of The Inn of Stormy Nights
If you
want for light
for
day for night.
If you
wish for land
for
sea for sand.
Sink
feet deep.
Let
snow hug you
to
sleep.
In
this dark and cold embrace.
When
all stars are erased.
Find
futures inside fire.
Where
for light for day
for
night, for all conspire.
To
bring together a last daydream,
a dervish in deep moonbeams.
If I wander too far, leave a light in the window.
Let it burn and burn until I return
upon the wing of puffins.
I’ll come riding, on a squall of cherry blossoms.
I’ll come visit you, grandfather, with a reed basket stuffed with nuts
and pine boughs to decorate your home.
The squirrel who lives in your attic will chirp and chatter.
The deer will scatter and the bear will groan.
But you, dear grandfather, can you sing me home?
I miss your song, fiddled over the drum beat of tides.
I miss you stories, whispered between the cracked voice of hearth fire.
Though far I’ve been, to foggy moors and crumbled castles,
I miss the mysteries of home.
I sent you a letter, by humpback. Have you gotten it?
If I wander to far, leave the light in the window.
Through the winter fog and sheets of rain.
I will find my way home again.
Listen for the flutter of wings.
Here’s to all the new adventures to those far, wide and wondrous places of the heart, mind and universe! If I had the world Alone. I would chase the caribou across icy shields. If I had the world Alone. I would travel with the trumpet swan, eating fireflies. If I had the world Alone. I …
A lyric poem written in celebration of stories. The image which inspired this piece came together thanks to various images from creative commons of flickr.
I value that which I can create with my own two hands, so this is a rare piece. However, I sometimes find as much value in creating new images or stories from pieces of others. A remix of sorts.
In this, I refer to both literal stories and visual stories, told as oral tales in ancient days or photographed and formed by people today.
Far in the misted west, lingering in the deep of the moon, hear the call of the white wolves, whispering to the loons.
Long ago and past the fields, full of thundering deer, sits the silverwood in faerie song that echoes across a lake’s mirror.
If you hear the voice of adventure, don’t forget your hat. Wear it high and proud in sun song, but when the rain storms down, beware the thundercat.
Listen to the wind as it circles empty branches, a herald to the snow that comes, crashing a wave of avalanches.
In the deep night of spring, ‘round circles of stone, hear the call of the folk, it speaks to the stories in every bone.
ARR~Moony
Yesterday, icicles fell from the sky.
It started with a dance of sugarplum flakes. Which twirled and took
care to fall. Settle and sit with the grace of a plie.
I watched from windows encrusted with icing. Until my little brother
went outdoors and stomped holes into the calm.
By the afternoon, the flakes grew to fists,
pummeled the earth in a boxing match. Then stopped. Done feasting on earth and sky.
We huddled around wood-fire, hands cupped in hot chocolate. Told stories to quiet the time.
The grandfather clock sang five o’clock, and the flakes fell again. Slow at first, then faster
faster, long, frozen and fearless. Like the teeth of an orca.
Icicles fell from the sky.
A tree grows up from infinity. It branches out in cotton puffs of green. Which drop snow over lemonade. Until sorrow overturns the season to pink petals. Which land on the fox’s nose. Who sneezes. Each drops with purpose to the moss floor. They strike a long path through the tangled wood. Shielded …
There was a Box with Time Inside
If time walked among us
it would swim the shape
of a penny paper squid. Legs inked out
for terrible eternity.
Nothing worse than living in a box with a squid.
Says language which draws obscurity
to describe a box of time.
If time lived in a box
it would swim in the shape
of a penny paper squid. Legs inked around
for terrible eternity.
Silence meditates in the skeleton city
A place where metal mountains
grasp for an iron sky
Only to crumble. Crushed by the dome
of earth which rumbles, rattles
and shudders away all that sings green.
A rain falls and makes white noise
of the spaces between. I dart
from cover. To cover, coat hissing.
In this place where acid cascades from the stars
styled as sheet music printed in fades.
Shades of colour fill the deep breath of silence.
Inside the pauses, I am hugged by silver bones.
I don’t feel so alone.
They
buried her throne
They sat
her there.
They tied
her to a windsor chair.
All while
singing for mercy.
They beat
her blue.
They
turned her back.
They ran
her with a line of prozac.
All the
while singing for mercy.
It’s a
lone and a long walk to mercy.
She
called a trade.
She
kicked up twice.
She
spread her legs in a desperate heist.
All the
while singing for mercy.
She flipped
a smile.
She
measured due south.
She
whispered to the prison guard’s mouth.
All the
while singing for mercy.
It’s for
mercy. Not for her mercy.
They tied
her eyes.
They cut
her ears.
They put
her in a thousand mirrors.
All the
while singing for mercy.
They
burned her sun.
They shattered
her sight.
They took
away all her might.
All the
while singing for mercy.
Not her
mercy. It’s for mercy.
For their
long walk alone to mercy.
Cry out
for mercy. Stand for mercy.
All we
have left in the end.
Is mercy.
You will be queen when geese fly Six in a row across moonlit ladder to sky. You will be queen when dust on the wind Wanders from sun lit shards to its constellation kin. You will be queen when clouds roll back In a tell of the truth over fact. You were meant to be …