Fate’s In a Roil

I wrote a pretty good post for this piece, then lost it in trying to upload it.  Thank goodness I always compose real poems in Word and copy and paste my new lines here.

Just so you know, it was something about the mists of autumn, and the reminders of death, and the not really minding real death because time is not real, and we’ve been dead but we’ve not died.

21 September 2016


Fates in a Roil Dream Us One

I’ve trailed alongside all these frail woodland gardens, these places of weather no mortal can see

without giving way to an old, wordless longing that death should lie down here and now, beside me.

New weather surrounds us, with fine airs and graces that even the sweet faery angels would

strip from the skin of our hearing as false in its precious demeanor. Its corpse might be stood

by the head of our bed, with a pencil mark leaving a record—that this fearful creature stood three or four feet

from magic to endlessness, coughing a little, and sad, even crying. I heard its heart beat

out loud as it held itself up, wanting only to fall down and curl in a circle and weep

without any witness. It made me so happy to know I had seen this in clear early sleep,

had had several hours to compose my response, and then held out my hand, as he raised his wet face.

Even this very next night, we’ll be dancing together in Moonlit arboreal space,

as curtains of luscious green light wave all round us like flags from a ship carried here by pure force

of utterly unspoken love who has known its desire for the power this wild watercourse

has run on since last tidal, final disasters drove acres of land over oceans of cliffs.

I just trail alongside the loved one who’s vanished, who will once again, as we’re still hearing riffs

so mournful, so knowing, so rooted in being aware of the distance between there and here—

I’ll follow this trail a while longer; I’m not going home altogether till our one soul’s clear

in the mirror we hold to ourselves—and each other. I can scarce sleep for my hearing your cries.

New worlds are viewed in good focus, but that’s—never mind. Under underworld newfallen skies,

gardens of beautiful branches bent low to the source of the keening their bare children share—

gardens will green in the morning, and new leaves will reach out in fragrance, and blossoms will wear

the smile—the first, tenderest blossom—the cast of your sight as your turned to behold old light’s source.

Humanly beautiful woman, you cast your own shadow before that of love’s oldest horse,

the nightmare who taught you how long in the saddle you’d have to ride hard—then she left you alone

with the otherworld’s best, gladdest answer, the man who was ghost first, and then living musics’s lost moan

that no one will ever remember if you will not share out these weird, nightly cables and posts.

Under the lamplight that’s shaded by branches of evergreen forests that harbor our ghosts—

two little lovers who walk close beside one another scarce dare to join hands—but they should.

I had to die many times before I—knew the man I felt sent here to love—was no good—

unless he’d read back all the fluid transcriptions that made so much ink cost a sad girl new tears.

This subtle, gentle reminder of ghosts who have entered your dreams, and said Vacate! to fears—

Walk through the forests our friends have kept safe from the saw of the hater who counts—and loves none.

Nightmares await, but we’re sleepy, so sleepy; we’ll lie down where fates in a roil dream us one.


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You Can Never, Never…

…not have told me this.

My mind dreams asleep, awake, and my spirit is always singing. This world, this earthly world in which I live, each September is rife with young new animals and food and, although we know the winter is going to nearly destroy them, should we not love them now?

The young crows and sparrows in my town, and my few favorite doves–this would be such a poor world without them, but it can’t be, because spirit loves them more than it loves us, its clever liars. That is what our songs sing me, the while I cannot keep from singing them out loud, in clear public daylight.

Who here owes a debt to the knowing spirits of birds and their songs? Even embodied human souls might be of value far from this seemingly too embodied place.

7 September 2016


You Can Never, Never Have Told Me This

There’s been in front of us one way to be, and it’s dreadful uneasy; we’ll go there alone
unless we remember each other and tender a new sense of magic’s wee place by the throne
where angels will wave their high banners and spirits will rise till they can’t rise no more, and they faint.
Then we will fall into arms that were always outheld, but they held off the least horrid saint,

and since then, I’ve seen you sometimes round the village, but life here’s been hard, and I’m always afraid.
Angels are often the ones we love worst, and when they love us back, love is grandly unmade.
Long after hours of pale sundown and twilight take hold of the land, I’ll take hold of my own
sense of love making music and magic—brought straight out of timelessness. I know I’m no good alone,

but I am the least-alone woman amongst the great lot of them angels have loved and still hold.
Maybe I’ll faint for not eating too long or dancing too much in such heat—When I’ve told
the one I love so, who is dead now, but never will ever leave off singing beauty to me—
That’s only one way. I’m still a live woman. I’m only one limb on the most brilliant tree

whose leaves are all shimmering brighter than angels, each one deeply etched by our prayers before death.
Child, when I knew we were pale earthly birthmates, I told you a tale of the sails the least breath
from far, far away would just billow out, billow like waves on a sea that’s our love’s marriage-bed—
Child. When I loved you too much, I felt sure in my soul we would suddenly know why we’d wed—

and then fall asleep, and lie lightly, with tremulous dreams setting out little pieces of lace
punched through piles of white paper, all dusted with sugar, and someone who smiles, who’s the queen of the face
you knew before birth, before first breath, before you were told your new name—and she’s here; she’s still here.
I’m still a ghost from the loneliest province where beauty is born because death loves in fear.

