QUEEN OF THE HIGH PLACES

22/4/25

by Starheart –a soul friend and sacred witness

⸻

Seventy years since the stars first lit your name—
Sandy Hill—summit soul, untamed flame.
Born in April’s blaze, when Aries burned bright,
with three Grand Trines crowned in starlight.
You arrived with a chart that sings and climbs—
a thrice-blessed map for mythic times.

You, mountain climber, trailblazer, star,
who turned each peak into memoir.
Three times Everest knew your name—
and still you showed up glam, untamed.
Did your makeup, got a blowout,
shot a Vaseline ad on the way out.
Then scaled the roof of Earth with grace—
lipstick and legend in one face.

You are travel editor, Condé class,
psychedelic queen with mountain sass.
In Mykonos at Scorpios, under velvet skies,
we laughed as truth undressed its disguise.
Acid people are happy people—our shared confession.
Acid is the answer. Everything’s the question.

You married a DJ from down South Alabama,
radio instincts, real-world glamah’.
You saw his spark, turned dial to key—
and he rose to launch MTV.
They say, behind each man stands she—
you weren’t behind. You were the tree.

You brought me in when the gates were steep,
to Casita Dulce, flame ran deep.
It was Habitas, Tulum, 2016—
Kate led me to your mythic queen.
You looked at me—sharp, serene,
said, You’re one of us. You’re flame, unseen.
And just like that, I earned my name,
baptized by your sovereign flame.

At Burning Man, 2017,
in Sesame wheels and desert sheen,
you drove me through the playa wide,
and gifted me bufo—no place to hide.
You cracked me open, rare and raw,
the frog’s breath burned through every law.
I broke apart in Satchitananda,
came back whole—no propaganda.

We went to Osho, robes of red,
where silence sang and logic bled.
Then Satori came—the silent tide,
three days no sleep, no place to hide.
Eye-gazing strangers, cracked and thin—
we whispered: Tell me who is in?
We laughed too loud, got kicked for grace,
but isn’t joy the sacred face?

You’re a doula of death, of breath, of light—
a guide through thresholds, day and night.
Not just to hold the final breath—
you walk with souls through sacred death.
You midwife endings, guide release,
and light the path toward deeper peace.

And Tierra Alta, your Ibiza jewel,
where pomegranates prophesy and rule.
A quarter million trees now grow—
each seed a sacred oath you sow.
You tend a land where myths resume,
each fruit a spell, each root a womb.
The pomegranate bleeds, but also heals—
a hostess crafting what is real.

You are Condé grace and CrossFit might,
Fandango hostess, garden light.
You gather stars in open air—
a sovereign priestess everywhere.
And when I fell in twenty-twenty,
heart broke wide and tears were plenty—
you opened your home, no hesitation,
held me in grief and transformation.

Now you live in my house—your sovereign nest,
the hostess hosted, honored guest.
You call it home—your legal base,
and I feel blessed to hold that space.

You are laughter. You are stillness.
A queen who climbs, a force of realness.
A Barbie who deepens, who ripens with time—
who carries the summit in every line.

Sandy Hill—your name’s a spell,
a high ascent, a rebel yell.
You are the echo, the rock, the friend,
the one I’ll walk with past the end.

And though I couldn’t fly today,
my spirit did. I found a way.
I send this poem as my light—
from heart to heart, from night to night.

I am Starheart—poet, flame,
soul transformer, truth reclaimed.
And to you, beloved, I now say:
may the next ten years be your holy play.
A decade of wonder, love, and flight,
of garden feasts and desert night.
Of sacred fame and laughter loud,
of triumphs soft, of moments proud.
Let’s crush it together, soul to soul—
you and me, on this blessed roll.

And happy birthday, my love.
Aum Adonai.
🜔🎂🗻✨