Category: writing

  • evermists

    Photo by Connor DeMott on Unsplash
    fingernail tracing moon shadows
    cast on your pale, white thigh
    wondering why we must ever
    only embrace this way in mists

  • scarlet tears, dry rain

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
    acceptance creeps
    it was never this lot
    to be, longing & only

    i see

    i see

    i see

    a flash of steel in
    the full of bleak moon's
    pale face fading
    behind stormcloud doubt
    an imposter waiting

    scarlet tears, dry rain

  • Campfire Sessions — 13apr25

    Campfire
    Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash

    No campfires for me last night, I’d decided. Instead, I elected to wander away into the day that followed flame as I left the camp behind: Sun blazing on one side, Moon cool and pale on the other. Maple’s yellow leaves fell mystic around me, an autumn kind of sakura celebration lacking only the plum wine for the stream ran beside me, falling over stones and breaking white the reflection of the sky.

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  • for the best

    Photo by Ronin on Unsplash
    we ford streams under
    between rime and rust
    between night and dusk
    running red at golden fall
    drawing our arctic under
    crone days stained pale
    unbroken strides between
    ash, birch and thorn

    checking maps, we see we
    have lost the trail
    and that, my friends,
    might be for the best

  • back to sit

    standing stones
    Photo by Suzanne Rushton on Unsplash
    somewhere along the path
    i somehow lost my way
    that was what
    old craggy guy
    was trying to say, just
    get back to the sit...
    an expert leading
    by example

  • Campfire Sessions — 12apr25

    Campfire
    Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash

    Back to the campfire…

    It the shadows and glow of the flickering ruddy flames, he looks gaunt, grey, and emaciated as he approaches and sits down. His hair, what remains on his taut pate, is a dirty white and as withered as he — scraggly, sparse and I can see more skin than hair.

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  • gone dust weary

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
    having gone dust weary
    abandoned and wander
    she took her hand
    in her hand and said
    to herself she was sorry
    dry rot and wormed
    greywood splinted there
    at the edge and waiting
    fiftyfive steps from the
    line cutting old growth
    from pale sky feathered
    wondering should he
    come back to her again

  • bed of leaves

    Photo by Ronin on Unsplash
    fumble forgotten
    feet tangle to fall
    last lost dance in
    the thin betweens
    birch bark peeling
    pale fog of dream
    can you catch me
    as i am falling
    to lay me out on
    this bed of leaves?

  • to hills

    Photo by Connor DeMott on Unsplash
    a fog carries that
    pale lost to white
    steel rails to hills
    raven calling

    she brings children
    in skirts she gathers
    staring straight she
    glides barefoot stride
    her night velvet
    whispered crushing

    hand out, calling
    my voice hoarse
    in the fading forth

  • blood before

    standing stones
    Photo by Suzanne Rushton on Unsplash
    i river waiting for
    flutter you feather
    polishing stone for
    night long coming
    wrap hair ebon 
    undress in longing
    so sacrifice to own
    to you of you and
    lay out autumn
    there between
    the river bare
    to take me pale
    before the blood
    before