Hollow hills,
Beneath my feet.
Moles tunnel unevenly.
They weave a labyrinth,
From earth and stone.
Painting it with dust,
And dwarf diamonds.
Category: Writing
The Water Bat
Headlights flare, dying out on the waters of the lake;
Its surface, a dark reflection of the sky.
I check my old-gold-watch.
It ticks, but does not move.
The witching hour has come.
He whispers, calling for me.
Bats, beautiful holes of winged darkness, soar across the moon.
Elementals
Swallows fly in skies of blue.
A trail of sun-dust, an evening hue.
Swooping fast, they circle me.
Chasing each other, they dive for the sea.
The mermaid’s tones transform all three,
As they fall ‘neath the waves at skeleton quay.
Azure dolphins fly with grace,
Through the towers of this watery place.
The volcanic fires scorch the trees,
The salamander grins; more fire please.
They blink their eyes and turn to dust,
As they sink beneath the earthen crust.
The Night Elf
One of my favourite childhood books is “Peter William Butterblow and Other Little Folk” by C. J. Moore. I have written many poems reminiscent of its verses. This is one that I found while sorting through old notebooks which I feel speaks to that same sense of wonder which this work of C. J. Moore, Marianne Gariff, Alfred Baur, and Hedwig Diestel still instils in me today.
The Night Elf.
Why does the night elf slip between rails
and dust chandeliers without mops, rags, or pails?
Why does he sweep and mop the floors,
and whistle and hum while he completes his chores?
All for a little saucer of milk,
or he’s out through the door,
padding away on slippers of silk.
The Ocean’s Harmony
Standing on a cliff,
The rim of the galaxy.
I look down into the deep
The waters rough, call out to me.
They break across the rocky shore,
Washing clean my memory.
Angry tides pull at the coast,
Folding it back into the sea.
With half an ear, I listen to her cry.
The end of some great symphony.
Then I learned to hear the Ocean.
“Open your ears.” Says she.
In that quiet; the shouts, the cries!
I thought they were meant for me.
But they were meant for a world long turned deaf
To the song of the seven seas.
To late, I see the ground fall free,
Open beneath my feet.
Waiting for me to fall towards
The end of eternity.
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.
Sylvan Secrets 