reaching for
something profound
in red dog dreams,
coming up with
handfuls of dust
wondering if
pale hands will
finally carry me gentle
under the wave &
north away home
north away home
Photo by Janke Laskowski on Unsplash To like, click comments or:
north away home
semicolon days;
these semicolon days
with that breathy pause
before twilight turns to night
the winter queen waiting
with a yawn and stretch
dreaming of scarlet and black
both wrists bared and
knees to the earth
a surrender to stone
and hearthTo like, click comments or:
semicolon days;
bye on bye
catchbreeze with
birds on a wing
shallow sun
growing deep
a wave bye on bye
on her slipping by
heading to her
south once again
for me, evergreen
and slate skies grey
come the flint
of my blood and
of my skinTo like, click comments or:
bye on bye
slumber
chill breeze flowing
through open windows
and everyone sleeping
in this sleeping house
my own mind slumbers
too
and i wonder if it
will ever wakeThere are more times of late when I feel more simulacrum than person. This is one of those times, where I am quite content in not moving forward if only this moment could linger. Stop the simulation, let me sleepy-slumber with late summer (or early autumn, I suppose) on the morn, windows open, bare legs cold, the faint bird chirps without rhythm or meaning, the highway drone from a few miles away. Coffee mug in hand, ignoring the turmoil in the news. Watching cats watch whatever and not feeling too much pain in the joints until I move.
I could be that simulacrum, my brain says — for a while longer. Record and set to repeat. I’m tired of most everything else. Add a section when I lay atop my bedding and sleepwalk in half-remembered dreams, maybe program a section where I catch chill and nest underneath too. What about a companion? While a nice thought, I’m not sure such scenes allow for companionship. The slumbering simulacrum seems a solitary affair, doesn’t it? Or maybe… but no. We’ll leave that for the dreaming this simulacrum might have.
If it were possible to have this half-dream state of existing, I might even stop writing. It would be my gift to the world.
Hush now. I feel another dream.
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slumber
just to hear his screams
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash “we locked up Ben
just to hear his screams,”
is how the story began
once black type, now brown
on yellowed paper old
stuffed without ceremony
in a notepad more
jaundiced than the
paper it was printed on
nervous chuckles at that
with a put that aside
until braver days rise
maybe some misbegotten
future morn
or maybe not,
vaguely recalling
misdirectional intent behind
the phrase from before
but not tonight, no
as i enjoy the glow of
cds inventoried to storeTo like, click comments or:
just to hear his screams
unpermitted
lost weirds wording
mute mouth movement
i blind eye my fuzzy sight
waiting for fires to burn
your permission is
not my intention
your permission is
not my affliction
i break earth in lines
in my own damned time
nightsitting, waiting
giving over to my dross
'til she bare feet comes
never touching ground
never turning 'round, againTo like, click comments or:
unpermitted
tossing a rune — 22aug25
hagalaz piercing pellets at endsummer
an unexpected assault
on brainpan and leaf
soon, grass will return green
to crickets waving a breezeA rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is hagalaz, which has a core meaning of “hail”, which was associated with potential, transformation, renewal and change.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
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tossing a rune — 22aug25
In an Other World…
The Lowry Mansion, aka “Dino’s Other World”; image from Wright County Historical Society I had a sudden flashback this morning of a restaurant that I never actually went to, but passed nearly every weekend as a kid as the family drove from the Twin Cities metro area to a cabin my aunt owned in Minnesota’s northwoods. The restaurant was heavily advertised on the route by way of billboards and driving by the venue itself was usually enough to trigger a flurry of requests to stop for dinner.
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In an Other World…
you cannot see
manticmined i bury myself
in the understone covered
fís and mistformed flowing
scáthed, bran storied days
under feathered of white
rest now rest now
pale blind enters night
cut crimson rivers slow
hazel once at the evening
come oak slipped of the morn
i am her come at blackthorn
i am her come of snowTo like, click comments or:
you cannot see
