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
Category: writing
back to sit
Photo by Suzanne Rushton on Unsplash Campfire Sessions — 12apr25
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.
(more…)gone dust weary
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 againbed 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 forthblood before
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
beforestormriders
Photo by Sina Bakhtiari on Unsplash when at wanders
listen moon
listen night
crossroads gather
feather swoon
feather flight
we are we are
we are of
stormriders
tonightblackwater
of godless ways wandering
between gallows gone to grey
the rocky shore's blackwater
framed in deadwood propped
in seaweed and broken oar
waiting for the sluagh's arms
to embrace a heart of coal
the company of ravens and
a host of crows waiting
waiting
waiting
for snows to fallfell and stone
Photo by Sina Bakhtiari on Unsplash hands stained in alder
scarlet against the driven snow
this blood runs to stone
scattered over the path of fells
heather rimed in white
her sun rimed in snow
below and now she rises
blood on fell and stoneroads and halls
Photo by Ginny Rose Stewart on Unsplash I walked the beaded hallways red with you and you did not see, not really. Yes yes that’s very beautiful you said as we walked not the beauty of buckskin and ruddy skin. You saw only the patterned beads.
You did not hear the heartbeat drums causing the red hallways to thrum and pulse as you raced towards the light, making sure you could say you had experienced it all for yourself, but you did not hear, nor see.
You did not feel their blood on your skin, nor the sweat, nor the tears. You said you knew it all, had read it in a book you couldn’t recall the title of, nor author. And you pulled me along, not letting me linger to “feel the feels”. You told me you would find the book in the library for me so I could feel.
I reached for the medicine up in the night, but you bound me to prevent “my escape”.
I spoke to ravens and stones.
You just stared at me.
