discomfiture worn like
a tight timed test with
each drowning breath
slipping under regret
there is already
hell being paid in
spades and forgotten
fading memories
coming undone
a thread unspooling
into the setting sun
it is no less than
everything deserved
spades
11 comments on spadesHalf-Penny Thoughts — 21aug26
Whether in relation to my own writing or to others’ writing, I am often surprised at the interpretations readers assign to the pieces in their comments.
In those moments, I cock my head off to the side like a confused puppy and even sometimes audibly utter, “Wot?”
That’s not to say anyone’s interpretations of anyone’s writings is wrong — because writing that invites individual interpretation is when writing is at its best. But I am trying to say that sometimes those interpretations come from a place I never imagined might exist.
Sometimes, that place in the comments is so far removed from what I imagined I wrote or read that I have to go back and see if we are referencing the same piece. And I am not always satisfied that the commentor and I are looking at the same thing, or are even in the same galaxy, let alone neighborhood.
So it goes.
My invitation to join a entirely and absolutely scientific discussion prompt for today is: Is this a wholly personal experience and am I the odd duck? Or it pretty much the norm from your experience? Bonus points: Do you disagree with my earlier statement, “Writing that invites individual interpretation is when writing is at its best”? Agree?
Please Note: Right now, the US is phasing out pennies in favor of nickels as the base measure of the dollar — “What could possibly go wrong with that idea?” they asked after declaring the penny ‘cancelled’; no more $1.99 deals, I expect — so you’ll need at least ten thoughts before that threshold is crossed.
in the meanwhile
one day,
i will slip into the long sleep &
awaken in the october country
to the scent of crisp leaves with
a hint of hoar on the morn
that is where we will meet again
everything said & everything done,
forgiven
in the meanwhile,
you recall vestiges of voice &
i catch fragments of face &
each will look to old stone north
under a clatter of crows calling
"look to the east" or
"look to the west" to two
stubborn thornsStooks Before Reeves [one]
“Mal,” said Man Rivers once time, gnawing on a tobac leaf like he always was as he wound up wire and pulled stake. “There come a time you have to accept you’re bein’ snookered.”
“Howdat?” I asked watching how he coiled the snare for used elsewhere.
Man shot an glance sidewise up to the steading. You could see that fatboy Lawson up the guardtower looking real hard like his attention was on something, anything, other than Man and me.
My eyes narrowed.
“I’m just sayin’ you need know when time’s come to find a new place to snare a bit of game. ‘Times there’s a fox waiting in the underbrush waiting for your snare to catch.”
(more…)casting runes — 20aug26

othala at night the Old Ones are the only things real. they stand fireside silent, slow as stone waiting for Whiteoak to fall.
A poem prompted by a randomly selected Elder Futhark rune.
Today’s rune is othala, which has a core meaning of “heritage”, “inheritance” and “legacy”. These are all associated with home, kin, ancestors, stability and (in some interpretations) past lives or spiritual legacy.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
Weary dreams
I an beginning to wonder if it isn’t time to retire from the larger world.
“World weary” describes me perfectly.
Sometimes, I’d rather just close my eyes and not stop dreaming.
Point a finger… You, come with me if you want so we can write ourselves a dream. No? I don’t blame you. It’s not a very dreamy kind of dream anyway. It’s only a dream of cherry blossoms drifting on the water and coffee (or tea!) sipping as it dream drifts into other dreams while we talk to create those dreams and forget the things needing to be forgotten. How dull, you say.
The good news is that I may have forgotten some things already. In fact, it seems increasingly so each day as I try not to recall those things in the upstairs room. Here be monsters.
Let’s not dream those dreams. I don’t like them.
Instead, let’s dream of those things the world weary dream and draw pictures in autumn leaves.
Most of all, just let me sleep.
twin & out
mournful grey stands
ragged cliffs today
twin flint eyes
& ocean out
twin flint hearts
& ocean out
cut black sheets of
wave & skies meet
twin flint eyes
& ocean out
twin stone hearts
& ocean out
keen, rises she
keen, shards he
twin flint eyes
& ocean out
twin stone hearts
& ocean outat giving grounds
gone by way
of shadow & wind
in swaying sheaves
gold gather the fields
low the stone walls
that let creeks
still run through
is that frost i hear?
creeping bone within
giving grounds knelt
at boulder trees grown
rock tripe in grey & blue
lay down plates
come gentle the rain
as they do
moor songs, mere
awash with that
salt hueHalf-penny Thoughts — 18aug26
At risk of sounding like I am a broken record myself, I am still pondering the idea of what makes a form of artistic expression (music, writing, etc.) “unique” as opposed to “derivative”.
I make it no secret that I employ AI for exploring ideas, philosophy and personal education (i.e., “How do I construct a coldwave synth pad on my Hydrasynth? What wave types on my three oscillators, envelope and LFO settings would help me get that sweeping ‘icy’ sound?” or “Explain to me the Sámi cosmologic worldview as currently understood and correcting for Christian bias in the written records. Point out the suspect areas and provide scholarly references for further review. Do not rely on information gathered from unsupported or unreferenced statements.”
Things like that. AI is really good at collecting information quickly and doing a darned fine job of filtering it when you give the right instructions. Plus, no ads.
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