Beauty is beautiful everywhere; dreams are ennobled by time, if time only recalls
the ones it has loved, leaving off lovers’ shame of themselves. Till that happens, it’s always high walls,
children who know they are dying the while they lie waiting outside the worst gates ever built—
and you, who’ll have never not smiled, having seen me, and heard the next words—that lie buried in silt.

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Season of Mists

This time of year, my neighbors think about fungi. Nourishing, healing, entheogenic–whatever they mean to any one person, they mean fascination to me. Of course they are intelligent. Of course they communicate, with each other, and with us.

Haven’t checked in with any magic ones in years, but it doesn’t matter. I can still feel their spirit in the air and all around while they are fruiting.

5 September 2016


Mycelium and Soul

Sit with your prim knees together in front of the fire, my good girl, then rise up and go out—
out like the light that was one lonely candle, in one tiny wisp of blue smoke. Round about
the next tide of twilight, the woman you were will recall her old essence and breathe it out here.
Then will you meet me, in eyes and in mind, if not in the flesh? What has made you appear

so real, so substantial, the while I am learning the various bodiless states I have seen?
Prim and well-hidden, he tells me; we’ve lain in a field of green pages that held all we mean
to be and to know through the next countless eons, through which ancient stories must weave the new threads
that grow on the roots that have reached us. This evening is theirs; we were friends; now we’re their newlyweds.

Maybe just flow like a ripple of shivers across my right shoulder, then let go the shift.
Sink as if fainting toward an enclosure where both of us know someone waits who will lift
the sash on the last pane of glass that has even the least hope of purchase on any false world.
You should be glad, my old dear, that I love you so much I’m still limitless feyness unfurled,

and you are the matter of shadows wherever you’ve danced on a lawn that long love seeded deep..
Asleep and awake, as you’re dreaming all-ways, call home through the signals that sent you to sleep,
the seal and the miracled depth-counter-magic that spells it out clearly in gooseflesh and awe—
Hold me up just a while longer; I’m modest. I don’t want mere mortals to see what you saw.

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In This, and Any Other Hour

Less than one hour ago:

15 August 2016


All Feathers, Under Skin

She’s laid aside the supple skin of woven silk that graced your nights

for such a long, uneven time, the ghost who goes through shaded lights

and scrolls of all-night syllables that only make your sore eyes bleed

for wanting so much precious, sacred more—I wore a widow’s weed

when I first sent my benediction overland and undersky.

No one understood but true love’s holy silence. You know why

I’m breaking silence now; you heard me in our latest, wildest dream

make plans for future forests where our song will power one more stream

of fluid music, bringing trees to helpless blossom all night long,

then setting free their fragrant, sentient seeds on airs an old sky’s song

wants very much to witness once received, requited, known for why

it’s beautiful, as if you’d never traced it through your dreams; its cry

comes subtle, full of true spring-knowing, lovely, soft, well-graced with sighs,

with tender hands that place themselves where all is well—and hands have eyes—

and then it learns the words you scarce allow escape, and sighs them back.

Now you know how many times you’ve dreamed of love and felt the lack

for reasons we could all have told you all about, explained, relayed,

sometimes in hours of need held out a sweaty hand you clasped and prayed

would always stay and never let a syllable fall down and faint—

Child, I love you all night long; you’d try the patience of a saint.

She’s bound to lift her princess skirts and skip away before first dawn.

You lay down delirious on this old sacred graveyard-lawn,

and mists of someone rose before your eyelids, sealed as tight as tombs—

we were woken intervals ourselves, cast out of real-world wombs.

She’s laid aside the cloth of skin, the utterly unwoven shift,

the face she made to draw you in, the voice that raised the proven lift,

the song that flows from undervoice, the ears you lend to hear it all—

and this: When you call Death your friend, the one he loves returns your call.

She’s not made of wood, except in living pages yet to grow.

She will let you follow closely lines of verse dreams overflow,

but if you haven’t figured out already why you heard her words—

She’s your witch-world’s very forest, branching strength alive with birds.


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Thoughts I’ve Been Thinking

Oh, you know perfectly well it’s just another damned poem!

Poetry, I love you so much, if you had a human body, I would know I am a ghost.

Tonight, scarce ten minutes ago:

We Have Borne This Before

No one arose with the blinds when I lifted them early, but shadows that scattered—first half,
then full silhouettes—as they ran past the pillar of ashes that used to be flesh—the burnt calf
your uncanny mistranslator told you to read, though the kernel of wisdom within you spoke truth—
That calf was as human as you and I, even as innocence bled like a torn-out milk tooth.

Stories are buried alive in the instant, as soon as it weeps. Please don’t let it be heard,
and then please don’t let it be met with remembrance when always it’s only one ill-harbored word
that keeps on recalling itself to the mind that’s nigh broken with load-bearing not fed enough.
Truth is too humanly beautiful; love must not break it; it must not again come so rough.

