Category: Journal
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4 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
Play it low — let the heat sing first, and let the porch remember. August Porch August —the air sits thick as syrup,a dry spell stitched with thunder,heat tumbling from the sky,pressing down like velvet. On her shoulder, the babystirs and fusses,a song spilling from her lipslike a half-remembered hymn,gentle as rocking chair creak. That…
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23 Aug: Journal of Thoughts
The Hunger Policy Fury is too small a word. This is a grief that scorches the throat. A silent, screaming void where bread should be. This is not nature’s neglect — it is a calculated, man-made hunger. A policy written in empty bowls and skeletal frames. A scream with no echo. I will always give…
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16 Aug: Journal of Thoughts
Why Were the Protesters Mostly 55 and Older? Last weekend’s UK marches were filled not with students or twenty-somethings, but with people aged 55 and up. Why? It’s a question that cuts to the marrow of generational difference. Those raised in the 1950s and ’60s carry protest in their bones — rebellion was the air…
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10 Aug: Departure’s Own Language
a journal The last turning: Through pine and barley, poppy and mustard, this final poem in the series carries the road home. Landscape’s Own Language Pine. Beech. Birch.Wildflowers in the verge.Barley. Rye.Steel-brushed sky. We drive south —cut Denmark’s cornerwhere war once ragedand poppies bloomedfrom hell’s ledger —their red a reckoning. Tyres tear through Germany.The flat-six…
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9 Aug: Departure’s Own Language
a journal Departure’s Own Language The crows here wear hoods —wear their judgments inside-outblack hoods, white silence,like old decisions. He says they’re gentlerthan the ones at home,less eager for the eyes of the dead. He laughs.I don’t. Seagulls scream like mothersand steal like gods.The one that took my rabbit,Grandmother named Fenrir. It wasn’t mine,just dinner…
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8 Aug: Wind’s Own Language
Wind’s Own Language I hated blackberries as a child—snakes in the grass,thorns whispering your blood back to you,wasps guarding sweetness like secrets. Grandmother’s in the kitchen, stirring blackberries in a copper pot. Special wooden spoon, stained a deep bruised purple. Clockwise to stir in wishes; stirring berries into jam. Into dye. Wine. Now I eathalf…
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7 Aug: Grief Is the Hook
Grief Is the Hook On this pew, I sit.Wood remembersmy child-bones, my grandmother’s norse-tongue,the holy hushshe split like kindling. Walls are whitewashed. Salt in the mortar.Elder gods’ runes live in this God’s house. In the door’s header, in the walls and floor.ᛉ Algiz (life),ᚷ Gebo (love),ᚦ Thurisaz (lightning’s fork). Old views. Rippled glass.Bubbled panes lick…
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6 Aug: Gravity Is Its Own Language
This poem remembers a bicycle ride this week beneath Nordic sun, and the moment I left my grandmother’s ring in the creek beside her old house. I wore it on my thumb one heedless summer as a child. It was time to release and return it. Gravity is its own language — and the land…
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27 July: of Leather & Weather
a journal 27 July — Somewhere Between Tunnels and Bells 05: somethingWoke before the alarm.Some nib in my sleeping mindwas writing thank-you notes:You fill my heart, thank you.You are my heat, thank you. Then the alarm rang —a clumsy editor. If I weren’t driving to France,I might’ve stayed in bed,writing gratitude like love letters to…
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26 July: of Leather & Weather
a journal 26 July — The Road Trip Prelude 04:somethingThe sun arrived first,prying open the day with gold-tipped fingers.I gathered dew from the garden — tiny pearls of morning —then let sleep pull me back like a tide reclaiming shells. 07:30Bamboo.Not a sentence — just a word.A baptism by syllable.It struck the silence like a…
