A poetic journey through my mind

myths and fae

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Brother to brother,

Memory to thought,

Tasting the stories

that old one-eye sought,

Storing them safely

in the heart of a cloud,

Mythos eternal,

Never spoken aloud.IMG_2279


The Dance

Liminal, the place between, between the seen and the unseen, the corner view, the edge of sight, the distance between wrong and right, the gap that lies between the worlds, where all the dragons sleep, tight-curled, from page to page, from left to right, in and out and day and night, all the spaces in between, where the tricksters dance unseen, in whirling steps of green and blue, and dancing, make the world anew, in colors of the brightest sheen, to decorate the place between.


Puzzle

bright and quick or dark and scary,  she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below.  Try to catch her, beam of sunlight, or at night a falling star, laughter ringing, high voice singing, soon you won’t know where you are.  bright and quick or dark and scary, she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below.  Follow her through shifting shadows, bright and dark at once is she, as she leads you, you will follow, and your home you’ll never see.  bright and quick or dark and scary, she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below.


Mirrorrim

 

Mirror mirror on the wall, hanging there so silently, can you see me here at all, or do you stand in awe of me?

See my skin as white as snow, see my smile as sharp as thorn, behind my lips so rosy red, a beauty grown, but never born.

My people love me, as they might, they laud my beauty and my grace, adore my hair as black as night, and see in me my mother’s face.

Mothers ash is buried deep, beneath the sacred Rowan tree, but should I cry beneath its shade, I hear her voice still speak to me.

Blood red tears soak through the ground, nourishing the thirsty earth, and whispering the leaves take voice, echoes of her cruel mirth.

Stepmother, fear me as you should, for though you may have fathers ring, tis I who owns his beating heart…in me, the conscience of the king.

Huntsman with your sharpened knife, you track me for the queen so good, a single kiss and you are mine, amazed amidst the darkened wood.

The beating heart, unlike my own, ensconced within a box of gold, and carried to stepmother dear, a tragic tale will soon be told.

By animals in forest deep, my body torn too much to save, the heart the only evidence, to lay beside my mother’s grave.

From kitchen knave to scullery maid, soon all in mourning deep will be, whilst I move through them whisper soft, feeding on the tragedy.

And then, replete, I’ll slip away, down to the caverns dark and deep, far from the biting of the sun, where spirits howl and duergar creep.

There among the little men, I’ll sleep until I thirst again, then waken, smiling in my bliss, to share again my blood red kiss.


Edit: Very Important Question

 

(Hmm.  8 “likes” and no comments.  Guess that’s a “no thanks” to Patreon for now.  🙂

Okies, back to  “work”…maybe something will be worth supporting in the future.)

Heya! Got a question for y’all. Ever heard of a thing called “Patreon”? It’s part of the whole crowd funding scene, a place kinda like Kickstarter but with two notable differences: A) It’s just for artists, but for artists of all stripes and types…and B) Instead of one time donations, it’s a recurring thing, allowing folks to be, basically, patrons of the arts…at whatever level is possible for them. From a dollar a month to…well, as far as you wanna go.

The fun thing is the reward system. For each level of payment there’s a reward, contingent on the particular artists choice and type of art.

For instance, for visual arts it might be anything from being able to see works in progress before anyone else, to being entered into a monthly drawing for an original piece!

Also, like Kickstarter, there may be goals to be reached, depending on the artist in question and their needs.

I’m seriously considering starting a page, for two purposes. I’m still really intent on organizing my stuff into book form, or maybe even two…one for the “social commentary”/awareness sort of ones (that one will be a not for profit project, but it won’t, unfortunately, be free to make…) and one for my mythology based work, both the poetry and maybe even some short stories.

I’m also moving, soon, from Florida back out West, to Salt Lake…and I want to build a tiny home. My severely limited mobility really cuts into my creativity, as chronic pain leads to depression and anxiety. I’m basically living in one room now, and one under 400 sq. ft. space with no doors or stairs or other nonsense sounds like my idea of paradise…not to mention it would be my first actual space entirely of my own…at 47, that makes it about time.

So I guess I’m asking for advice…does it sound like something worth doing, and should I put the effort into it?

Don’t worry, my new stuff will still come here (hopefully more often than recently…the more I write the more they come, I’ve found.) and it will be free as always.

But folks who want to follow me over to Patreon will have to let me know what sort of thing you might like for a reward…some of the ideas I’ve had are a chat/text group just for y’all, to talk about whatever…(in case you missed it, I LOVE to talk…😝) or maybe personal suggestions/requests for poems, toss me a random poem prompt, stuff like that? I’m even up for challenges…give me (almost) any three words and an adjective (funny, horrific, romantic, etc) and I’ll find/construct a piece for you. If any of these sounds good, just leave me a note in the usual place, and maybe we can make this happen!

