Category: Poetry
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21 Sept: A Wuyan Poem
A Gushi Wuyan Style Poem Bend of the road ahead,shadows dissolve in air.One tree leans toward silence,clouds drift without return. The path forgets its start,grass leans against the wind.I walk, not asking where,only the sky replies. Note: this poem is written in the Wuyan (五言) style, an ancient form of Chinese verse. Wuyan literally means…
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20 Sept: dVerse Imagist
Black Waits (an imagist poem) Black window stares across the street.Black curtains hang, charcoal cloth.A child coughs.The mother hushes him —black sleeve across his mouth. Black rain shines.Even puddles reflect black —broken buildings,black coat flapping against wind. Black comes quiet:mail left unread,a room kept shut,a name swallowed whole. Some things root in blackness —moss in…
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19 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
The Sea Soft as a held breath, it speaks —pebbles learning rhythm,each stonea lifetime smoothedand given back. The sun rests behind a veil,its gentle mercy,not wanting to scorch. Wind and water barter secrets,a salt and hush trade in tides.And he stands listening,a child of this quiet moment, so let the sound wash your bones —those,…
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18 Sept: From the Oracle
From the Oracle —A Cadralor: Once the Sea, Now the Snow I.It is coming —the season of white,of silent claiming,of soft annihilation. II.Once, I was rain —the blessing, the renewal.Once, I was the sea —deep, boundless,salt-blooded and sure. III.Now, the field lies gripped,withered to the root,begging for rainlike victory, like mercy,like an oak strainingin the…
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17 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
Verdict Wind Blink—and it’s raining cats and dogs,clouds inked in bruisesgallopingacross a sky. The crow shrieks —sparrows vanish mid-flight. It gives pause.A flutter.A missed beat. I count them on beads —knotted threads soakedwith intention. Was it us?Was it them?Why does this wind feel like a verdict? It pulls at the hem of the world,whispers under…
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16 Sept: Liturgy for Cindertide
The Book of 27, The 20th Glyph: Cindertide – Anger that forgot what it was fighting I. The First FlameIt begins sharp—a flash of fire with a name, a face, a reason.This is for the child I lost,for the cradle I never filled,for the syrup I will never pour.But fury is a poor craftsman.It builds…
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15 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
A Stream of Consciousness We are a small village on the edge of a larger one, with an ancient forest standing mute as moss between the city-folk and us, and an Anglo-Saxon church whose bells fill Sunday with a provincial air beside a field thick with bracken that sheep chew to the root every winter…
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14 Sept: Mystical Sunday
Her Ink Bleeds (microdosing fiction in 50µg) Thunder never needsto shout,to linger.Some words roll lowfor days, lodgedand scrolled between yourribs and lung,until even your breath tastes of copper.The Old One knew this —she’d spent a lifetimecollecting echoesin inkwellsmade of hollowedbones. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT…
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13 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
This poem is in response to Friedrich’s article entitled Terra Dystopia, which I recommend — it is an excellent read. He asks: What kind of time are we living in today? I find myself living in a Kairotic Interregnum — an age between ages, when the old dissolves, the new has no name, and choice…
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13 Sept: Riding the Storm
Riding the Storm Storm drags the swamp,but that man won’t run.Barefoot in mud,and he glares at the skylike it owes him something. Cypress leaning close,gossiping in the shadows —thunder shakes whiskeystraight down his bones. There’s storm in his blood,hurricane in his breath —he was born to howldeep against the dark. And when the sky splits,when…
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