Category: writing

  • unexpected outcomes

    standing stones
    Photo by Suzanne Rushton on Unsplash
    mad hare, what drove you
    to dodge the night fallen snow
    from here to there and back again
    all dizzy in your frenzy?

    it seems you lost your head
    the large crow said, as he
    cleaned up the mess of you
    left out in the yard behind

  • neverclean

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
    this grove mine to closed
    sometimes gardening doubt 
    within the septic thorn
    black in blood scratched
    crosscut and hatched hidden
    behind a thin pale veil
    draped across my heart
    in neverclean

  • To Stone

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

    You and I, we hung moon in arctic turquoise skies above the gravestones of friends buried in the Evernight. For remembrance, certainly, but also for that our own souls could the words to move on. To find our smoke and ride the starry road North to Stone.

    Ancestors, they came to our Gathering Flame; those sitting as were wont to sit, those standing as were wont of standing. All sought the Strange dancing in the flames, be they feather, flesh or fur. Even the alder man came, his sap reddening ran.

    And they spoke at length for fourteen days of gloam, each giving words to carry to the below or for how they must be brought. We gathered and, just before the dawn meant for leaving shores, all gathered and sang to welcome the sun adorned.

    One step, then four, we entered wearing our horns and gave to follow the floes, leaving the snowfells behind. And Ancestors? They watched, forlorn, each wishing in their own way our safe journey on to Stone.

  • killing jar

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
    shake, twist the flame
    dancing on the edge
    give shout and no one
    seems to hear

    becoming flutter
    all wraith and dream
    with a voice gone mute
    and eyes, no longer see

    a history on display
    inside for the killing jar

  • burning books

    Campfire
    Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash
    these witching hour dreams
    what are they supposed to
    mean?

    that chapter has long been
    burned at the stake i cannot
    will it into being

    leave now, o ghost
    so perhaps we can dream
    another life

    where our books no long burn

  • returns

    muscle memory returns, slow 
    fingertips shredded to ribbons
    a smile on my face

  • we stone

    a path in the middle of a dark forest
    Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash
    here we stone
    under her sun
    & feverwarm

    here we loam
    ruddy that leaf &
    deadwood

    here we stone

  • blind eyes close

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
    gazing hand & shadow
    this bone, this muscle
    untouchable & tiring
    skinstained with night
    painted to stars myrkr
    heavy, they anchor
    a heart sent to slumber
    under wood & gloaming
    a kiss to blind eyes close

  • sleepless

    sleepless hands crab & 
    clutch at taut muscles
    frozen long nights
    eyes seeking skies for
    the host on the ride

  • smudging space

    sage bundles in a pot for smudging
    Photo by Ginny Rose Stewart on Unsplash
    i smudge space most days
    inviting spirits to my smoke at
    campfires within indoor plains
    for no reason at all
    but to give them space to
    rest their weary before
    they carry on & then on