Category: writing

  • nightmare fuel

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
    grundylocks and grimley
    gone running through the green
    chasing after unicorns in
    the backyard of childhood dreams
    waving with their hacksaws
    and their axes and their gonnes
    grind a horn to tincture, say they
    to drink to gruesome songs

  • pop

    Campfire
    Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash
    gather bones
    gather leaves
    gather poppets
    gather strings

    pop cracks stone

    dancing fire
    dancing sparks
    dancing poppets
    dancing leaves

  • puppets all

    Photo by Tengis Galamez on Unsplash
    puppets all, we dance to
    another jag-time waltz
    thinking we set the rhythm
    by the fumble of feet

    we ain’t no hep cats
    jazzing our bluejeans
    the strings tangle to bind
    as we stumble that last
    drunken mile home

  • rattle the bones

    Photo by pedram ahmadi on Unsplash
    everything too suchness
    fan rattle to flame seething
    and shudder limbs shake

    ragged wrap in arms
    of rags and wraith
    chasing all elder ways

    knock the stone fell
    rattle the bones
    shake in clenched silence

    rattle all those bones

  • thistle & woad

    Photo by Mandy Bourke on Unsplash
    with a head full of thistle &
    hands stained of woad
    skating away over water to
    while away a spell
    with the acorn man

    you probably
    would not understand
    that has become a given
    over these near
    twin scored years

    and so it comes to
    wander this wodewood alone
    chatting with oaks
    in the blackthorn
    with a head full of thistle &
    hands stained of woad

  • in the weald

    a path in the middle of a dark forest
    Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash
    gone to wode
    in the weald
    gone to fever 
    in the head
    would he to wild
    oh darkling, at
    spanning rivers
    in his bed

  • woodenhead

    Photo by Alberto Arroyo on Unsplash
    oh, woodenhead
    come in from the rain
    quit your thefts
    seeking a beauty
    outside for a one
    that is within

    all crows make argue
    for your eyes—
    you do not use them
    anyway, they say
    instead, my woodenhead
    you are a' thieving out
    in the pouring rain

  • Fresh failures

    Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash

    Well, that would be two recent projects that just don’t have what I think is needed for prime time.

    First, the song I was working on as an experiment where folks write the lyrics in a certain genre to a song of mine they never heard… I tried to make something of that last week and the initial takes just felt awkward. It’s not for the lack of Chris and Sandy’s lyrical talents; rather, I just couldn’t find a way to make either of them work well. Close, but no banana, as they say. It ended up feeling as if I should be doing less, rather than more, on the lyrics front. And my mind is blank for what would work, if you can believe that crap.

    As an experiment, it was fun, but I don’t think anyone would thank me for putting the result out with their name associated. So, I’ll let it rest a bit and see if I either get a better sense of rhythm and flow to the lyrics, or if I come up with some of my own.

    (more…)

  • wandering at amble

    Photo by Fabian Bächli on Unsplash
    is it descendance
    or ascension
    when desire is
    in suspension?
    when you feel
    tension but remain
    uncompelled to act
    on anything at all?
    are you alive
    without drive or
    are you just living
    life small?

  • black sands

    black wooden fence on snow field at a distance of black bare trees
    Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
    i walk
    the black sands
    hand on hand
    holding the blade
    carving a line
    none dare cross

    we are rose petals
    scattered scarlet
    blood my blood
    a desert red without
    you mouth to
    drink me in

    winter song of wine
    a stone beach
    broken of time