• stone alone

    Photo by Jo Amos on Unsplash
    i gave to ground
    & scrimshawed
    all my bone

    called to north of
    badb, my stone
    etched of heart song

    to feather dance
    in spun spiral &
    rhythm slow

    stone alone
    at nightmoons
    here comes her
    snow

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    stone alone

  • tossing a rune — 15aug25

    laguz
    from her source
    the first kiss of winter
    to her river flows

    taking up blackthorn
    i seek to pathfind
    her snows

    Another rune poem of mine, where the rune is selected at random.

    Today’s rune is laguz, which has a core meaning of “lake” and, by extension, may be interpreted as “river”, “ocean”, “sea”, “waterfall” or a general body of water. Some alternative interpretations define as “leek”. Following the more commonly accepted meaning, bodies of water were considered liminal spaces, a place between life and death or the threshold space between which spirit and substance resides.


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  • winternight

    a blue face glowing
    Photo by Merlin Lightpainting on Pexels.com
    crack hands old oak
    wrapped around my love
    i hollow the heartwood
    until she slips inside
    she comes the winter
    she comes the night
    she comes the winternight

    pinpricks my body torn
    needles dance my arms
    we sickle under midmoon
    white kissed before we're born
    she comes the winter
    she comes the night
    she comes winternight

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  • Half-penny thoughts | 14aug25

    Image of a writing journal and a pencil.
    Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash

    I have problems with the logic behind the pithy advice that in order to be a great writer, you must read. Voraciously. I know Stephen King has been credited with saying something along those lines, and I’m pretty certain he isn’t the first author to give such advice. [Oh no! Nobody Author dares counter the prevailing wisdom of the Almighty Stephen King! Heresy!]

    I mean, I think that might be partially true if you are looking to emulate a style, a genre or an author. I will submit that you should be well-read in order to know how others write — as long as when you have done so, you read or have read with a critical eye. Reading only eye-candy and consuming to consume will not make anyone a great writer. But I question the concept that the reading requirement is a persistent prerequisite for writing great things.

    It is probably a good thing that I have no ambitions for greatness. I’m quite alright just writing and enjoying the act of writing. Happy about it, even. So there’s little risk of greatness coming from my little corner of the world. I honestly should let those striving towards greatness deal with this question and not worry my pretty little head about the matter.

    But I’m not convinced being a constant reader necessarily is a requirement towards being a great writer. Especially if you want to be a writer that wants to be the pathfinder type. To boldly go where no one has gone before, or some such thing. Or the subversive, where you need to have enough freedom apart from classic tropes to break them while still remaining familiar with them. I can see several other types of writers who could benefit from not “reading when they aren’t writing.”

    When wisdom seems to not stand up to scrutiny, I get all nervy and bothered and I end up saying something.

    Am I off the mark? Probably. But I remain unconvinced that the wisdom that a writer must read as part of their formula for greatness always holds true.

    I know… I’m all duck and cover after this post. Especially after invoking and questioning the King of Horror’s holy gospel.

    Your thoughts?

    Be gentle as you tear me a new hole. I break easy.


  • barbed the wires crossed

    Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash
    barbed the wires crossed
    and i... and i...
    shut up the inside, waiting
    for the winter door
    to swing wide open
    so i fly
    night against white
    and stop making sense
    to all who might listen

    barbed the wires crossed
    lacking transmission
    wind strumming over snow
    to bring out the singing
    humming across the moors
    building up the drifts
    to blanket the whole

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    barbed the wires crossed