Magic is in the air!

journalread

In the depths of night the sky is sulky
walkers set out for the brow of the hill.
Around British Camp and down, down Shire Ditch,
where ill-willed faeries live love fly and dance.
They avoid Waum’s Cave for fear of the witch,
who lives alone, low deep down in the dell.

A crossroads appears, with pointing way stones,
to north, to south they direct the unwary.British Camp at night
No one can vouchsafe their accuracy,
no one knows it will pay to be chary.
The  ill-willed fae move the markers so the
wenders’ and  walkers’ strong boots go astray.

The witch steps on twigs and rattles old leaves
and the sky darkens more, charcoals to grey,
turns to pitch black and torch batt’ries are flat,
the walkers now feeling, stealing their way
over hillocks and humps, bracken and bumps,
in the depths of the night at the end of the day.

Polly…

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The Eagle, a predatory bird! Sometimes a small emblem can say so much!

Dark Matter

too much respect
for inside voice 
in places where
the outside voice
should be required
too much tolerance
of outside voice 
where inside voice
would work better

the swollen tissue
we call
money

entirely too much
unearned
self-esteem

the inability to see
complexity
patiently

the notion that 
any “_____ism”
isn’t holding steady

a lack of real eagles
married to 
a preference for symbolic ones

armored intensities
squared off

an insistence upon
picture perfection

laughter wrung
from the deadly misfortune
of others being other

its standing in red-soaked earth
kept wet through clumsy inattention
and skillful market research

its clowned remarkability
and
its durable packaging

 

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It reminds me of Halloween back in Sacramento. Enjoy!

Dark Matter

Tonight, my lone trick or treater
was Death, a late teenage boy
out late after all the little kids were long in.

He rang my door bell and said “Thank you”
for the peanut butter cups, then returned
to his beat up Toyota and sputtered away.

I stood there and watched after him
for a whole minute.  I still
have a lot of candy left and I wish

Pestilence and Famine and War
would come by and have some
before I have to dress up

as Gluttony, and finish it off myself. 

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Dark Matter

When I move, you move…

Truckstop, train station, bus station,
airport, port;  remember when those
were the easy way out,
and no one watched you leave?
Remember sticking a thumb out on the highway?
The all-American way
to travel, depend on the “we’ve all been there”
thing…except we haven’t
and “we” means nothing anymore,
if it ever did, if it was ever anything more
than an illusion.  
Good old flag-wrapped dreamtime,
the American walkabout,
legend woven into collective self.  

When I move, you move…

Try to recall what it was like.
Tell yourself
we used to trust one another.  
Tell yourself
travel was a communal experience
and no one except small town cops
ever patted you down,
and they always let you go on your way
after taking the weed you’d hid in your sock.  
Remember
you didn’t care much
because weed was cheap
and no…

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This beautiful piece touched me so deeply that I wanted others to have the chance to read it as well.

Dark Matter

we would have learned much earlier
that riding each other
is THE way to get closer to Home

we would have made you wings
that would have lifted
when spread against time

wouldn’t have given you 
so little pocket room
to hold relics for the journey

would not have had you waste time
learning to pray
and would have had you learn more

about singing instead

if we had known
we’d never have left you here
to deal with the night’s sadness

and love’s meteorite scars
we’d have raised you right
we’d have raised you to escape

 

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Bonjour, bienvenue and caution: enter at your own risk!

“Sometimes when you think you are done, it is just the edge of beginning. Probably that’s why we decide we’re done. It’s getting too scary. We are touching down onto something real. It is beyond the point when you think you are done that often something strong comes out.”     – Natalie Goldberg

We embark on the scary journey with each writing effort. For some it is a desire to write, publish, and make money or fame. For others, it is a need to learn about what hides inside us. Most find it combines elements of both and the numerous variables that make us unique yet us in the world of words.

While much of my work in the past came from the angst, I find it is the darkest times where the writing stopped. To write is to sift through the perceptions, wounds and wonders that color and shape our words and our lives. The exquisite sting of creation motivates us onward.

Bisous,

Léa