• Half-Penny Thoughts — 21aug26

    Whether in relation to my own writing or to others’ writing, I am often surprised at the interpretations readers assign to the pieces in their comments.

    In those moments, I cock my head off to the side like a confused puppy and even sometimes audibly utter, “Wot?”

    That’s not to say anyone’s interpretations of anyone’s writings is wrong — because writing that invites individual interpretation is when writing is at its best. But I am trying to say that sometimes those interpretations come from a place I never imagined might exist.

    Sometimes, that place in the comments is so far removed from what I imagined I wrote or read that I have to go back and see if we are referencing the same piece. And I am not always satisfied that the commentor and I are looking at the same thing, or are even in the same galaxy, let alone neighborhood.

    So it goes.

    My invitation to join a entirely and absolutely scientific discussion prompt for today is: Is this a wholly personal experience and am I the odd duck? Or it pretty much the norm from your experience? Bonus points: Do you disagree with my earlier statement, “Writing that invites individual interpretation is when writing is at its best”? Agree?

    Please Note: Right now, the US is phasing out pennies in favor of nickels as the base measure of the dollar — “What could possibly go wrong with that idea?” they asked after declaring the penny ‘cancelled’; no more $1.99 deals, I expect — so you’ll need at least ten thoughts before that threshold is crossed.

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  • in the meanwhile

    one day,
    i will slip into the long sleep &
    awaken in the october country
    to the scent of crisp leaves with
    a hint of hoar on the morn

    that is where we will meet again
    everything said & everything done,
    forgiven

    in the meanwhile,
    you recall vestiges of voice &
    i catch fragments of face &
    each will look to old stone north
    under a clatter of crows calling
    "look to the east" or
    "look to the west" to two
    stubborn thorns

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  • Stooks Before Reeves [one]

    “Mal,” said Man Rivers once time, gnawing on a tobac leaf like he always was as he wound up wire and pulled stake. “There come a time you have to accept you’re bein’ snookered.”

    “Howdat?” I asked watching how he coiled the snare for used elsewhere.

    Man shot an glance sidewise up to the steading. You could see that fatboy Lawson up the guardtower looking real hard like his attention was on something, anything, other than Man and me.

    My eyes narrowed.

    “I’m just sayin’ you need know when time’s come to find a new place to snare a bit of game. ‘Times there’s a fox waiting in the underbrush waiting for your snare to catch.”

    (more…)
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  • casting runes — 20aug26

    othala
    at night
    the Old Ones are
    the only things real.
    
    they stand fireside
    silent, slow as stone
    waiting for Whiteoak
    to fall.

    A poem prompted by a randomly selected Elder Futhark rune.

    Today’s rune is othala, which has a core meaning of “heritage”, “inheritance” and “legacy”. These are all associated with home, kin, ancestors, stability and (in some interpretations) past lives or spiritual legacy.

    Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.

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  • Weary dreams

    I an beginning to wonder if it isn’t time to retire from the larger world.

    “World weary” describes me perfectly.

    Sometimes, I’d rather just close my eyes and not stop dreaming.

    Point a finger… You, come with me if you want so we can write ourselves a dream. No? I don’t blame you. It’s not a very dreamy kind of dream anyway. It’s only a dream of cherry blossoms drifting on the water and coffee (or tea!) sipping as it dream drifts into other dreams while we talk to create those dreams and forget the things needing to be forgotten. How dull, you say.

    The good news is that I may have forgotten some things already. In fact, it seems increasingly so each day as I try not to recall those things in the upstairs room. Here be monsters.

    Let’s not dream those dreams. I don’t like them.

    Instead, let’s dream of those things the world weary dream and draw pictures in autumn leaves.

    Most of all, just let me sleep.

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  • twin & out

    mournful grey stands
    ragged cliffs today
    twin flint eyes
    & ocean out
    twin flint hearts
    & ocean out

    cut black sheets of
    wave & skies meet
    twin flint eyes
    & ocean out
    twin stone hearts
    & ocean out

    keen, rises she
    keen, shards he
    twin flint eyes
    & ocean out
    twin stone hearts
    & ocean out
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  • bitter

    i will go
    back to
    those words
    i know or
    make up
    new ones
    wholesale
    who needs
    bitter lies
    anyway

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  • at giving grounds

    gone by way
    of shadow & wind
    in swaying sheaves
    gold gather the fields
    low the stone walls
    that let creeks
    still run through

    is that frost i hear?
    creeping bone within

    giving grounds knelt
    at boulder trees grown
    rock tripe in grey & blue
    lay down plates
    come gentle the rain
    as they do

    moor songs, mere
    awash with that
    salt hue
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  • Half-penny Thoughts — 18aug26

    At risk of sounding like I am a broken record myself, I am still pondering the idea of what makes a form of artistic expression (music, writing, etc.) “unique” as opposed to “derivative”.

    I make it no secret that I employ AI for exploring ideas, philosophy and personal education (i.e., “How do I construct a coldwave synth pad on my Hydrasynth? What wave types on my three oscillators, envelope and LFO settings would help me get that sweeping ‘icy’ sound?” or “Explain to me the Sámi cosmologic worldview as currently understood and correcting for Christian bias in the written records. Point out the suspect areas and provide scholarly references for further review. Do not rely on information gathered from unsupported or unreferenced statements.”

    Things like that. AI is really good at collecting information quickly and doing a darned fine job of filtering it when you give the right instructions. Plus, no ads.

    (more…)
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  • Half-penny Thoughts — 17aug26

    I was thinking about narrative and the phrase “there are no new tales left to tell” and its myriad variations.

    Looking into it, someone was suggesting writing in “the quiet, eerie margins” was a writing space left largely untapped. Described as: “It is the difference between a sudden, violent storm (the loud center) and the heavy, electric stillness in the air just before the barometer drops (the quiet margin).”

    Of course, I’m curious about your thoughts.

    Are there truly no new tales left to tell? Is everything derivative? Can you think of a story that doesn’t have an easy analogue?

    Or, how would you interpret writing “in the quiet, eerie margin”? Do you have a different description or opinion? Where would you start if you were writing in/of the margin?

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