Birth of the Moonlight GoddessThe date had gone well.inspired by
She wore her prettiest purple coat, the one her sister had given her, brand new and pressed clean.
He picked her up at the right time, and he kissed her during the movie.
Afterwards, they wandered for hours through the city streets, gazing up at the pitch black sky.
I'm so happy right now, he said.
I feel so alive.
She had nodded.
She wore her prettiest purple coat, the one her sister had given her - her sister loved purple and pink.
Five years old, bouncing on the bed, her sister grabbed the puffy dress-up dress they shared.
I get to be the princess!
Four years old, cross-legged and still, she pulled up the crinkled white sheet and wrapped it around her shoulders.
I get to be the goddess.
It worked for both of them.
I feel so alive, he said.
You, in that coat.
You're so beautiful and alive.
His arms were inside her coat, wrapped around her waist, and she looked over his shoulder.
The sky wasn't p
A Middle Age SingletonThe princesses are rescuing themselves now. All the handsome knights are gay. What's a man to do?inspired by
Oh, great. The last dragon in the world just got slain.
That does it! I'm moving to another century.
Huh? What's a MySpace?
Rainier (Pollinated)When asked what I see,inspired by
It's rather easy to be
Not at all sensational
But when I speak what I observe,
The ball's now thrown with a curve,
A city becomes atmosphere,
With smog and towers far and near
So truly, is it much surprise
A sunset (or perhaps sunrise)
Creates such powerful imagery
Beyond what the eyes chose to see
A mountain reminds of friends gone by,
A forest speaks of epochs passed
A lake reflecting wonderfully
Missing only a sailboat's mast
The picturesque is peaceful,
That calm continues on
It warms my heart to know today
Not all the world's beauty is gone.
flower foldsSeeing it,inspired by
her eyes gently
She has the courage to fight fate,
to stay strong through lies and hate.
No tears will fall from her eyes,
hidden beneath her beautiful mask of disguise.
A quiet lonely fox in a forest of trees,
shadows darkening all that it sees.
With hair black as freshest ash,
waist bound by a thick leather sash.
Head draped with bands of beads,
with intricate patterns only a mother can weave.
Gazes follow her as she slowly strides,
she will do anything for the future of her tribe.
This time she will not escape,
not another failed marriage left in her wake.
The tribe leader has picked her and her alone,
to marry his son and be heir to the throne.
How she wanted to turn a deaf ear,
the end of her childhood was so very near.
Not a gaze that peered at her could see the despair,
no one near or far even seemed to care.
Her bright Shadowfox will return within,
the darkest chapter of her life is about to begin.
Cheated Hearts - ICheated by the opposite of love...
The solidity in her eyes is making me feel naked.
It seems as though her pupils, rock hard and perhaps storing of endless knowledge, are burrowing through my skin like screws. I am bare and exposed; my emotions hanging out on the line to dry in the gentle summer breeze.
Perhaps her eyes are so frighteningly probing, because they once swung hate my way, like a punch to the jaw, with each glance she tossed. Perhaps they are hiding some sort of mind blowing scar that I can only predict and never really understand.
It could be neither of these things, but all I know is that somewhere along the timeline of a few weeks, something changed. Something that seemed before unchangeable, a storm that had been raging for centuries.
It was me and my friends against her and her's. Typical scenario, and it made my life very normal. Everyone has their enemies. It felt as though our ancestors and our ancestors predecessors had fought the same battle, generation a
Totems and Godhoodi. As a child, confronting giants.
I take the pine tree as my totem,
learn to love the nakedness of its nether-regions
and its northerly fibers stretched and waiting
for the weft to its warp.
Girlhood is still a part of me as the
learning what I am. In the end,
I haven't climbed a tree in a long time;
I am small, and scared, and ringed round with walls,
and I beg the moon to teach me
to use my pine trees as a ladder.
ii. In the way only young love can.
you are pine chips, and I carry you
like a fetish in my mind.
You are the first vampiric sweetness
to suck the breath from my body:
unknowing, the feeling of yearning;
I am fibrouscelery stalk,
pale and clutching my thread self together.
Watch as I petrify,
stretch until my bones
will not bend to let me drink.
With age I become a god,
brittle-boned and cackling; with age
the osteoporosis will leech my fibers dry
and my pine sap blood will freeze in my chest
to keep me warm in winter.
The Mating Season
The copse was luminous and inviting.
Balmy winds shifted and the leaves swirled in tuneful coils.
He crushed the vivid ambers and yellows with grimy boots;
Feet scuffing the supple earth with each enthralled step.
She inhaled a surging gust
and spread her arms in temptation.
Her warm breeze thrust him in
and he clung to her, obsessed.
Undeniably beautiful was she, that he didn't comprehend
the brambles that curled around her legs
and the twigs that rose in the deep red of her verdant hair.
Her lips were soft and her touch bewitching,
like the undisturbed soil next to a water's edge.
