Category: writing

  • casting runes — 27aug26

    raido
    a roads are wont to do
    this one turned in of itself
    back out and wended 'round
    so tangled as to tie in knots

    with eye turned inside
    the road returns constraint
    set on a winter path
    cluttered in the palest birch
    a phantom passing through
    the moonlit wood

    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, i.e., útiseta). The rune is associated with cyclic motion and the movement of the sun. Some consider the journey represented by raido to be that of returning.

    Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.

  • him, caught in barbed wire came

    chickenwire fox got him
    caught in barbed wire
    came barking top
    there yonder hill
    where still the
    bonefires still burn
    in that iron night of
    overcast skies waiting
    on for drizzle to
    cast off like it do

    ungreased axels turn
    on the world g’round
    have you heard?
    have you heard?

    an eye for an i
    a tooth for the truth
    goin’ to set that
    barbed him wire to burn

    peat dusk, with
    flame all but shrieking
    set embers on the dawn

  • kissing kittens

    kissing kittens
    because who can
    resist kissing kittens?

    i tell them they
    are good boys
    though both rogues
    through & through
    because they rarely
    scratch & never
    bite & the worst is
    they are ghosts that
    go boop in the night

    besides, who can
    resist kissing kittens?

  • awake lies dreaming

    my sad is dreaming awake
    clutching fingers grasping 
    for threads gossamer away
    web memories tangled
    of us in winter again
    i grew cold since then,
    you see,  cold left standing
    of hollow of tree seeking sleep
    when all my awake lies
    dreaming

  • A tale to be told of murder and betrayal:

    There’s this story I have flipping around my mind. Yeah?

    Maybe it’s a true story.

    Maybe it’s not.

    I haven’t written it down yet, so it could be either.

    It might even be both.

    (more…)

  • Campfire sessions — 25aug26

    Campfire
    Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash

    There is wood but no flames; striking flint under the overhand seems an unnecessary thing these days and I ask if campfires are what calls the spirits or if the spirits call the campfires and it does not really matter when I ponder it longer.

    Stones and bones and endless lakes do not require flame for light, for warmth, nor do the woods — only the living and those that remember a living think of flame. And sometimes then, only when it threatens their homes.

    So I forego the campfire and sit upon the log someone dragged out to sit on while they watched hungry flames eat the air and dead in front of them. Crow has gone off to do crow things and She will be back soon. Perhaps with another bauble, perhaps with nothing more than words.

    (more…)

  • under a cascade of stars

    and then the waves
    pulled at my legs
    slipsand and under
    cold against my groin
    leaving a wonder of whys
    at the end of day
    would even the sea
    leave me under
    a cascade of stars

  • hacksilver

    that tugging of outland,
    of going geilt, to wood
    embraced of many She-s
    beyond the bramble gate

    rub my eyes, longdark
    the better which to see
    wrap myself in blackthorn
    the better which to feel

    and should you
    cross my palm with
    spirited hacksilver —
    i may tell you where
    you may find me

  • unfollowed

    you cannot follow,
    you cannot see and
    i have no words
    you can hear from
    under this tree

    i call you blood etched
    in this bleak season
    though i shake of
    ragdoll in fist with
    every word she speaks

    antlers twinned
    and forked, i hold whole
    worlds here under
    the hood of my cloak

    yet still,
    you cannot follow,
    you cannot see
    i have no words
    you can hear from
    under this tree

  • this watercourse

    i have grown old these ways
    yet still young rivers born
    while i flow to their babble
    cutting a current of my own

    mine, this watercourse
    winter sets bone
    the bare branches 
    for winds let go

    jipjipjip
    old wren the freshfall