hands stained in alder
scarlet against the driven snow
this blood runs to stone
scattered over the path of fells
heather rimed in white
her sun rimed in snow
below and now she rises
blood on fell and stone
Tag: betwixt and between
fell and stone
Photo by Sina Bakhtiari on Unsplash roads and halls
Photo by Ginny Rose Stewart on Unsplash I walked the beaded hallways red with you and you did not see, not really. Yes yes that’s very beautiful you said as we walked not the beauty of buckskin and ruddy skin. You saw only the patterned beads.
You did not hear the heartbeat drums causing the red hallways to thrum and pulse as you raced towards the light, making sure you could say you had experienced it all for yourself, but you did not hear, nor see.
You did not feel their blood on your skin, nor the sweat, nor the tears. You said you knew it all, had read it in a book you couldn’t recall the title of, nor author. And you pulled me along, not letting me linger to “feel the feels”. You told me you would find the book in the library for me so I could feel.
I reached for the medicine up in the night, but you bound me to prevent “my escape”.
I spoke to ravens and stones.
You just stared at me.
acorn man
Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash sun and shadow
dancing the bones
between the tonights
laid over growing
groundcover dark
within the wode
acorn man mad they
call his wanders
under oak over stone
pond water mirrors
his autumn ways
hey hey they call of above
do not walk yourself lost
black laughter rising
he laughs along
wanderwalking the wode
acorn man disguisedCampfire Sessions — 06 apr 25
Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash It’s time to be off, they said.
There was not much left of the once-long stick I had been using to poke at the dying embers for a spell. Each time I poked, bright orange sparks would jump from the rippling ruby coals. For no particular reason, doing so brought me a flash of joy.
I have always been a firebug. Maybe that was why.
I turned to Raven, their feathers ruddy in the glow of the remains of my campfire. Off where? I asked.
You know, they said.
(more…)inner
Photo by Ginny Rose Stewart on Unsplash we crawled into
innerworld
on our hands &
knees
you kissed me
otherside &
promised me all
night
sage was a'drifting
stones were shifting &
flames burned to
embersgames
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash always unknowing & unreadable
her eyes play from the shadows
teasing & taunting
forgive me, i am so tired
of these gamesred dirt
Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash sitting the red dirt
casting needle bone raw
hey fox, ho owl
what tales do winds tell?
given to ghost on promise
tied leather, wrapped lace
turning on bright flame
if the memory serves you
well
sitting the red dirt
between pine and swell
hey owl, ho fox with
promises winds tellTo Stone
Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash You and I, we hung moon in arctic turquoise skies above the gravestones of friends buried in the Evernight. For remembrance, certainly, but also for that our own souls could the words to move on. To find our smoke and ride the starry road North to Stone.
Ancestors, they came to our Gathering Flame; those sitting as were wont to sit, those standing as were wont of standing. All sought the Strange dancing in the flames, be they feather, flesh or fur. Even the alder man came, his sap reddening ran.
And they spoke at length for fourteen days of gloam, each giving words to carry to the below or for how they must be brought. We gathered and, just before the dawn meant for leaving shores, all gathered and sang to welcome the sun adorned.
One step, then four, we entered wearing our horns and gave to follow the floes, leaving the snowfells behind. And Ancestors? They watched, forlorn, each wishing in their own way our safe journey on to Stone.
burning books
Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash these witching hour dreams
what are they supposed to
mean?
that chapter has long been
burned at the stake i cannot
will it into being
leave now, o ghost
so perhaps we can dream
another life
where our books no long burn
