Category: writing

  • stars

    Photo by Troy Olson on Unsplash
    forgetting how to read
    my books given to tinder
    and letters gone to rust
    a kiss the only verse
    i know

    i might refrain your eyes
    on hours, if howevers allow
    over endless ribbons
    on sky's raven road

    do your stars
    cut at flesh
    when caught
    on the fall?

  • triptych

    black wooden fence on snow field at a distance of black bare trees
    Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
    tangletown dreaming
    arterial roots weaving
    entwined, your eyes
    chipped onyx flecked
    and flint in the corners
    windows wide and riding
    the tall beasts fell
    to that old beat howl
    all mouths gaping at
    how beautiful you are
    No. How could you possibly
    understand? You would need
    the books and coin-covered
    eyes to see. Crossing that river
    that seems a stream and, if you
    do, you could never look back.
    you look skies, but
    some say prayers
    over a sea of sand
    in cities of dust
    come the ash driven
    like the snow

    while i say mine

  • Barrow

    Photo by Dana on Unsplash

    We are already of the barrow.

    A turn of the chamber followed the roar of the gun is all that divides. Or the obsidian’s edge, if you prefer, for that line is silent and cuts the threads fine. Or that final chest rattle in the nadir of night, while kin look on.

    Gasping revenants clutching at vapors threading their path through the mists and ways, our hands wither to dust. And for what? The illusion of the infinite when we are but dirt and dust.

    We color ourselves with the shadow of our own ash gathered from down there, in the pit. Try to give ourselves light from the shadow, by way of contrast. But few seem to see.

    We are already of the barrow.

  • hollow me

    Photo by Peter Herrmann on Unsplash
    hollow me wraithly
    flitting through moon
    crisp tasting & elder
    untouching the floor

    moving within within
    moving within
    but… unseen
    for all the howl

    cold hearth & ashen
    still glide the home
    given to memento
    given to the gloam

  • dominion

    into big empty &
    sever the tethers
    to slip obscure
    in those eyes nocturne

    i fell in love
    with her picture
    in the television
    i fell in love with
    her banshee wail

    with eyes crossed kohl
    she could not see
    even if she tried

    given to dominion
    i surrendered to her gale
    only to be forgotten
    in the maelstrom flick
    of a changed channel

  • old curmudgeon me

    old curmudgeon me
    feeling aches i disowned
    back when i was young
    ”never will i…”
    ”not me…”

    and
    here we are, with me
    wondering when i will cane
    and already needing more sleep
    reading books and watching tv
    of people in deeper shit than me
    because it makes everything
    seem better

  • greeting dawn

    another storm shuffles through
    leaving me powerless
    a robin greets dawn
    to a neighbor's generator drone

  • understone

    i understone unturned 
    waiting for a barleymaid
    to fingerpry tendril me free

    an echo lingers at chasms
    a ghosting at my ears
    sweet autumn, her song 
    calling the long night down

    i understone and waiting
    for gentle fingers to
     slender prise me free.

  • For you

    Photo by Adarsh Kummur on Unsplash

    You’ll find me at moorwanders, following smalltrails and playing at touchstone for the only thing that is real. Here, elder ways draw to base: flame crosses chill, rain mists slick the stone, and the growl of winds between the ways. Here, the animals sing underhill, a call to slumber.

    I know you tire at the mention of Raven, but they are here too.

    The best magic is that which seems not to be magic at all, and it lingers here like it did in the old, doing a lot of nothing much at all: wind waves barley, skies trading slate for blue and then back again, small birds ducking in and out of the tall grass and the lone tree upon the hill. Them, big oak and me as all acorn, resting underneath and waiting.

    For what? you ask.

    Well, if you must need know… for you.

  • tossing a rune — 08aug25

    fehu
    giving away books
    to little libraries
    to show my kin
    sharing make us richer
    than accumulation

    Another rune poem of mine, where the rune is selected at random.

    Today’s rune is fehu, which has a core meaning of “cattle” or a more generalized “livestock”, which was a representation of personal wealth. Wealth and prosperity was valued, but was looked down upon when accumulation appeared to be excessive, greedy, miserly or turned to hoarding, especially when those around you were lacking.