river west through and sanguine
slipping serpentine dusk over red
tangled up in roots and memory
casting scree down narrow bank
a wish? or smoke on a prayer?
it seems like it was so long ago
but never rivers the same for
as wheels cut ford —
ever of in-between...
who dares mount up &
enjoin the winding path?
ravens laugh in the ashes
at a joke few will perceive —
a snare that's already sprung
While I don’t plan to go back to doing daily rune poems as I did at sceadugenga.com, every once in a while I might randomly pick one and see what comes out of my head, just to keep the wheels greased. Today’s was ehwaz. At its core, it has been given the meaning “horse” which, in turn, leads a multitude of other associations including that of fylgja — which is synonymous with the concept of a totem spirit. I imagine the ravens laughing at any notions I might have about control, much as they laugh about most of the things I think I “know”.
So it goes…
this careless secret, mine
one i must conceal
i bury it darkly
wrapped so tightly of
night velvets & thorn
behind masque & real
i do not look in mirrors or
check my display window reflections
as i drift on by there's not much to see
there
anyway
i stole a glance at an echo
beyond the simulacrum
and found myself trapped
in thrall with the ghost i did see
what ever was
narcissus dreaming?
Mountain flowers flowed out in carpet under the granite teeth of bears, the silksong still waters shifting slip from lake to falls a canyon behind. Though half a mile north and downhill, he could hear the faint roar of cascade against rigid sharp stones below as the waters would slip yet further away.
Cedar breezes and that mystery smell of water evaporating in the sun on grey stone. He wanders this place as if he lives here, though it has gone a lifetime away. Chill mountain lakes, snowcapped peaks thrust still here at the top of a world.
He brushes away the pine needles browning on the rock overlooking the shallow lake, just a broad space of river as it slow shifts water from higher places to low. He sits and waits for her arrival, wondering if today will be her day.
drawn pale moon blind
reflected in black waters
the mirror of which
they did call you their
beloved moonchilde
do you remember?
do you recall?
before the wheel
was sent spinning?
knots and lace
tarot and song
petals on sheets and
myrrh in our hair...
come for me under night
the one once called
beloved moonchilde
a hilltop kiss
above old creek wending,
tangled of vale
all grains gone gold
in autumn hours with
a sun hung low
burning within, without
you whisper a secret
for me to keep
my head on your breasts,
slumber come tomorrow
fingernail tracing moon shadows
cast on your pale, white thigh
wondering why we must ever
only embrace this way in mists
No campfires for me last night, I’d decided. Instead, I elected to wander away into the day that followed flame as I left the camp behind: Sun blazing on one side, Moon cool and pale on the other. Maple’s yellow leaves fell mystic around me, an autumn kind of sakura celebration lacking only the plum wine for the stream ran beside me, falling over stones and breaking white the reflection of the sky.
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