i invite the night
to kiss and send
to drift my body
down her river flowing—
at twilight
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at twilight
isle
Photo by Alice Alinari on Unsplash to gone to earth
in the every
to slip beneath
the fen in early
cross the finger
crest the blood
twitch at glisten
of toothsome blade
cut the stars
with hands flint
all fallen
turn our eyes
to the island
apples of the
reddest shade
she ivory waits
in every wayTo like, click comments or:
isle
Half-penny thoughts — 07may25
Photo by Cornelia Munteanu on Unsplash Eyes chase the dust motes playing in the sun framed in shadows cast by the window frame. I wonder that they might be alive, even if we think of dust as the slag of our skin, cast off in a neverending shedding season, our constant state of ephemera we purposefully cast a blind eye toward — afraid of our own mortality. Unable to accept we are a season of dust, we focus our gaze on the verdant, the thriving as we sweep the parts of our dying under the rug for someone else to discover after we have passed on.
Consider this: Could the “dead” cells of ourselves still be alive? By what measure have we to decide when they are finally and truly dead things? They never had a heartbeat and we cannot confirm they ever had mind — although I will argue that there is more mind than we are inclined to recognize in the world around us — much less this have an active mind.
And yet, be it the vagaries of air eddies and their imagined whims, or dust motes at play, one has to wonder if any of this must be as it seems. Who is to say that if we look beyond the scrim before our eyes and truly see, if we might not see more than what everything seems.
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Half-penny thoughts — 07may25
wordless
Photo by Simon Wilkes on Unsplash those days where words
lose all meaning in
a dizzy haze of dreaming
and fingers trace lines
of morning dew across
your pale skin under
the rise of the sunTo like, click comments or:
wordless
Towards the Within — Hi Ren
I’ve slowed down a bit on my listening to music, trying to find something that fits this nebulous definition I have of “different like the 80s post-punk era, but newer” music. Of course, while I am watching videos of nerdy girls building out their rooms on YouTube, the site is more than happy to continue providing me with music ideas to listen to, including Falco’s “Rock Me, Amadeus” (has there been anyone more absurd and apparently oblivious to their absurdity than Falco? Perhaps Boy George? Right Said Fred?).
Of course, there is only so much Viking-inspired music I can listen to, and Falco is not really someone I want to listen to on a regular basis — nor is that terribly “new”. So, I end up watching my videogame hype videos and largely ignore the offerings on deck.
That is, until the algorithm reminded me of a song that Chris Nelson introduced me to a couple of years back by a chap named Ren. Watching and listening to the song again (and this is a case where the song is best as a multimedia experience), I am still really, really impressed with this song. It does a lot of things that I wish I could do as a musician, but lack the talent to be able to do — both in the guitar playing and the presentation. The song itself is reminiscent of a manic Arlo Guthrie singing about a restaurant owned by Alice. Except not done for laughs and glitched on the part where they are jumping up and down yelling, “Kill! Kill!”
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Towards the Within — Hi Ren
drift, oh drifter
Photo by HARALD PLIESSNIG on Unsplash slip to dark water
fatigued of dream
watching branches
play with sunlight
& shadow above to
drift, oh drifter
to eversleepTo like, click comments or:
drift, oh drifter
unami
Photo by Suzanne Rushton on Unsplash i can't think in strawberry
so i do not know that mind
my thoughts are all unami
fingers to lips to arm to heart
drifting that ocean storm again
acceptance of the taste i amTo like, click comments or:
unami
Rewilding: grounding
Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash Lately, I’ve been feeding a greater need to improve my grounding. In the increasingly chaotic and manic world we have stumbled into over the past decade and a half, I feel like I have lost some of the ability I used to have to ground myself. Chances are that it is more likely that my abilities have not changed so much as they have not adapted to the current state of affairs — they are a little off-key might be the better way to think of it.
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Rewilding: grounding
smudge away
Photo by Ginny Rose Stewart on Unsplash i root, now
i sun
i river oak
through
smudge away
smudge away
wash away
stain
i paint, now
i slumber
i stone sit
through
i river oak
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smudge away
your river | a collaboration with tara caribou
Photo by Anthony Roberts on Unsplash While I was taking my little break from the internet, I wasn’t just twiddling my thumbs. I was not only doing extensive introspective writing (journaling I guess it could be called) and writing in private, but I was working on other creative endeavors as well. One of those was to follow up on a request made several years ago by Tara Caribou, owner Raw Earth Ink (publisher of my book of poetry, galdr, among other fine books) and fellow collaborator on reach (another music/poetry effort) as well as other poetry pieces.
While we had agreed to do something like this in principle back in 2022 or 2023, one or both of us was busy (or, in my case, musically tapped out) and we could never seem to get our ducks in a row (I’ll take the blame, I’m the one who generally over-schedules myself).
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your river | a collaboration with tara caribou
