my head has gone to heath
mottled stone of lichen
passing steel or passing sun
under rain and dampening
cold the wind whistles wending
through the heath stones
that make of my head
slender spaces shimmer quiet
thin be'twixt and 'tween
here upon my hillock of dream
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Ray and I are of a similar age — darn near exactly, if I’m being honest, but I like to hold my ever-so-slight seniority over his head like a big brother might. We grew up doing much of the same things. His framework was from the lens of the 80s dirtballs and metalheads, mine from the 80s freaks and goths. Even back in the 80s, these subcultures bonded quite readily and often found common ground, largely because we were all “outside of society” as Patty Smith sang [I won’t risk offending anyone by naming the song, you know or you can look it up]. We were all rejects.
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campfire pops & crackles
set the song's rhythm
spirits remain mute
surrendering space
to night's denizens
so they may sing, too
Another rune poem of mine, where the rune is selected at random.
Today’s rune is ansuz, which has a core meaning “a god” (intended to be Odin), “mouth” or “breath”. Odin is representative of many, many things… in this case, ansuz is most representative of the mouth/breath (speech) that gives life to poetry, magic, song, language, and spirit — largely inseparable in the Viking worldview — and Odin is considered the supreme master of these intertwined concepts.
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these strange days
come slipping
between bedsheets in
the night, whispering
sweet nothings like
long lost lovers
looking for
a last lusty kiss
before our dying
our winter's
creeping fingers
appear as frost on
silvered glass
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i do not want
to be influenced
or instructed.
i want you to
make my body sing
electric with the
kiss of your words
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i wonder at the
absence of flames
my world has been
on fire almost
every day and now…
…now?
there is a long,
cool rain falling
quenching the heat
and i cannot
identify the cause,
nor why of it all
ever so slight of nervous
seeking a torch
to now light my way
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These birch at the riverbank, boulder-fractured of growth resting bottom of the mountain scree — they are me. Standing defiant, I insist on being though stone pushes and gravities are drawn, I drink strength of river.
Granite sings, should you open your eyes to listen. I can tune my growth to their song. I am woman, that pale goddess. And I insist you try.
Gathering of breath from wind, from rain, my arms have set to wave. For I bend, not break under the song of the heart. You would too, if only you could see.
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wearing other’s faces
i saw you stealing kisses
the consummate thief
you are
but i can see through
your disguise and lies
i can see a million miles
away
you know? it made me laugh
left laughing ‘til morning came
i tip my hat at your
audacity
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oh, this confusion of me
balls into singularity and
i can't understand at all
what anyone might mean
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chasing wisps
i lost the path
here, in
my peat bog
pussywillow
lean-to home
pressing grey
and velvet to
face crag me
dragging deadfall
to blacksmoke
open air screens
muscle spasm
twitch tones
darkwater brown
given over to
chasing wisps
down ol' peat bog
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