Category: writing

  • A mercuric lake

    Campfire
    Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash

    I have many thoughts trapped inside my head. I cannot free them because they are thoughts without words to go with them, or the words that might go with them are inadequate to express those thoughts. Trying to express those thoughts feels too much like, as Alan Watts would have put it, trying to bite my own teeth.

    If I managed to construct those thoughts into something that could be understood, if I could find the words and unstop this mute mouth — would anyone read them anyway? I mean, really read. I am fairly certain that they cannot be words that can be heard, so I do not dare speak.

    I have for a very long time tried to personally touch these thoughts, hoping to better understand people who struggled in much the same way as I do now to express inexpressible thoughts. Now that I am on that path, I understand their struggle. There are no words, we need a new language altogether to get at the words needed to explain explain explain. Maybe, I think these thoughts can only be expressed sideways, with a slipstream sense.

    After I slip into the wilds, do you think you could find me? Would you want to?

    The buzz of insects over a mercuric lake…

  • two-twenty

    sunlight shining through old growth woods
    Photo by Simon Wilkes on Unsplash
    my body is my drum
    humming at two-twenty
    thumps per minutes
    from my thumb, terraforming
    my world before my eyes
    turning inside to see
    where everything is
    leaves and evergreens
    with buzz wing dragonflies
    dancing pastel skies
    slumbering in dream
    under a springtime sun

    hanging words on oak
    my heart bursts wide

  • hear her

    a path in the middle of a dark forest
    Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash
    fever head her
    birch song wind
    russet leaves dead
    sleet ticktaps pines
    as she stands strong

    hear her, hear her
    under the wood
    alder sap & painted
    hear her, hear her
    underdark
    underwood
    shadowsonged

    fever head her
    blackthorn pricks
    stone the river run
    river under ice
    and brambles strong

    hear her...

  • stone turning

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
    this every stone turned
    hides another lie
    buried in permafrost
    look to the other
    find your heart within
    chase the chill away

  • dawn

    back against metal
    frost skin bruised
    waiting for the sun

    concrete chipped cuts
    those nylon nerves 
    screaming for the sun

    i love you like
    you don't love me while
    dawning before the sun

  • adrift

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
    flood homes we float
    from staircase to stair
    debris seeking alone

    adrift, scattered words
    waterstained india black
    flowing as souls do wet

    hands our fingers bite
    sending words awry
    breaking fountains
         feathered

    washing stone

  • Repost from sceadugenga.com

    Part reminder that I have moved to the new site here, part flash fiction, I posted this over at sceadugenga this morning. I’m reposting the flash fiction section here in case you have already changed your followed site to this one and removed the old site. If you read it at the old site, you won’t find much of anything new here unless I end up mucking about and start playing editor. I hadn’t intended to write flash fiction when I started the post at the old site, but that’s how it ended up.

    If you haven’t already noticed, the lights have gone up and the bartender is calling “last call” to make you get the message, as if the ambiance change was not indication enough.

    “Last call! Last call!”

    Someone nudges you and you look down at the resident drunk, Louie. “Hey man, can you buy me a drink, I’ll pay you back nex–“

    “Last call!”

    (more…)

  • Of Underways

    They walk in underways, mirrored in us while raven laughs of treetops wending and above for all our blind eyes, all our deaf ears stopped up with the cotton of tomorrows never known. They lived in us once, too, and ache at our immaturity.

    People think me mad to stare at unseen campfires while my bed is burning, making mumbles at the slow folk gathering ’round as they warm their bones against the steel nights cold. At least the stars shine bright below on frigid nights, along with mother moon pale down in the skies.

    The madness is in ignoring the folk, not in engagement. As they say, the stone would tell if you just gave them space to share the tales. Rushing, most people are enthralled with the ghostly glow pouring from their hands to succumb to the rocks’ demands. They cannot balance their earth and their rivers, everflowing faster and going nowhere fast.

    As I said, raven laughs, raven is the watchman, amused as we move in circles and never going anyplace — least of all fast. Dead, blind and stupid.

  • south lane

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
    these shadows on the moon
    cast a face of yours in pale
    throwing stars numbered
    sharp, cutting and fallen
    will we remain the unforgiven?

    in one year or three
    we will see if you walk
    down south lane dreams
    see if knots truly bind or
    if unkindly ones give tell

    the ocean's scent carries
    even here

  • the fool

    a path in the middle of a dark forest
    Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash
    finally, a step into tomorrow
    i shook my head, no no no
    we won't go back to those
    we won't go back

    for here is alone in the
    beat of the drum of the
    heart of the wood in the
    dreaming of the years
    now

    shadowfall & the
    autumn decay bursting
    forth underboot scenting
    my way home