This one is too good not to share! I couldn’t resist…
Magic is in the air!
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.
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.
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The Eagle, a predatory bird! Sometimes a small emblem can say so much!
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
entirely too much
the inability to see
the notion that
isn’t holding steady
a lack of real eagles
a preference for symbolic ones
an insistence upon
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
its durable packaging
It reminds me of Halloween back in Sacramento. Enjoy!
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.
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.
we used to trust one another.
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.
you didn’t care much
because weed was cheap
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A warning for those who may consider self-publishing.
This beautiful piece touched me so deeply that I wanted others to have the chance to read it as well.
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
“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.