skindancing on the
edge of a knife
drawing clean lines
in the looking glass,
mapping a path to
redemption
Category: writing
redemption
tossing a rune — 22may25
raido tossing a blanket over
i go within to go without
crows calling over bleak expanse
while the narrows snake ruddy
over snow-covered fells
wind-exposed lichen & stoneAnother rune poem, where the rune is selected at random. Today’s rune is raido, which has a core meaning of “riding” or “journey”. Most often, it implies a journey by wain (cart) which further implies “wheel”, but also has been interpreted as travel on foot or by horse.
outside
Photo by HARALD PLIESSNIG on Unsplash irrelevance for all the trying
to stay within and not slip
between tall men and mists
outside the pales posted
at the edge of town
même ainsi,
pour l'étranger:
l'enfer, c'est les autres
watchmen fall silent
as shadowhands by
the light of the moon
reveal the monster withinmoon gazing
Photo by Alla Kemelmakher on Unsplash i have still not learned to
unexpect all the things
even the moon might
choose to hide shy
behind her pale veil
at least some of the times
impenetrable clouds
mar my view
i turn eyes from
skies to soil
to readjust anewslow break
Photo by Kevin Hessey on Unsplash my slow break echoes
through and through
an empty world
timber splintered decay
how long the weary
before even weary
must fall down?
pale songs cut
our rebel selvesinvisible i
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com invisible i
and they
could care less
that my skies
have gone out
laying there
atop those
hollow hills
all nightAnother ritual night
Photo by Stephane Gagnon on Unsplash I have forgotten stars now. That light flickering, I wonder how it entranced me so now that it has faded from view. Perhaps I used to be somebody in the before. Or, maybe, it was always illusion that snaked this road into each night before the screens stole it away.
Blood hands from holding blades, shards of glass on a beach of stone. Mournful, the cries of ravens from the cedar warning me from the windswept hill. They used to hang people there. They used to pierce them, too, to ensure they were not playing the dead, those soldiers of gloom.
A right pinch of snuff and a stroke of scrimshaw in the left hand holding. Clearing the head of stagnant saltwater in rituals of the hands… I am bone, I am stone, I am wings on the thermals ride. Black as the night that drew me. My feet pound the wood dock branching out over water, echoing the hollow within.
Joyless I wait for the push from behind, black water calling.
the myths ourselves
Photo by Cornelia Munteanu on Unsplash the myths we make
of ourselves, those
pretty things untrue
a longing for silence
in this sodden head
to rest, buried deep
& loam embraced
drifting throughwildwood dreaming
