Unrepentant

The question appears

Over and over

A litany of loneliness

Or would be

If I knew what that meant

Pretentions aside

This is a question I can’t answer

The meaning of life?

It well could be

The mysteries of the universe?

It certainly is one

As is the vessel

Of my ignorance

Philosophy? Theology?

Both have helped

To order thought

And quiet mind

But not the heart

So the question remains

Trapped in beauty

Surprising elegance

Wit beyond words

Mischief unmeasured

And cool, clear draughts

Of depths unplumbed

By anyone, I fear.

So this question

My query

My dumbfoundedness

Is constant and

Unremitting

Unrepentant

As, in all honesty

Am I.

Storm

Stone and sea won’t wait for me

Follow me up

Follow me down

Sky cries out so angrily

Follow me through

Follow me ’round

Lightning breaks like anxious sweat

Follow me here

Follow me there

Rain soaked dreams I can’t forget

Follow me out

Follow and dare

Sun might crack the creaking cloud

Follow the path

Follow the lane

Beams berate the surging crowd

Follow me in

Follow my pain

Dream of winter; ice and snow

Follow me forth

Follow me back

Dream of wind; a tornado

Follow the dirt

Follow the track

Leaves in face, obscuring smiles

Follow the flow

Follow the drive

Tears to last the endless miles

Follow ’til death;

Follow alive.

Untravelled

That tentative touch
Meant more than
Grasping hands
Or heat and hearts
Or legs intwining
Dangerous, damaging
No, nothing carnal
Nothing of the sort
Yet it burns hotter
Hotter than I remember
Harder than you know
Heavier than salt
And twice the sting
In the wound now
Open again and
Bleeding
Bleeding
Bleeding
No bandage but time
No salve but rhyme
No options here
But partners in crime
Will laugh and sigh
And cope
For haven’t we always?
Or was that yet
Another illusion
Mist in the wind
Headlights in the fog
Journeys untravelled
Forever.

Writing Therapy

I find writing a wonderful coping mechanism. If in doubt, write it out! Poems, songs, even random ramblings all help me put my thoughts into some kind of order; left to their own devices, they squabble and have no pecking order, but on the page, they are orderly and meek, though no less filled with the zing of inspiration.

When feeling low, when depression threatens like a blackness in the peripheral vision, the simple joy of sharing a poem can put a candle to that black. The sense of achievement from a deadline hit, or an essay that hits home; these little victories straighten my spine inch by inch, allowing the shoulders to bear a bit more without sagging.

Sometimes when anxiety is a raging tornado of bile and burns me from the inside out, I cannot write. This is my weather check; if I can’t write, things are bad. And sometimes I will try and force myself to, but will be so horrified at the muddled mess on the paper that I curl in on myself, hiding from my failure, and the world. At times like these music becomes my companion, coaxing me gently away from my fears until my hand is steady enough to hold the own once more

In magic, we sometimes write out things we want to be rid of- negativity, regret, bad habits and so forth- and we burn the paper, imagining our unwanted aspects drifting away with the smoke. Writing is a powerful tool, and I am grateful for it, especially at times of stress, when spoken words simply stutter and the mind will not be calm.

Still…

Gut stained purple
Still saying no
Stars fade forever
Still have to go
Sunlight sudden
Still in shadow
Snow in summer
Still burning cold
Stomach at the circus
Still drop the curtain
Lion needs taming,
Still crack the whip
Heart in free fall
Still turn machine off
Beeping fading
Still can’t hear.

not really a finished piece, just some ideas I’m working on.

Spring in Burntwood (3)

And strange little holes that had to be investigated with torches. This one, formed by part of an ancient pipe, held about a dozen snails, sheltering from the sunny spell.

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Spring in Burntwood (2)

And snowdrops:

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Spring in Burntwood (1)

We found pigs:

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Blackbirds at Twilight

Blackbirds at Twilight
Calling, indignant,
Get out of my space
This is my place
I perch at the edge
The edge of worlds
The edge of all things
Guarding the boundary
I am Druid Dubh
But hear me now
For you are still
For you respect
For you listen and understand
Try to connect;
My angry shout swells
Into song so sweet 
And while light remains
Hear my soothing strains
As you walk the winding lanes
To your nest.