The seething

Eloquence she came a ride

motions of her haughty stride

grinning from the inner lies

that tread aneath her feet;

stars all shewn a darkened eye

the silent wings that do not fly

the strength of resolve within her cry

as she leads the bands of march;

and others too have words hearsay

the world a game for them to play

this is for you, they like to say

peace and safety on a rope.

Strideful embark

We are here for but a short while

where leaves all fall come spring

cold winds dance through summer

and the birds all die and sing,

we leave birth to start anew

to pave out broken feet

to strive an age old path

to cry at our defeat,

and here we gain such pride

such a lofty attitude

walking the road of many

with its teasing and allude.

Hues of slumber

The darkness dank and creeping so

reaching in to scratch the soul

mists from deep within the soil;

drags the moist and undead limb.


Standing tall the orchard moans

cracking Earth dark undertones

writhing cries from the witchy crones;

tapping the red mans horn.


These are the night of the flitting dream

where the thick of dark in horror scream

consciousness caught in a fluttering stream;

as a fly, is to the web.


Was the moon on high upon the graze

that day in autumn full

two tender hearts came swooning down

gently upon the trodden moors,

perhaps the breeze upon ones face

kissing a gentle blue

or maybe just the lingering note

of the whimpering that had ensued.


The weeks go by day by day

and mother knows what is not right

for the child she once knew so happy

was not the same filled with delight,

then that tragic moment fell

and the pain was a deep dark sting

mother knew what must be done

for the child

was a changeling.

Writers pastime

There are times I have seen

where the stars lack in there luster

water just isn’t wet enough

and food can taste quite bland

even color is just a hue

and music a wavering empty note.

It is here that I am sitting

alone in some hazy lit room

looking through a piece of glass

reflecting on the illusion before me.

How I wish so very much

knuckles pressured white

lips pressed with indignation

and the brows rest in question

at the subtle ticks of passing bye.

Legend of lore

In the field just across the way

there’s a place not far off or so they say,

where the moon does skew the dark

and the breeze is riddled in low remark,

children dance beneath the waves

dreaming over sunny days,

the clouds a prance in funny faces

and movement stirs from other places;

so here it is the grand of grandeur.

She enters in and lights the way

the fairy giggle and flutter in play,

a gutted bleat sings from the pan

digging his hoof at where he stand,

and again the wee hours of the morn

move through the veil now tarried and worn,

shining through to another day

showing new memories for the same old way.