Category: writing

tossing a rune — 17apr25
```
who dares mount up &
enjoin the winding path?

ravens laugh in the ashes
at a joke few will perceive —
a snare that's already sprung
```
While I don’t plan to go back to doing daily rune poems as I did at sceadugenga.com, every once in a while I might randomly pick one and see what comes out of my head, just to keep the wheels greased. Today’s was ehwaz. At its core, it has been given the meaning “horse” which, in turn, leads a multitude of other associations including that of fylgja — which is synonymous with the concept of a totem spirit. I imagine the ravens laughing at any notions I might have about control, much as they laugh about most of the things I think I “know”.
So it goes…
17 Apr 25

behind masque & real

Image of a writing journal and a pencil. — *Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash*

this careless secret, mine
one i must conceal
i bury it darkly
wrapped so tightly of
night velvets & thorn
behind masque & real

17 Apr 25

reflections

reflection of woman s eye on broken mirror — *Photo by Ismael Sánchez on Pexels.com*

i do not look in mirrors or
check my display window reflections
as i drift on by there's not much to see
there
anyway

i stole a glance at an echo
beyond the simulacrum
and found myself trapped
in thrall with the ghost i did see

what ever was
narcissus dreaming?

17 Apr 25

Silksong
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Mountain flowers flowed out in carpet under the granite teeth of bears, the silksong still waters shifting slip from lake to falls a canyon behind. Though half a mile north and downhill, he could hear the faint roar of cascade against rigid sharp stones below as the waters would slip yet further away.
Cedar breezes and that mystery smell of water evaporating in the sun on grey stone. He wanders this place as if he lives here, though it has gone a lifetime away. Chill mountain lakes, snowcapped peaks thrust still here at the top of a world.
He brushes away the pine needles browning on the rock overlooking the shallow lake, just a broad space of river as it slow shifts water from higher places to low. He sits and waits for her arrival, wondering if today will be her day.
16 Apr 25

linger

a path in the middle of a dark forest — *Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash*

who dares to dream
when dreams must fade?

barbed wire memories and
your musk on sweat-stained sheets—
all that remains

16 Apr 25

moonchilde

standing stones — *Photo by Suzanne Rushton on Unsplash*

drawn pale moon blind 
reflected in black waters
the mirror of which
they did call you their
beloved moonchilde

do you remember?
do you recall?
before the wheel
was sent spinning? 

knots and lace 
tarot and song 
petals on sheets and
myrrh in our hair...

come for me under night
the one once called
beloved moonchilde

15 Apr 25

heartstone

we lost those
flowers in our hair
when winter winds
stole our breath
and turned our
hearts to stone

i have been sitting
for so long under
apple trees waiting
for fresh blossoms
to fall

15 Apr 25

above tomorrow

sunlight shining through old growth woods — *Photo by Simon Wilkes on Unsplash*

a hilltop kiss
above old creek wending,
tangled of vale

all grains gone gold
in autumn hours with
a sun hung low

burning within, without
you whisper a secret
for me to keep

my head on your breasts,
slumber come tomorrow

15 Apr 25

Between Shadow
I often wonder lately if it is my shadow drawing me into dance and embrace, if the million mile journey is here in my heart and conventional wisdom would say that I never need leave home. I give my shadow name, because a shadow should not remain without a name just because it refuses to share one.
“Scáthach,” I whisper and it just laughs and twirls away. The mistress of shadows, in the castle of shadow, from an island far, far away. It is neither denial or affirmation, and I do not have the energy to play a neverending game of warmer and colder. If it is just my shadow, it would likely care less how it is named.
But I need a name and so give it one.
(more…)
14 Apr 25

workbook

i can't explain
the tears ragged
at the edge when i
open up a workbook
collection of half-
suggestive memories,
why both urges claw
for slamming doors
or walking inside

poison years weary
and all i can think is
i wish you were here
whoever you are
lingering in shadows
in the deep corners
of my mind

14 Apr 25