in the pale naked running
of fall on amber fell
granite and shale in cutting
and there is little concern for
if these lilt and lang of words
are sensible or sane
there is only the running
come chill the winds' bite
with the descent of eventide
old jack gives kiss on flesh
in the pale naked running
of fall on amber fell gone rime
granite and shale in cutting
called to the thornlands
the stonelands, the fells—
her phantom visage
piercing the hoarfrost
of dream
A poem prompted by a randomly selected Elder Futhark rune.
Today’s rune is thurisaz, which has several core translations: “thorn” or “giant”. The rune is often associated with pain or discomfort (often for an important transitional or transformative reason) or raw power that may be destructive. It is also considered protective, regenerative, and is frequently associated with women’s menstrual health.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
how grey must i grow?
an endless wait for
the beat of ravens' wings
flying low over
fresh fallen snow
fetlock fettered
the path seems but
a distant dream
even as it wends
mere steps away
A poem prompted by a randomly selected Elder Futhark rune.
Today’s rune is raido, which has been translated as “ride” and the implied “journey”. This may be spatial and literal in practice (a physical journey), or it may be more figurative (an inner/shamanic journey).
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
burnout the asphalt mind
seeking speed, some racer x
to leave those wending roads
in rearview and see
naught but yellow in dripfeed
fading behind to paradise
wind screaming much like
his voice in the void as
he leaves this world behind
your winter taste
in dreamkiss
paints me in din
let this shamble sing
in threes without waking
i never want to leave
having gone to drift
through silt grit flowing
and glaring being strange
on whenever the wind goes
left at the car burning low
under a stormfront rumble
the first fat raintears at
the mourn's thin passing
at cigarette's ruddy glow—
sleepwalking the story's end
how we wish, if only...
if only
to sit of moon and indigo
waiting on her pale and ebon
beyond the veil of sleep
The floor’s gone out.
I just thought you should know.
(more…)