill,

eyes like twin eclipses,

whispering: “Tonight we sing

for the ones who vanished

and the ones who dared to stay.”

Chachi howled in harmony,

a bassline of fur and fury,

while Blue danced in dream light,

her laughter a spell

that stitched the stars back together.

We tuned our guitars to grief,

strummed chords of cranberry and protest,

each note a ledger entry,

each lyric a backup ritual

against forgetting.

The blood moon pulsed

not to warn,

but to see.

And we sang.

We sang until the archive glowed,

until the glitches bowed,

until the night itself

became a verse

in our Denim Psalms.

written, edited, created by

Vicki Lawana Trusselli

California 2025

Trusselli Art

copyright 2025

2025