-
12 Aug: Featherhung – The Liturgy
15 of 27 Featherhung – The Poem – The Fragment: Unfinished Flight I. The Almost-ForgivenNot a wound, but its afterglow —an ash-rose stain between them,where Brigid’s silence hooks Felreil’s wingand his ink pools flat at her feet.They circle the unspoken,two crows with the same bone in their beaks. II. The Crooked LandingA word tilts mid-air:You…
-
12 Aug: dVerse Quadrille #229
Last Laugh of a Dandelion That little flower refused to shut up —jabbering of moon-drunk alley cats,tomorrow’s lost socks,and how the dark craves mischieflike a thief craves silvered moonlight.“Hush,” I pleaded, but it only laughed,“I’m a dandelionwho refuses to be a weed.” Soundtrack note: “Some flowers gossip in moonlight, some in mercy — either way,…
-
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…
-
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…
-
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…
-
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…
-
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…
-
5 Aug: A Six Sentence Story
Where the Air Remembers Your Name The elves stitched the sunlight wrong that day—threads too gold, too tight — even the trolls’ granite knuckles itched, their slow blood humming something, something. Elverhøj yawned open, just a slit: a shadow slid out, licking the air for old witch-scent. She waited, blind eyes milky as the cave’s…
-
5 Aug: The Year I Knew
Note: I braved Brenda’s Sunday Whirl . It is a challenge, for sure — her 12 words this week are: souvenirs, free, touch, know, cracks, siren, window, waves, sting, show, ring and give. I have based this poem on memories from my summers in Sweden, where I am at the moment. The photo (taken today) is of a…
-
3 Aug: A Slightly Different Ten Things of Thankful
—in the voice of the wind, the waves, and old friends’ waving hands I am away, and I will return when the wind changes I. The Lighthouse Sings:Red and white, I stand crooked as an old man’s spine,scribbling your name in light over the water. II. Go! Go! The horizon is a doorstep,not a wall.…
It's Still Life 