Category: writing

  • dark angel

    Photo by Dana on Unsplash
    i wonder than none can see
    her arms draped over me with
    a wink, a smile, a murder of crows
    i gave myself over lifetimes ago
    to that dark angel at my side

    you may seek,
    but you will not find

  • one of a few — 29apr25

    beithe
    paper bark and
    fine hair flutters
    on the pale winds
    chasing ripples
    over a secret lake

    For a change of pace, I decided to revisit ogam/ogham for a poetry prompt tool. As with the Elder Futhark runes, I randomly select one of the ogam fid as a prompt for a bit of micropoetry.

    Because I have a poorly-developed sense of humor, the title of this post refers to a variant of the word, fid, “few”. While still in common usage, “few” is not technically accurate to describe the letter — but I like my wordplay.

    Beithe (in Old Irish, beith in modern Irish) means “birch”. The fid has a number of cryptic meanings depending on the kenning or its inclusions in the medieval word lists of the filli, including: white, pheasant, livelihood, “withered foot with fine hair”, and “beauty of the eyebrow”, amongst many, many others.

    I do not embrace Robert Graves’ mystical meanings as I feel they are not based in scholarship and that they disagree with people who have made a lifetime study of the ogam. While there is evidence of possible filli-coding within the letters (per the lists poets were made to memorize), there is little evidence that magical meaning was the intent and the association with magic appears to be a modern invention… But that is another post.

    Perhaps I’ll eventually bring fid back and finish my in-depth exploration of their meanings.

  • surrender

    Photo by Sina Bakhtiari on Unsplash
    i yield my flesh to
    the carrion feast —
    strip me down to bone
    to scatter me to stone
    and bleach me to sun
    wash away my stain
    for i do grow ever weary

  • homage

    Photo by pedram ahmadi on Unsplash
    badh touched my shoulder
    as i held the remains of
    old friends in a wooden box

    i turned to the battle crow
    as she leaned forward
    laying her night beak
    on my pale lips in kiss
    numbing my flesh to tingle
    well after i woke under
    the reapers moon

  • out

    Photo by Kevin Hessey on Unsplash
    all out of space
    all out of time
    carving the sickle moon
    and dancing wrists
    i slip back to stone
    where blood runs thick
    perhaps it is home