manticmined i bury myself
in the understone covered
fís and mistformed flowing
scáthed, bran storied days
under feathered of white
rest now rest now
pale blind enters night
cut crimson rivers slow
hazel once at the evening
come oak slipped of the morn
i am her come at blackthorn
i am her come of snow
Category: writing
you cannot see
drift gather snow
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com on drift gather snow
crows wind draw
singing to steel wire
humming on breeze
leaves painted frost
in a lonesome place far
waiting on gentle wings
come to on
drift gather snowTruth
Photo by Kaique Rocha on Pexels.com I travel long distances without leaving my home.
This is truth.
I pull the hood over my head, cover my eyes and I am back on the road, blacktop beneath my soles, blackthorn in my hand, tall pines doused in their pungent cologne, rising tall and casting everything shadow.
This is truth
Blacktop fades to gravel fades to black dirt stained grey and the birch draw closer, birds talking from the broad reeds, powder puff cattails and rushes green. Giving directions. Giving meaning.
This is truth.
Feeling gravities pull to gloaming space, I ramble on.
This is truth.
tossing a rune — 19aug25
ehwaz at rivers' crossing
she joins, shoulder riding light
silent as the fog around
no more words—
silence is the wisdom
of the dayA rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is ehwaz, which has a core meaning of “horse”. A horse is often associated with journeys, travel and movement. By extension, it also implies symbiosis with another living creature or fylgja, and the rune is associated with loyalty or trust.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
slip-tween
notnight
Photo by Samuel Quek on Unsplash neverything coming waves
washing over my black sands
in the untethered paleness
of notnight aglow afar
and i undertow flow
back to the nine
back to chilled dreaming
as if unknown to wakeWandering
Photo by Kaleb Brown on Unsplash Wandering the daydream, with all the accompanying mists and the fey voices just out of earshot in those mists; a forest of lingering like a wraith waiting for the gloaming of nightfell — such is the path I flow.
Weary of trying to find connection, I feel the tug of something less even than byways. And, giving in, twin feet shamble towards the briar and thorns to follow on the stones to sacrifice of both eyes. The words are liars, near all, so we toss them to the underbrush and let them return to mud.
This is my lonely and I feel possessive of it in the way the chill of fresh-fallen snow stings skin to pleasure as two bare hands mould it into shape. I do not think I can share it, and I would never dare to give it away. It is far too precious.
Turn away, just as the guitar peals the last banshee cries into night. We are like as not, unforgiven.
hidden-faced moon
Photo by Cornelia Munteanu on Unsplash embracing the forest's fog
delving ever deeper within
shaking off distraction
with the rising of a hood
so that both
seeing & hearing
becomes more clear
a murder calls of autumn
long rains, hidden-faced moonfractured moons
Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash these fractured moons
stolen away with threadbare
etched in whalebone hue
time to turn off the radio
listen to the forest hum
time to watch waves come anew
oh, these lonely
moon broke nights
between a hard place and youcallings
Photo by Stephane Gagnon on Unsplash leaving oceans west
we turn & leave sun
to tread north & night
to tombstone & ice
with frenzies far spent
we give of thorn, scathed
with waves washing
blades dig black to snow
calling of moon
