of berry red and elder
i press my blood there
a thumbprint between
eye and dusk shadow
beauty as naked is
forgive this romance—
your night drawn in
fingerbones alone
i kiss you when you
dare to look away;
beat your heart closer.
i know i know
these are weary ways
to cast in cold
the frost alone
come now,
lead us walk
rose stones to
water waiting...
Tag: rewilding
of berry and elder
over graves tonight
with deadwood limbs
and ash grey heart
we sing scrimshaw
over graves tonight
daring winter winds
of ripping breath away
a rime of braided rope
ever taut and untamed
salt my lips in evensong
and stolen night awayDares
I feel I am crossing liminal spaces of late — between dusk and shadow, slipping between night and day.
I’m not sure if it is the hours, or maybe it is these days. But there is a persistent tug of flux, a drawing in and release. I grow disinterested in the machinations of the embrace of doing things the same way day by day. It seems much more interesting to drift and fade, and it is a mistake of mine to expect my object to all subjects to feel the same.
Snip. Snip. Snip. A painfully slow arcade of cutting the linen laid bare before me, watching with wry, droll amusement at times as supporting threads give way to unraveled snapping instead of waiting for Atropos to come by and give a release clean.
Into the mists, then. Who dares follow? Who dares dream?
Fox cries razor through white, quickly filled in. Crows announce the edges of dark with cacophonic chatter as they discuss the next and the next and the—
Lost, who dares remain unfound?
healshake
healshake the bone
rattled with seed, me
emptyhead & healshake
blackfeather, boreal wind
my stone, my stone, my stone
dive ice of waters blue
deep into the through
healshake these bones
rattle them with seed, meat stand
i am drawn to water
to stone rising above
my winter rimes here
gone to crow to feather
myself in shimmer & kohl
a turn to the north
to the water to flow
this slipping at moor winds
could you ever hear?Morning blather
I was thinking (dangerous stuff, that) about totems last night after waking up (this morning?) to use the toilet and after laying back down and trying to find a comfortable position to grab another ninety minutes of shuteye before dealing with the day.
(more…)under moon
making simple hard
until it is hardly simple
elder oak sitting, up high
stretch broken wings to fly
with throat graveled calling
tumble on turns to fall
see beyond seeing
hear beyond hearing
feel beyond feeling
scent beyond scenting
a taste of song stuck
in craw
a slip between mistletoe
come at gloaming
under our sickle moonCampfire Sessions — 07jun26
Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash There is a temptation to go, dig a deep hole, lay under autumn skies, and let red and gold cover me before comes the fresh snow. Listen to crowing of crowns and screaming of the foxes. To listen to worms heading to slumber below.
ymmi on spun webs watches.
“What means this to you?” they ask.
I shrug. Surprised, in a way, of ymmi watching. “I am becoming Wode,” I say.
“You’re becoming silly, if you don’t mind us saying,” says ymmi. “You are already elder Wode. Wode as hell, as they said. What you need is Stone.”
“I am becoming Stone, too.” It seemed a fair thing to say. I was not going anywhere.
(more…)mostly nonsense iv
brown needles pine
feral underfoot sent
we slip shadow
we slip threshold
glide we to thin
star the night
flint the whisper
that same deep lake
as you, bone aching
come now her winter
crow call that her song
to this now
to this heremostly nonsense iii
we are the dirt we dig—
but do not say that aloud
for these gravities pulling
may be misunderstood
she called us in the over
a field away, waving away
we set our nod to the
bending down, sifting
through soil for the bone
i am not sure
the course sold is
the course once told
so we shovel all-souls
to the barrow
