fever head her
birch song wind
russet leaves dead
sleet ticktaps pines
as she stands strong
hear her, hear her
under the wood
alder sap & painted
hear her, hear her
underdark
underwood
shadowsonged
fever head her
blackthorn pricks
stone the river run
river under ice
and brambles strong
hear her...
this every stone turned
hides another lie
buried in permafrost
look to the other
find your heart within
chase the chill away
back against metal
frost skin bruised
waiting for the sun
concrete chipped cuts
those nylon nerves
screaming for the sun
i love you like
you don't love me while
dawning before the sun
flood homes we float
from staircase to stair
debris seeking alone
adrift, scattered words
waterstained india black
flowing as souls do wet
hands our fingers bite
sending words awry
breaking fountains
feathered
washing stone
Part reminder that I have moved to the new site here, part flash fiction, I posted this over at sceadugenga this morning. I’m reposting the flash fiction section here in case you have already changed your followed site to this one and removed the old site. If you read it at the old site, you won’t find much of anything new here unless I end up mucking about and start playing editor. I hadn’t intended to write flash fiction when I started the post at the old site, but that’s how it ended up.
If you haven’t already noticed, the lights have gone up and the bartender is calling “last call” to make you get the message, as if the ambiance change was not indication enough.
“Last call! Last call!”
Someone nudges you and you look down at the resident drunk, Louie. “Hey man, can you buy me a drink, I’ll pay you back nex–“
“Last call!”
(more…)They walk in underways, mirrored in us while raven laughs of treetops wending and above for all our blind eyes, all our deaf ears stopped up with the cotton of tomorrows never known. They lived in us once, too, and ache at our immaturity.
People think me mad to stare at unseen campfires while my bed is burning, making mumbles at the slow folk gathering ’round as they warm their bones against the steel nights cold. At least the stars shine bright below on frigid nights, along with mother moon pale down in the skies.
The madness is in ignoring the folk, not in engagement. As they say, the stone would tell if you just gave them space to share the tales. Rushing, most people are enthralled with the ghostly glow pouring from their hands to succumb to the rocks’ demands. They cannot balance their earth and their rivers, everflowing faster and going nowhere fast.
As I said, raven laughs, raven is the watchman, amused as we move in circles and never going anyplace — least of all fast. Dead, blind and stupid.
these shadows on the moon
cast a face of yours in pale
throwing stars numbered
sharp, cutting and fallen
will we remain the unforgiven?
in one year or three
we will see if you walk
down south lane dreams
see if knots truly bind or
if unkindly ones give tell
the ocean's scent carries
even here
burning inside and writhing
with their words spoken
during long ghost nights
carried in smoke on the wind
hey hey sang they hey hey
medicine for the longing within
passing white sage silver
on the circle all around
the pounding of our hearts
the bellows of our winds and
the burning inside and
the burning within
masks we ride rivers wide
banks staring blank, empty
ancestors begging forgiveness --
what have we done?
slipping night waters
at the edge of blood tides
moon mother moon
what have we done?
careless, that whispered jetty
rock dark, broken shore
still that heart's beating
what have we done?