I want to thank everyone for putting up with the large amount of posts yesterday. I have begun the process of migrating not only my blog, but also my entire site over to WordPress. I have been using GoDaddy for nearly a year now. The website builder can do many interesting things, but it is next to useless when it comes to posting regular content. I want to keep everyone up to date with my current projects as well as showcase my past work. With WordPress I am able to manage my content in an easy to use fashion. I hope you all are looking forward to new content soon. Just not too soon.
Month: April 2015
Sitting Room
Let us not forget the warmth of Fire
crackling merrily away.
How reluctant are we to leave its side.
Warm clothes and blankets.
Hot drinks and food.
All are best had fireside.
So let us light the flame.
Welcome in that glowing warmth.
That loves us all the same.
The Land Is Dead
The land is dead.
But it is life which remains.
Logs set a’blaze.
Bowls filled with food.
Cups a’brim with wine.
Lips alive with laughter.
Though the land is cold,
our hearts are warm.
Though the land is still,
our bodies will dance.
Though the land is dead,
our souls are alive.
Chain Link
Now ice cold iron,
frozen in molten glory.
Once a sleeping stone.
A stone held in place,
the Earth encompasses her.
Beloved by the soil.
Dreams of Creation,
soon a delightful voyage.
But for now relaxed.
Opportunity.
Never hold back her desire.
Stone turns to armour.
What Is Winter?
What is Winter?
All it takes is one frozen drop.
One kaleidoscopic flake of winter
to fall gracefully from the heavens.
All it takes is one line of ice.
One explorer of a watery frontier
to freeze a trail into the deep.
All it takes is one green needle.
One sliver of eternal life
to steadfastly refuse to fall.
All it takes is one bright candle.
One luminous guardian of light
to hold its vigil in the dark.
This is all it takes…
The Iron Stove
I wrote this piece years ago while on a sailing trip. It was later published in Surfacing a collection of poems written by young Canadians. The piece is about emotion struggles within oneself and how those struggles effect us.
The cast iron stove sends heat to battle the snow,
it’s fiery sparks clashing with frozen stars.
“Did I smile?” asks the boy.
No voice answers as his tears run swiftly,
sustaining the red-bellied salmon that swim in the river of sorrow.
The stove sputters, her anger of old has died.
She recalls her troops, she sees through the eye of the storm.
The boys tears fall faster and he shivers with cold.
His frost-bitten fingers fumble with the lighter.
The lady of winter settles, her ice-white children fill the pipes.
His lighter meets the oil can and the fire reluctantly comes- it comes, burning the timber and melting the ice and snow,
and the boy’s tears melt away,
leaving this blackened hole of ashen doom.
Sitting on the mountain top,
I pick up the broken glass as my dream wanders through the mountain gardens of my shattered mind,
weeding out the weeds and planting flowers in their stead.
The Seige
A heavy veil of scarlet dusk settles over the ash stone walls of Selgar.
Inside, the People grow weery of the on coming morn.
Men dressed in crimson robes, quickly thrown over vests of steel.
Shadows cover the charred earth as the talk siege engines block out the sun.
An old crone feeds her grandchild hemlock and a burly bartender locks his family in the cellar.
Two old men sit at a table, betting on the next race they know will never come.
The frantic people seek escape and protection. Others turn to denile.
But up on the rooftops grim archers lie behind shields that they know will fail.
The army of Bairne has arrived.
Shooting Stars
Time to fall from shadows.
Masks guard the plain.
The Autumn of burning Souls.
Bright white they shine, illuminating hope.
They dance together. Intertwining arms link in molten joy.
Together their light stave’s off the darkness.
A brilliant radiance of purity. Beacon of enlightenment.
Together they dance.
As dusk comes to meet the night.
The Beach House
Soft whispers linger,
on his frozen lips.
White line of sand smells sweet.
His weapons lie across the floor, disarmed,
still deadly.
Silently he beckons on.
Smooth skin,
rough cloth cut short.
I thought I’d learned his inner soul.
But now I think, I’ll never know.
Sylvan Secrets 