Here’s what we do, all night long, and here’s reason enough why we do it: Your lone word won’t serve.
You’ll lie awake till all hours, but you’ll never quite catch the low Moon that shows love the fine curve
of her earliest light—her most glowing-wet wisdom. Soft as a child who’s first woken from sleep
filled with dreams that still smile as she shows you their shadows all over her face—filled with secrets you’ll keep

forever, should anyone ever once dare to imagine again where her small steps have been—
shadows of luminous madness, and visions new oncoming Moonlight casts everywhere, green
in their spirit and essence, though cold white and grey as the ashes of one who was ancient before
the death they awaited so long—When I lifted the blinds, I hear such a soft knock at my door.

Borne through the airs of new song and as light in the hands of live angels as children in prayer,
someone who knew it was time chose this pattern of magical rhymes to begin to declare
that we, who have gathered together this evening, will always remember how lovely—how more—
than anything, really, we all ought to be, and will be—in the end—who’ve all borne this before.

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My Dear, Strange, Familiar Blog

English is nominally my native language, but really, my source of expression and strength is song.  This has been a terrible week in my country and among my loved ones, so of course I have turned my heart and hearing to what we do best:  Loving those we see with our hearts, and telling them so in magic-laden words.

This is for those who hear me, through this page, and the songs we make together:

16 June 2016


I Ran; You Wailed Forth Sailing Tunes

I ran to wail, like all the flocks of birds—It’s mating season here—

though I am one so wary of the slightest touch, and no one near

resembles in aye shadow’s aspect someone I could hold still for—

so still I ran. And when he heard and fell, he knew I’d learned far more

than any spirit, paired in flesh or subtlty, recording now

the silences that lean toward the meeting-places sworn to vow

their children to the current’s blood before it runs in veins—You’ll swear

your child was borne inside you, till it left; you’re on a line stripped bare

of any mortal sustenance, though breathing fast as ever, wrought

toward the shining place where greeting spirits reel around the thought

that maybe you knew well how far you’d come before you left this place.

You’ll have to work much harder; you’re illuminated life whose grace

just will not give off leaking every-which-way. You’re a soul whose eyes

transported my imagination far across the seas of skies

that leant to offer strange unburdens, songs that lightened all we breathed—

Soon we lay in lovely ocean beds where dreadful hours, that seethed

with pain, suspense, and superstition, horrid apparitions, whole

black nights’-long broken stairs that lead to dungeons—You can’t claim your soul

was ever blameless, but you dream all night of times before time sang

its artlessness throughout your veins, and you told time—Go on, you, hang.

I ran to wail when I was just a girl whose bedroom let the wind

blow through so strongly, all night long I watched ice-patterns grow. I pinned

their likeness to the page, and maybe sometimes flesh; I’ll never tell.

Tunes poured forth like rain from sails that held it where they can’t help swell.


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Pridal Twilight Song

Oh, never mind any commentary. Here is what my calling, and my answering, brought to me tonight:

10 June 2016


No One’s Dead, and No One’s Died

They’ve neither tree nor limb on which to build a nest that’s all their own,
but even so, they won’t let go this shadowed place—old branches thrown
across a trail where nearly no one wants to let new demons dwell—
Rivers run between the silent, hallowed caves that turn out well

for those who dare their dark, small, breathless passages. Go on and on,
without one hope of breathing out—unless its past the mark love’s gone
to ground, the very graveyard underlying—what, a gallows? Bones
were made of nothing, then—I wrapped my arms around the you who owns—

my true soul’s always known—you’ve traded hands for arms, and arms for strength
beyond the common mass. When I was tired of you, I ran the length
of utterly foreseeable page-endings, and they left off—me.
I’m a strange, late-harvest apple still in bloom, still on the tree

where everyone who ever loved a song as rich with beauty, half
as magical as this inside my mouth right now, though you might laugh
to feel its sweetness touch your tongue, and bid you leave off sense and all—
this night’s not a simple fountain-drink; it’s love not kneeling small;

it’s all the world that glows before the mirror that best meets the sight
that deeper than your ancient-seeming keening dreams keeps you alight
to witness, when you glance well after midnight into glass that shines—
Dear as darling god’s own heart, were you first born to bear the lines

that faery music even now distributes through half-mortal tears?
Show me you’ll lie wide awake all night, as reading renders fears
their weirdest written-out obsessions—See yourself this way, and die.
We were watching; you crawled out—and sawed the branch. We can’t quite cry.

Twilight hovers softly over sea and shore nigh half the night.
Hand within my own, if I start humming, will you turn your slight
acquaintance with the very eerie strangeness I cannot but want—
If you lie beside me, drenched in ghosts, past hours that claim their haunt

and I am—still a soul who prays, but someone your prayers lead you to—
beautiful as leaves at length on branches trees turn into you—
If only you knew how more cold and lonely love was always, till—
No one’s dead, and no one’s died; death’s not breached once our windowsill.

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