Tag: betwixt and between

  • white noise

    the words turn to blur
    every voice fades
    to white noise
    dew wet trousers on
    an early kneeling morn

    chapped lips imagine
    kisses in chill mists
    dreams are made of
    morns made like these—
    the smell of apples
    drifting in

  • echo dream

    i can't help but wonder
    when you talk,
    if you talk to me
    or if that is just dream
    speaking past soft veils

    perhaps it is just a dream
    echoing another dream
    in which there is nothing
    but a dream left for
    anything to say

  • Receptions

    From deep within the weald, there is a longing to sit with, to learn from.

    Go fly to the mountain, raven, sit on the stone-filled heath. Become the fells, be come the high places. Better yet: sink down into the underwood deadfall and loam, wrap roots around and tangle hair with moss, lichen the bone. Grow antlers. Become the stone. Who needs these wings?

    They come. They receive. They go.

    Grow to flint, knapped and worn. Become the old trunk they come sit with and exchange, clear off scalloped white fungus as they while away until there is nothing more. They take that away too, and cast away when bored. But that is the way.

    When you are not looking, comes the wolf. Not just a wolf. The winter wolf.

    And being stone will then be the whiling away while the longing melts of winter.

  • isle

    i become long
    under the night
    and my heart stutters
    with ache for a silent skiff
    ghosting through mists
    to take me to that
    forgotten place where
    blossoms forever fall

  • lost, so lost

    tincture these reflections of
    tracing sweat beads down
    your side with a kiss, pressing
    cherry petals to your skin 
    and on drunk your wine
    lost, so lost, this time again

  • slipping snares

    slipping those witchy snares
    letting hedges fall away—
    i am not here to cosplay

    i sky scree lake water blue
    i dark root mycelium bound
    i æsclāst, that wending path

    fever, dreams draw heat
    forest and wode, grown old
    crows rise calling—

    blood on virgin snow

  • lark on the morn

    Today I draw dark lines in charcoal on parchment so thin as to air. All gravities pull in your direction and the angles bend true, in teeth-branded skin and hurt so good.

    Head wrapped in linen for better to see. My fingers dance liminal, waiting for the telegraph of dream. Can you see the words writ in water? The ripples cross my dark lines in coal drawn on angle to you.

    Granites love your gravity, antlers turn their curves to thee.

    And, it is in this I apprehend. Waiting on the morning lark to call you into being.

  • oculus obscura

    i am not of dreaming
    her eyes mind not me
    laugh crow at skies 
    laugh stone at feet

    i am hoar of unnight
    shattered & unseen
    laugh flint scrape skin
    laugh bone under me

  • atelier

    We held feather to flame and come out charred, there, in the underwood, the oaks rising sentinel high. The many mutter and shuffle, not wanting to be left behind. But the barrier is the bending of knee supplication, to both the underwood and also the trees.

    And stiff knees bend not.

    Though fevered and enflamed, I wish I could remain here kissing, improbable memories, unlikely times. We might talk to the old skull stone and antler, carving names with flint beyond the skin’s deep. We might slumber afterglow warm, sweat dripping chill on your side.

    This bone atelier, sanctuary and rain. Inkstained. I close blind eyes tight to stay.

  • Stolen away

    There are days that I feel like everything was stolen away. Like today. A flash of stagelighting splashed on chrome, showering us in cobalt bright and cherry gone to burgundy under the finger tap tap tap. There was sweat, laughter and I fell in love that night, but there was not enough summer to keep.

    Those moments were before the things broke and I fell to the stolen, poisoned under a trail of stars.

    We danced. How we danced. Different voice, a skew of face. Keeping the faith and spinning, yearning there on the eve of May. Michael, you said, a vampire drawing, drinking me away from the night. Be one of us of us of us…

    And I turned before the fading, blinded again with white. I should have not gone into the light because that it where it started to break. The theft in your obsidian eyes, a box containing all the light and the smell of the waterfront. Distracted by the glitter, I forgot to forget and give over.

    Maybe, I should have let the dead die.

    Tired of the absence, I slender eyes to shadow. I ache for the heart in your voice. But now only echoes sing in the empty place where everything was stolen away.