slipping blackthorn,
back to the gloam
to step out for a smoke
no kinsfolk, this wyrding
only feather & loam
only shadow & stone
into alone
Photo by Kevin Hessey on Unsplash 2 comments on into aloneTo like, click comments or:
into alone
waiting for maple
Photo by Tokyo Kohaku on Unsplash i have gone lost
down the bones
etched at kohl
in following many
elder ways to a place
called shadow
she is beyond name &
speaks in fingers
under the canopy green
skin earthstained red
waiting for maple
to bleedTo like, click comments or:
waiting for maple
Half-penny thoughts | 07aug25
Somewhere in Alaska, my photo My mind keeps going back to when I was driving through Alaska, Yukon and British Columbia. Not to disparage Alberta or Saskatchewan, but those landscapes were too “familiar”. Really, once you’ve seen one endless field of a particular crop, they all take on a similar character and we have a hell of a lot of examples of that landscape when you’re away from the river valleys in the upper midwestern states of North Dakota, Minnesota, South Dakota, Iowa and Wisconsin. My eye craved something different from what I could view a half-hour’s drive from home. And so, the last leg of my trip was not nearly as visually stimulating as the foreleg of the same.
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Half-penny thoughts | 07aug25
hear gates
Photo by Brett Wharton on Unsplash seeking a stop making sense
to snail ride a razor’s edge
staccato clipped my words trip
under themselves again
these old ones do not care
for your piety, no
they want to embrace storm
clacking bones trice
can you hear gates?To like, click comments or:
hear gates
shedding
Photo by Cornelia Munteanu on Unsplash we glide fields
wend the trees
crest the tor and
stretch wide mouths
to sing
this unpeopling
of ourselves celebrates
forest fires burning
inside our chests,
shriven
without names
these nature gods
shove hours aside
giving all to
heartwood
shed the wire
marking barbed against
soft flesh
and fly…To like, click comments or:
shedding
october is
Photo by Alberto Arroyo on Unsplash as we draw speechless
under growing hallows
full moon and mistletoe
summer gives to autumn
ol' john, he sentinels
green still in the barley
hiding us our shadow
away until the dawn
darning fingers cast weaves
for october is our song...To like, click comments or:
october is
Thunder coming
Photo by Martinus on Pexels.com Thunder the skies drum to rumble and many ears blind to the coming storm, yet calling some home to wrap themselves under both cloak and shield. Come the mists that deaden sight but for those with the spears driven to pierce.
We cast to birch, cleave to stones rising grey in undergrowth. Her rasp cuts the winds as she calls forth. Children! Children, come in!
Let the hunters flail; they are not our kin. Let them blindstep the pathways, missing us, their quarry, just beyond the thin.
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Thunder coming
warden
Photo by Ovidiu Cozma on Unsplash circling threes from trees
birch white paper of black
calling out his name
from the wending ways
a warden in the weald
we are flight we are free
bending skies to our own
shaking wood, twisting stone
to lay alone of earthwomb
wrapped in fevers
a fragment found.
a key —
head tilt and a shout,
a return to north windsTo like, click comments or:
warden
Reflection
Photo by pedram ahmadi on Unsplash It is more clear than ever that most cannot understand my sometimes, those veilgliding moments on betweens — this river of mine of many dreams that flows within. Come to rest within the hollows and eddies spinning and turning with me and you might see how I see. And then, you may ask yourself…
In a flurry of down and feather I came to rest. There she is, the I that was. There he is, the I that will. Onyx eyes wander the memory wastelands, sipping at an oasis of color; a little here, a little there. I am so many. And they all want to talk, some just more silent in their speech than others.
If only one person understood the sometimes… But the thin places are only rarely found.
Dark eyes haunting the wrinkled silver of dust-etched mirrors, they are the ghosts that trail behind like scarlet ribbons on mountain winds as the snow drifts over age-worn cairns.
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Reflection
