Monday, September 26, 2011

The Green Man

The ancient oak stood strong
centred in the grove of saplings
her young, from her acorns
once seeds of a union so intense
it is still whispered on the wind.

Weathered bark peeled away
with each passing year leaving
her body, her mighty limbs
torn twigs, shredded leaves falling
before the season said change.

Axes struck sharp and hard
shattering the forest calm while
creatures paused in silent reverence
as The Green Man gathered acorns
sustaining their secret of eternal life.

My contribution to The Gooseberry Garden: Stories from Mythology, Culture and of life

Friday, September 23, 2011

While the Moon Looks Over My Shoulders

While the Moon
looks over my shoulders
I walk gently in darkness
well before dawn
eases us into a stressful life,
toddling along a well worn path
these feet glide
soundlessly over pavement
as my eyes smile
at dimming night lights
yet all alone on this trek
I pause to think,
wonder, ponder
how blessed we are
to share such love
this warm Autumn morn
and never will I be alone

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Darn, Life is Cruel

After a day of chopping tomatoes, onion, carrots, peppers, garlic, beans, and whatever else I find to make an awesome tomato sauce; moving and cleaning out two over the top composters then spreading the black gold amongst the beds and watering in its life sustaining nutrients, I finally head off to the tub wanting to wash away the grime and soak in warm water relieving the aches. But, I pause a moment to surf channels seeking life and my fingers rest on an hour of Marchesa. O my gawd, is there no mercy!

I sit in filthy sweat pants, stained T shirt, and down right dirty fingers all the while focused on crystals, Swarovski no less; feathers plucked from the most exotic birds; tulle, yards and yards of tulle in wonderous colours and hand tatted lace all tenderly hand woven into magical finery. Hhmmm, perhaps I can shred the sweats and weave pebbles into the leggings. The T shirt could be dyed and the left over sequins from Halloween glued in a funky pattern. The bag of feathers (don’t ask why I have it) may be sewn on for texture. Could my Nikes replace the Louboutins? Even if I paint the soles red? I doubt it.

Darn, life is cruel.

Friday, September 09, 2011

Root in a Rut

Rut bound,
my roots wither
without water
tugging me, pulling me
I shake loose easily
scratching for relief
with smothering rain

Where is the rain
I beg you
to saturate my home
my soothing den
for without it
I shall perish

My once plump roots
now shriveled
rust in dry dirt
organics bare
to the elements
while I wait for rain

Inspired by Magpie Tales