we glide fields
wend the trees
crest the tor and
stretch wide mouths
to sing
this unpeopling
of ourselves celebrates
forest fires burning
inside our chests,
shriven
without names
these nature gods
shove hours aside
giving all to
heartwood
shed the wire
marking barbed against
soft flesh
and fly…
as we draw speechless
under growing hallows
full moon and mistletoe
summer gives to autumn
ol' john, he sentinels
green still in the barley
hiding us our shadow
away until the dawn
darning fingers cast weaves
for october is our song...
Thunder the skies drum to rumble and many ears blind to the coming storm, yet calling some home to wrap themselves under both cloak and shield. Come the mists that deaden sight but for those with the spears driven to pierce.
We cast to birch, cleave to stones rising grey in undergrowth. Her rasp cuts the winds as she calls forth. Children! Children, come in!
Let the hunters flail; they are not our kin. Let them blindstep the pathways, missing us, their quarry, just beyond the thin.
circling threes from trees
birch white paper of black
calling out his name
from the wending ways
a warden in the weald
we are flight we are free
bending skies to our own
shaking wood, twisting stone
to lay alone of earthwomb
wrapped in fevers
a fragment found.
a key —
head tilt and a shout,
a return to north winds
It is more clear than ever that most cannot understand my sometimes, those veilgliding moments on betweens — this river of mine of many dreams that flows within. Come to rest within the hollows and eddies spinning and turning with me and you might see how I see. And then, you may ask yourself…
In a flurry of down and feather I came to rest. There she is, the I that was. There he is, the I that will. Onyx eyes wander the memory wastelands, sipping at an oasis of color; a little here, a little there. I am so many. And they all want to talk, some just more silent in their speech than others.
If only one person understood the sometimes… But the thin places are only rarely found.
Dark eyes haunting the wrinkled silver of dust-etched mirrors, they are the ghosts that trail behind like scarlet ribbons on mountain winds as the snow drifts over age-worn cairns.
her face in the mirror
all mine not mine and
there is rust washing
to be done on old chains
in the barren playlot
she the me locking unlocking
six-paneled doors wood
of ghetto apartments
a gulag of memories jailed
rape is not right
not a right
but we, me and she
promise the no cry no more
come knocking,
come knocking
down the corridor
and i hold she as me
in our striped stained bed
crying hush to those
howling dogs of war
some times we chat all
others, silent stand tall
let gossip the pines
in trade on winds
bring on day
carry our night
bones given rain
featherfall out of sight
we gaze for winter
waiting spears...
every at thin
scrim width pale
carving night
into shadow
and moonlight
each wingbeat
of heart
rattlebone clacks
stone rumble taps
fingers at posts
point candled
for windowed
callers
On my recent road trip to help my friend Tara with her move — flying out to Alaska followed by a long drive down the Alaskan Highway and then down to Iowa — one of the things I hoped I would see was some of the wildlife… even if only via the moving frame of the car window. I wasn’t sure what exactly I might see that would be different than what I might see within the boundaries of my own state, but I was hoping to see something different.
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I am back home and I survived my 3500-mile road trip adventure. In fact this is my second day home, but I’ve been so exhausted that I haven’t been able to muster up the energy to write anything substantial. I didn’t even know how tired I was until I was about 90 miles away from home — that was when my brain gave my body permission to feel the fatigue of driving that distance in just over six days. And since (even today), I am drowsy and more interested in napping than doing nearly anything else.
It was an adventure, but if I were to do it again, I’d probably make far more stops to enjoy the scenery (at least in Alaska, Yukon and British Columbia). But we were trying to cover as many miles as possible so that we could get to our respective homes and settle back into life without have a household on a trailer for someone to muck about with in tow.
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