Tag: the dreaming

  • fractured moons

    Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash
    these fractured moons
    stolen away with threadbare
    etched in whalebone hue

    time to turn off the radio
    listen to the forest hum
    time to watch waves come anew

    oh, these lonely
    moon broke nights
    between a hard place and you

  • triptych

    black wooden fence on snow field at a distance of black bare trees
    Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
    tangletown dreaming
    arterial roots weaving
    entwined, your eyes
    chipped onyx flecked
    and flint in the corners
    windows wide and riding
    the tall beasts fell
    to that old beat howl
    all mouths gaping at
    how beautiful you are
    No. How could you possibly
    understand? You would need
    the books and coin-covered
    eyes to see. Crossing that river
    that seems a stream and, if you
    do, you could never look back.
    you look skies, but
    some say prayers
    over a sea of sand
    in cities of dust
    come the ash driven
    like the snow

    while i say mine

  • hollow me

    Photo by Peter Herrmann on Unsplash
    hollow me wraithly
    flitting through moon
    crisp tasting & elder
    untouching the floor

    moving within within
    moving within
    but… unseen
    for all the howl

    cold hearth & ashen
    still glide the home
    given to memento
    given to the gloam

  • For you

    Photo by Adarsh Kummur on Unsplash

    You’ll find me at moorwanders, following smalltrails and playing at touchstone for the only thing that is real. Here, elder ways draw to base: flame crosses chill, rain mists slick the stone, and the growl of winds between the ways. Here, the animals sing underhill, a call to slumber.

    I know you tire at the mention of Raven, but they are here too.

    The best magic is that which seems not to be magic at all, and it lingers here like it did in the old, doing a lot of nothing much at all: wind waves barley, skies trading slate for blue and then back again, small birds ducking in and out of the tall grass and the lone tree upon the hill. Them, big oak and me as all acorn, resting underneath and waiting.

    For what? you ask.

    Well, if you must need know… for you.

  • 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 winds