of The Inn of Stormy Nights
I am not supposed to play favorites, as the keeper of all the stories that ever were, ever will be and always are, but I do. I have a favorite. My favorite are the curious who end up in extraordinary situations. Situations they never would have experienced had they the sense to sit still at …
It’s Valentine’s Day this week, but I have never seen much point to it other than having an excuse to eat more chocolate until this year. I’ve had number of long time dreams coming into alignment in my life at last and I found myself full of grateful love for the many people who have …
Over the last few months of 2017 I took a novel I’ve been wrestling with and figured out it was less a story about people and more a story about stories. Then I got my new place a bookshelf (at last!) and stumbled across a novel that’s sat on my reading list and in …
Listen to the Walls Where Stories Talk Sunlight whispers in eaves, hugged by leaves. Wrapped in green. Skylarks whistle to their Juliets. Who walk with eyes turned high, upon the blue sky. In this place, stars echo and stay in cotton shapes on blue paint. They swirl down the wave of tree top hands. Sunlight …
Listen in silence within creases of dust,
dance on fingers of light
dreams through open windows.
Sing in songs between the hours
tocked by two brass hands
and a numbered face.
Watch in shadows under the sky
thrown across quilted blankets
starlight through glass jars.
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.
Look. If you only listen, step quiet and stop. Peer through the shutters, out into the night.
There exist worlds only wished for from the tips of fingers.
Can you find one?
If you do, step light, look far and near or you might find yourself falling through a crack you never meant to touch.
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
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 …