Love,
KC


Two Sisters

sister, sister, tell me true,
what I ever did to you,
stretch your hand to save me here,
and you may have my sweetheart dear.

I will have your sweetheart, true,
but never will I rescue you,
my hand outstretched will never be,
for sake of what you’ve done to me.

sister, sister, tell me why,
I see my murder in your eye,
what e’er I’ve done I’ll make amends,
and you and I shall live as friends.

Never shall I stretch my hand,
to help you safe up to dry land,
though it may be hard to see,
I’ll think of what you’ve done to me.

sister, sister, tell me here,
is it of my sweetheart dear,
I will forsake him, for your sake,
and you his hand may surely take.

it is about your sweetheart, aye,
whom you love half as much as I,
and though on me he has yet frowned,
he’ll turn to me once you are drowned.

sister, sister, save me, please,
and I will swear on bended knees,
that you a bride will shortly be,
and I no more shall envy thee.

I will not save thee, sister mine,
though your prayers are sweet and fine,
this stream will bear you out to sea,
and you no more will bother me.

sister, sister, hear me now,
my curse on you I hereby vow,
you may well have my sweetheart true,
but this black deed you soon will rue.
sister, when you take my man,
try to hold him if you can,
his faithless heart will ne’er be true,
and this last thing I do to you.


Reply

Little sister, small and fair,
why ask for knowledge you will rue?
But, for the Oaths that we did swear,
three times three I’ll answer you.

One for Crow boys, tall and dear,
perched atop a garden wall,
I heard them laughing and crept near,
I heard his lies…I heard it all.

Little sister, small and fair,
why ask for knowledge you will rue?
But, for the Oaths that we did swear,
three times three I’ll answer you.

Second for the power that glows
within a tattered crow-black skin,
the skin our faithless crow boy chose
to keep his crow-shape safe within.

Little sister, small and fair,
why ask for knowledge you will rue?
But, for the Oaths that we did swear,
three times three I’ll answer you.

I’ve clipped his wings, no more he’ll fly,
the power mine now, strong and new,
and from my hand he will not die…
but only for our Oaths so true.

Little sister, small and fair,
why ask for knowledge you will rue?
But, for the Oaths that we did swear,
three times three I’ll answer you.


The Question

pooka girl, changeling girl,
foxes eyes, red mane acurl,
tell me, tell me, tell me true,
three times three I ask of you.

First is for the love we share,
his midnight eyes and crow-black hair,
his handsome face so fine and fair,
where have you taken him, fox-girl, where?

pooka girl, changeling girl,
foxes eyes, red mane acurl,
tell me, tell me, tell me true,
three times three I ask of you.

The second is for magic, deep,
that through our veins does rise and leap,
a power bought with price so steep
I feel it cry out, in my sleep.

pooka girl, changeling girl,
foxes eyes, red mane acurl,
tell me, tell me, tell me true,
three times three I ask of you.

The third time is for loyalty,
for oaths by moon and star and tree,
oaths of blood I shed for thee,
I ask you, sister, three times three.


B&B

the maze amazing blocks my sight,
with bright lit halls and rooms of night,
my heart beats fast and hard with fright,
I stumble, and my head feels light.

the path winds forward, north, then east,
with frozen fear I hear the beast,
he shambles, slow, like one deceased,
but still he comes, to make his feast.

I looked into his private wing,
not knowing what my choice would bring,
its beauty made my heart fair sing,
just like a castle for a king.

he sat, his back toward the door,
admiring the fires bright roar,
and spoke, as if his throat were sore…
“I’m certain that I locked that door.”

he turned around, I thought I’d scream,
so much the monster did he seem,
his eyes with yellow light did gleam,
I pinched myself, in case of dream.

I saw a passageway, and ran,
without a thought, without a plan,
away from beast that thought as man,
as fast as any rabbit can!

and now I’m lost, in caverns deep,
for days I’ve had no food or sleep,
while after me the beast does creep,
so on and on, my pace I keep.

still I wonder if I dream,
if things are not the way they seem,
I swallow scream on breathless scream,
and watch behind for the eyes that gleam.


Requiem for a State

Deep within the ferny swamp,

a mossy hillside beckons me,

beneath the fireflies that romp

and play about a great Oak tree.

Beneath the Oak, upon a stone,

a figure sits, form cloaked and still,

awaiting my approach, alone,

a statue, grey, upon the hill.

Gnarled knuckles grace the hands

that rise to lift the heavy cloak,

revealed, the spirit of the sands,

the Lady of the great Live Oak.

Tangled hair of spanish moss,

and eyes a deep palmetto green,

the scars of years lie mapped across

the softest skin I’ve ever seen.

She meets my gaze with patient eyes,

her smile as soft as summers hum,

her voice, so deep and old and wise,

whispers “Child, I’m glad you’ve come.”