Enchantment

he watches through the magic glass
the witch combing her hair
the wooden tines sliding through the silken mass
each long stroke followed
by her shapely pale hand smoothing
stroke, slide, stroke, slide
he cannot look away
hypnotized by the sensual grace of the ritual
by the exquisite riches beyond his reach

she knows he is there
she knows he watches her
she knows and it pleases her deep and devious mind
she does not change her pattern
or create more of a show
but she knows, oh she knows

firelight gleams behind her,
moonlights sheen on her face
her shoulders bare to his bespelled gaze
and she combs and strokes slowly
till the hair lies smooth,
waves and curls of honeyed gold
over skin warm and waxen pale

he cannot see it yet
has never felt all that he dreams of darkly
:his hands in her hair buried
her face below his, luminous and soft
her scent pervading
entrapping his senses
the petalled softness of her skin
and the golden silken slide of her hair
in disarray over the wine-dark pillow

she knows he dreams
she knows he rides wish-horses wild
and smiles her triumph over his heart and soul
even as she lies down upon her darkly golden bed
wrapped round in wards and circles of protection
and draws the spidersilks close
she knows, but as she veils her eyes to sleep
she smiles small and sweet, and

he sees
that she knows
and more...
that she dreams too.

Healer

I lay wounded
alone and hurting
sore, scared, and scarred
a prison cell or hospital bed
so cold, noisy, impersonal and cruel

when silence comes it brings cold peace
and sleep taunts from her cobwebbed corner
I ache and cry, alone again, alone
with regret and remorse's price
paidin pain

and there in the stillness
your voice drips down to me
honeyed balm to a wounded heart
saying all the right things
in all the right ways
and melting truth in
every golden
sweet word

QuickSilver

how fast the river flows

lambent beads sliding together

a powerful whole that is made up of so many parts

and in its inexhorable motion

changes everything

even the water's course itself

an alchemical mystery

inspiration like quick

silver

muting and morphing and transforming

ideas into words into

shining towers and the arching

parabola

that tears those towers down

the dark magics

of change, always changing

aPaD

A Poem a Day. 01

Where is April?

woke to snow
mixed with ice-rain
first day of flowerful
and no weather change
it's still winter within
you're still so far away
we're still clinging to hope,
in the still of the wait

Waking

like the sky of spring
too bright and aching
pulling up clouds for covers
let the rain fall
and ease me back
to our bed
to curl into your arms
and wait in sleep
like a new leaf
unready to unfurl

Another Late Night

...and no sign of the end of the road, the narrowing tunnel, the broadening expanse of the dreamlands call. You are so wrapped up in the cocoon of your own changes that you can't see out, stretch out to share an arm and shoulder to cry (havoc) upon.

I cannot need you so much, who have so little to offer in trade.

Trapped in the patterns, in the road travelled too well, and the ruts too deep to lift a crippled foot free.

I saw an old horse yesterday, heavy and lethargic and hurting. His knee looked like mine, his leg misshapen by pain and lack of use. If I was a horse, I'd have had me put down ages ago. What hope of a life without movement, freedom?

October's Moon

moonlight frosting runneled condensation

bottles of ink lining the sill

chilled pre-dawn air

so cold in my shift, these thin sheets no protection

so cold the thin film of ice I scratch into

the brass nib heavier than my hand can hold easily

the words spidery, stilted, a spell half spun

and so cold the emptiness

your missing voice

your absence keenly felt

a wound the full unsilence

white noise, moon noise

static across the space between us

the vacuum and dust of so many failed flights

scratched record radiation of so many rocket launches

to nowhere, leaping up into the stratosphere

only to fall back to earth on fire

lucifer’s laughter

to splash down impotent

having only achieved a part of a dream

(did we fail to dream enough?)

one small step is too far

and you wonder what is wrong

you wonder why the distance grows

it isn’t, it doesn’t

it’s only that we feel it more

sometimes

when the moon pales

and the chill air enforces the small coldness

the loneliness of these sheets

the deep fears

of insignificance

of efforts never made

of time spinning thinner

of impermanence

the words scratched into ice

that will melt when the day dawns

leaving only a faint

memory of the feelings

until the moon shines on them again

unending cycles

lonely lunacy