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 tell
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.
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
gazing hand & shadow
this bone, this muscle
untouchable & tiring
skinstained with night
painted to stars myrkr
heavy, they anchor
a heart sent to slumber
under wood & gloaming
a kiss to blind eyes close
sleepless hands crab &
clutch at taut muscles
frozen long nights
eyes seeking skies for
the host on the ride
i smudge space most days
inviting spirits to my smoke at
campfires within indoor plains
for no reason at all
but to give them space to
rest their weary before
they carry on & then on
I have many thoughts trapped inside my head. I cannot free them because they are thoughts without words to go with them, or the words that might go with them are inadequate to express those thoughts. Trying to express those thoughts feels too much like, as Alan Watts would have put it, trying to bite my own teeth.
If I managed to construct those thoughts into something that could be understood, if I could find the words and unstop this mute mouth — would anyone read them anyway? I mean, really read. I am fairly certain that they cannot be words that can be heard, so I do not dare speak.
I have for a very long time tried to personally touch these thoughts, hoping to better understand people who struggled in much the same way as I do now to express inexpressible thoughts. Now that I am on that path, I understand their struggle. There are no words, we need a new language altogether to get at the words needed to explain explain explain. Maybe, I think these thoughts can only be expressed sideways, with a slipstream sense.
After I slip into the wilds, do you think you could find me? Would you want to?
The buzz of insects over a mercuric lake…
my body is my drum
humming at two-twenty
thumps per minutes
from my thumb, terraforming
my world before my eyes
turning inside to see
where everything is
leaves and evergreens
with buzz wing dragonflies
dancing pastel skies
slumbering in dream
under a springtime sun
hanging words on oak
my heart bursts wide
fever head her
birch song wind
russet leaves dead
sleet ticktaps pines
as she stands strong
hear her, hear her
under the wood
alder sap & painted
hear her, hear her
underdark
underwood
shadowsonged
fever head her
blackthorn pricks
stone the river run
river under ice
and brambles strong
hear her...