needlethreading the dream
fragile in porcelain pale
stitching her fabric close
shift skies on the flint
slip steel on white
a twist, a turn, on veil
shadow scrim moving thin
shadow unmine, carry
beyond this windtorn coil
Tag: poetry
fabric
Photo by Tengis Galamez on Unsplash tossing a rune — 27aug25
gebo "we sacrificed all the things we love
to get more of nothing"
cry the echoes of november in the empty
of this autumn head of mine—
gates dissolve by way of drifting snow
revealing the only thing that's realA rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is gebo, which has a core meaning of “gift”. This relates to all forms of reciprocity, transaction, generosity, hospitality and sacrifice (in the sense of giving up something).
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
that merry-go-round
Photo by Mihai Vlasceanu on Pexels.com clockwork broken and
stone etched bone
a heart stitched hazard
hands tick back that
merry-go-round
temptation in autumn comes
with pricking thumbs
and old man's hours
waiting for her ice to thawtossing a rune — 25aug25
othala weary of tethers
fingers dance the blade
toying with cutting away jesses
and giving wing to flightA rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is othala, which has a core meaning of “heritage”, “inheritance” and “legacy”. These are all associated with home, kin, ancestors, stability and (in some interpretations) past lives.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
north away home
Photo by Janke Laskowski on Unsplash reaching for
something profound
in red dog dreams,
coming up with
handfuls of dust
wondering if
pale hands will
finally carry me gentle
under the wave &
north away homesemicolon days;
these semicolon days
with that breathy pause
before twilight turns to night
the winter queen waiting
with a yawn and stretch
dreaming of scarlet and black
both wrists bared and
knees to the earth
a surrender to stone
and hearthbye on bye
catchbreeze with
birds on a wing
shallow sun
growing deep
a wave bye on bye
on her slipping by
heading to her
south once again
for me, evergreen
and slate skies grey
come the flint
of my blood and
of my skinslumber
chill breeze flowing
through open windows
and everyone sleeping
in this sleeping house
my own mind slumbers
too
and i wonder if it
will ever wakeThere are more times of late when I feel more simulacrum than person. This is one of those times, where I am quite content in not moving forward if only this moment could linger. Stop the simulation, let me sleepy-slumber with late summer (or early autumn, I suppose) on the morn, windows open, bare legs cold, the faint bird chirps without rhythm or meaning, the highway drone from a few miles away. Coffee mug in hand, ignoring the turmoil in the news. Watching cats watch whatever and not feeling too much pain in the joints until I move.
I could be that simulacrum, my brain says — for a while longer. Record and set to repeat. I’m tired of most everything else. Add a section when I lay atop my bedding and sleepwalk in half-remembered dreams, maybe program a section where I catch chill and nest underneath too. What about a companion? While a nice thought, I’m not sure such scenes allow for companionship. The slumbering simulacrum seems a solitary affair, doesn’t it? Or maybe… but no. We’ll leave that for the dreaming this simulacrum might have.
If it were possible to have this half-dream state of existing, I might even stop writing. It would be my gift to the world.
Hush now. I feel another dream.
just to hear his screams
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash “we locked up Ben
just to hear his screams,”
is how the story began
once black type, now brown
on yellowed paper old
stuffed without ceremony
in a notepad more
jaundiced than the
paper it was printed on
nervous chuckles at that
with a put that aside
until braver days rise
maybe some misbegotten
future morn
or maybe not,
vaguely recalling
misdirectional intent behind
the phrase from before
but not tonight, no
as i enjoy the glow of
cds inventoried to storeunpermitted
lost weirds wording
mute mouth movement
i blind eye my fuzzy sight
waiting for fires to burn
your permission is
not my intention
your permission is
not my affliction
i break earth in lines
in my own damned time
nightsitting, waiting
giving over to my dross
'til she bare feet comes
never touching ground
never turning 'round, again
