tincture these reflections of
tracing sweat beads down
your side with a kiss, pressing
cherry petals to your skin
and on drunk your wine
lost, so lost, this time again
lost, so lost
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lost, so lost
VMH Ep 6.3: Stilmere is live
start readingVengeance, My Heart The Argument:
A stranger pushes, ends up with a fistful of husks.
Fences go beyond mending.
A crow agrees.Episode 6.3 of Vengeance, My Heart (episode link), my serialized Sepulchral-Gothic Western novel, is now live at ravensweald.art.
Subscribe to the serial via email
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ash & thorn, episodic fiction, gothic western, ravensweald.art, sepulchral western, serialized fiction, vengeance my heart, web novel, weird westfiled under:
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VMH Ep 6.3: Stilmere is live
slipping snares
slipping those witchy snares
letting hedges fall away—
i am not here to cosplay
i sky scree lake water blue
i dark root mycelium bound
i æsclāst, that wending path
fever, dreams draw heat
forest and wode, grown old
crows rise calling—
blood on virgin snowTo like, click comments or:
slipping snares
lark on the morn
Today I draw dark lines in charcoal on parchment so thin as to air. All gravities pull in your direction and the angles bend true, in teeth-branded skin and hurt so good.
Head wrapped in linen for better to see. My fingers dance liminal, waiting for the telegraph of dream. Can you see the words writ in water? The ripples cross my dark lines in coal drawn on angle to you.
Granites love your gravity, antlers turn their curves to thee.
And, it is in this I apprehend. Waiting on the morning lark to call you into being.
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lark on the morn
casting runes — 12may26
othala ancient this wood
sheltering spirit
a compact made
in the ever ago
moss at north
& lichen scalloped
at deadfall we hoard
fox bark, underdark
a crow calls, naming
from branch & from floorA 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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casting runes — 12may26
oculus obscura
i am not of dreaming
her eyes mind not me
laugh crow at skies
laugh stone at feet
i am hoar of unnight
shattered & unseen
laugh flint scrape skin
laugh bone under meTo like, click comments or:
oculus obscura
no such thing
those lips still cut
with every touch
with every view, so
tie me to the screen
to bring them closer,
still closer, to me
there is no such
thing, love
there is only bruise
a thumb pressed to
heart-boxes caged
within rows of ribs
and vanities
so give over blind
a seer for sweet pain
rending through
to see so clear
it hurtsTo like, click comments or:
no such thing
VMH Ep 6.2: Stilmere is live
start readingVengeance, My Heart The Argument:
Things are on the Turn or on the Twist.
A landscape in cards.
Everything æsces on the wræclast.Episode 6.2 of Vengeance, My Heart (episode link), my serialized Sepulchral-Gothic Western novel, is now live at ravensweald.art.
Subscribe to the serial via email
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(more…)tagged:
ash & thorn, episodic fiction, gothic western, ravensweald.art, sepulchral western, serialized fiction, vengeance my heart, web novel, weird westfiled under:
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VMH Ep 6.2: Stilmere is live
Tree inspection
I went to check on my new little trees — mere saplings — in the backyard this weekend. Will they thrive? Will they die? I don’t know. But they sit on the back hilltop and on the front-yard flats in accordance with their sun needs and drought resistance. Perhaps there will be berries and flowers soon (next year or a few more down the line). I can only hope.
I am probably the only person planting trees who would laugh at what I found at the top of the hill when I checked on one that was more afterthought than intentional, seeing as I really had no good place to plant all ten saplings I received as a “gift” from the Arbor Day Foundation and a new young plum tree.
Up there, lonely and away from the powerlines running up the right-of-way between my yard and the back row, the sapling stood tall, with an unexpected gift at the base.
Some critter, probably one of the three foxes that like to hunt the neighborhood, left a solitary turd at the base of the tree.
Was it commentary? Was it fertilizer? Was it even one of the foxes?
I’m no expert in fox turds, but it looked too big to be the possum’s. Too small for even a small dog fed on commercial food. Not the right shape for the deer or the rabbits. Raccoons? Maybe feral cats (not fed on commercial food, I know that shape and size well)?
But I laughed and the crows laughed with me there at the hilltop.
Poor little tree.
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Tree inspection
atelier
We held feather to flame and come out charred, there, in the underwood, the oaks rising sentinel high. The many mutter and shuffle, not wanting to be left behind. But the barrier is the bending of knee supplication, to both the underwood and also the trees.
And stiff knees bend not.
Though fevered and enflamed, I wish I could remain here kissing, improbable memories, unlikely times. We might talk to the old skull stone and antler, carving names with flint beyond the skin’s deep. We might slumber afterglow warm, sweat dripping chill on your side.
This bone atelier, sanctuary and rain. Inkstained. I close blind eyes tight to stay.
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atelier