That's where he laid her down
and took all that could be given.
Through slumber he was not aware what soon would be returned.
Damp mists and darkness engulfed the quieted creek;
the ambers had drained and washed away the essence of the marsh.
Cold awoke all visitors - disenchanted.
Gales were silenced and the darkness moved only for one sound;
the breathing of a heavy beast whose power
The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice TaleIn the depths of a night that's about to begin
with the feeling of snow as it melts on your skin
and it covers the land with a dream so intense
that it returns us all to a child's innocence
And then what you'd thought lost and could never retrieve
is suddenly there to be found on Christmas Eve
The sound of her boots breaking the snow is delicate and light, like meditated, unhurried piano notes. She walks gracefully between the pine trunks, their needles making a cover for falling snow above her head. Her face, a frozen petal of porcelain, eyes of crystalline frost, is framed by the hood of her white, fur-lined mantle. The air is still, the cold a pleasant hindrance, as Lumi is able to wander gloveless, touching each gigantic pine in thought. Each tree speaks to her in a unique way, telling of the earth and the sky, of what speaks the wind, what whisper the animals nuzzled against their roots, or perched among their branches. She hangs, on all of them a
Wail of the Welsh DragonThe dragon bowed his head in pain,:thumb332824210:
He'd fought many a battle and not been slain,
Neither sword nor lance could end his reign,
But now his time was ending.
Life had been a simple thing,
Patrol his lands on the wing,
In the mountain stronghold he was King,
And no one dared to doubt it.
But now the nights seemed so cold
And his flame was not so bold
Even dragons do grow old,
And he'd never felt so weary.
For many a moon he'd not been out,
A subject the peasants talked about,
And though they all may run and shout,
In their way they loved him.
Yes, they may have fled and hid,
But cruelty was not his to bid,
He just did what dragons did,
And never killed for pleasure.
He chased their girls and ate their sheep,
And took their gold up to his keep,
But he knew inside their pride ran deep,
"Our Monarch", they had named him.
But no longer does he rule the skies,
Breathing fire to terrorize
The villagers and maidens cries
Are lost to him forever.
A dragon sleeps with one eye open,
But now he close
Acid Girl 04She once told me that Mexican nights were shorter
With enough pills, October can be one long day
Those eyes never promised calm waves or Novocain
There's tequila in our mouthwash
The problem is I don't see this as a problem anymore
Nine out of ten dentists recommend swallowing the worm
An air conditioner is smoking somewhere downstairs
I breathed in the cold second hand and the minute stopped moving
We're only alive part time- cashing our rain checks in rubber boots
On the weekends, she doesn't know that it's the weekend
I'm always aware of footprints in the mud and snow
If they take the trash, it's Thursday
The puppy calendar on the fridge says 2009
Someone drew dicks on September's golden retriever
But this way, it's always three years before the Mayans ruin everything
The kitchen ants drown in the kitchen sink
One sheet of fly paper hangs from a horseshoe in the doorway
The stove can only been used to light roaches
A needle in the night stand makes a guest appearance
The liquor cabi
Beautiful DayThere are some days that are inherently beautiful.
Hot green-yellow days in August-- or July, but never June-- where everything seems still, like you're the only person in the world, because all the normal people are inside with their air conditioners, and all the birds are resting, and you lie down on the grass and it feels like it's just you and the great growing plant world that surrounds you, and it's utterly still, the only moving air caused by your breath, and for a minute you know what peace is. And then the air stirs, and you hear a lawn mower in the distance and smell the fresh-cut grass, and some laughter or shouts in the distance because some kids are playing something, but it's still quiet in your empty space of green, even when a car goes by, even when suddenly a pair of twittering birds flies overhead, two dark spots against the blue bit of sky overhead.
Days in the winter when the clouds are thick and heavy, like a flannel sweater over the world, and they're shaking down
The Wailing: TeaserPart I: The Sirens
The sound of the sirens is what has stayed with me. I remember the explosions, the engines of the Messerschmitts, the screams of men trapped beneath the rubble. Of course I do. But it is the wail of the sirens that yet haunts my dreams, settles that same cold sickness in my gut, that same cold slickness on my palms. It is the banshee shriek of coming death.
The night was cold and clear when that sound prickled along my arms like so many icy fingers reaching out from behind the drapes.
Rowan stilled her hands at the typewriter and ripped the sheet from the machine, lest some unscrupulous eye should take advantage of her temporary absence. She snatched up a grey cardigan, a torch, and the requisite gas mask, and had nearly gotten to the door before she turned back to look at me. Her dark eyes were as empty as ever.
‘Are you coming?’ she asked as she stuck one arm into a cardigan sleeve.
‘I’ll follow later,’ I said. ‘
is death in a mirror,
when a cold candle
for her burning breath,
and her fiery heart
for his sacred chest.
Waxen tears bleed,
breaks the mirror,
cursing them forever.