while everyone is singing
their empire songs, we
slip away to the night
there is no trust for
the watchmen watching
with halberd's shining
white in the spotlights,
their axes at our necks
we could be heroes, too
a bulwark against
the storm, but first...
a kiss before dying
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The title sounds like a communicable disease, doesn’t it? Anyhoo…
Contacting me is changing around here.
Just an FYI in case you have thought about talking to me about, well… anything really… one-on-one.
I’ve decided against continuing to make the contact form available on my “about” page. For every single legit attempt to communicate with me, I get about fifty to a hundred spam contacts. Over the years, I’ve also had some very odd communications from folks as well.
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the ley lie
betwixt
you and i
no matter
the where
we stand in
ever-the-night
i close my
coin eyes
to run to you
my essence
my ley
my night
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love is rainfall
autumn & leaf
flint striking
steel skies grey
that is what love is
love is loam in
perfume & moss
drinking in the
shadowplayed sunlight
that is what love is
love is graveled
voice & black feathers
granting passage high
in the cedar trees
that is what love is
a name like winter
on a moonless night
a kiss of frost in passing
that is what love is
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i do not
want to nice today
my nice is broken
and makes mean
sounds like a killer bee
crossed with zombie —
the fast ones, not slow
— and my smile
is more frowny
my eyes gone slanty
and i am tired of
this show
i am ready
to wander to wood
and just wait there
for the snows
because my nice
is 100% broken
and my mood
just blows.
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she winters...
growing colder
as nights draw longer
she ice shaves scrape
her nails white & blue
alone in
her crystal room
to ash her hair
at least none dare
to slip beyond
the chill
because here is where
she winters
and winter here
she does still
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two colour eyes true
after summer and ash
held hands in floodlands
and twin river above
there, redwing lingers
dancing cattails
and dragonflies
smelling of wet leaves
before the frost
here, we rain
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How do I write a story? I forget. Perhaps one goes a little like this:
There once was a little girl, and she liked red and so she wore red. Except that her mum called it crimson and her da preferred scarlet. But the fae said it was more poppy, and so that stuck because her mum thought it a more cheery thing than those other blood colors.
The girl said nothing at all and not because she did not have a mind of her own, but because someone had stolen her voice before she was born and she had no head for writing, though she knew plenty of words like “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”, “snicker-snack” and “albatross” (a word she dreamed of shouting from the top of the radio tower that rose over the place she was born). But writing those words? Oh, well, that just was not something she could do.
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lips curve the crest of breast
jasper ocean eyes to drown
carving thigh lace with night
wordless of the wind sigh
for fingertipped dew glides
riding of the moon with night
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