seeking a stop making sense
to snail ride a razor’s edge
staccato clipped my words trip
under themselves again
these old ones do not care
for your piety, no
they want to embrace storm
clacking bones trice
can you hear gates?
Tag: rewilding
hear gates
Photo by Brett Wharton on Unsplash shedding
Photo by Cornelia Munteanu on Unsplash we glide fields
wend the trees
crest the tor and
stretch wide mouths
to sing
this unpeopling
of ourselves celebrates
forest fires burning
inside our chests,
shriven
without names
these nature gods
shove hours aside
giving all to
heartwood
shed the wire
marking barbed against
soft flesh
and fly…october is
Photo by Alberto Arroyo on Unsplash as we draw speechless
under growing hallows
full moon and mistletoe
summer gives to autumn
ol' john, he sentinels
green still in the barley
hiding us our shadow
away until the dawn
darning fingers cast weaves
for october is our song...Thunder coming
Photo by Martinus on Pexels.com Thunder the skies drum to rumble and many ears blind to the coming storm, yet calling some home to wrap themselves under both cloak and shield. Come the mists that deaden sight but for those with the spears driven to pierce.
We cast to birch, cleave to stones rising grey in undergrowth. Her rasp cuts the winds as she calls forth. Children! Children, come in!
Let the hunters flail; they are not our kin. Let them blindstep the pathways, missing us, their quarry, just beyond the thin.
warden
Photo by Ovidiu Cozma on Unsplash circling threes from trees
birch white paper of black
calling out his name
from the wending ways
a warden in the weald
we are flight we are free
bending skies to our own
shaking wood, twisting stone
to lay alone of earthwomb
wrapped in fevers
a fragment found.
a key —
head tilt and a shout,
a return to north windsReflection
Photo by pedram ahmadi on Unsplash It is more clear than ever that most cannot understand my sometimes, those veilgliding moments on betweens — this river of mine of many dreams that flows within. Come to rest within the hollows and eddies spinning and turning with me and you might see how I see. And then, you may ask yourself…
In a flurry of down and feather I came to rest. There she is, the I that was. There he is, the I that will. Onyx eyes wander the memory wastelands, sipping at an oasis of color; a little here, a little there. I am so many. And they all want to talk, some just more silent in their speech than others.
If only one person understood the sometimes… But the thin places are only rarely found.
Dark eyes haunting the wrinkled silver of dust-etched mirrors, they are the ghosts that trail behind like scarlet ribbons on mountain winds as the snow drifts over age-worn cairns.
waiting spears
Photo by Harald Pliessnig on Unsplash some times we chat all
others, silent stand tall
let gossip the pines
in trade on winds
bring on day
carry our night
bones given rain
featherfall out of sight
we gaze for winter
waiting spears...carving night
every at thin
scrim width pale
carving night
into shadow
and moonlight
each wingbeat
of heart
rattlebone clacks
stone rumble taps
fingers at posts
point candled
for windowed
callersAnimals
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com On my recent road trip to help my friend Tara with her move — flying out to Alaska followed by a long drive down the Alaskan Highway and then down to Iowa — one of the things I hoped I would see was some of the wildlife… even if only via the moving frame of the car window. I wasn’t sure what exactly I might see that would be different than what I might see within the boundaries of my own state, but I was hoping to see something different.
(more…)her rain
under her folds
her hands
her rain
under her under
returns her rains
again
she follows rain
books upon books
entry upon entry
fusty future histories
after her storm
rain rain her rain
