Spring was full of promise,
Summer bloomed forth and shone,
But, with the coming of Autumn,
The blossom I thought would bare fruit,
was the last to be stripped away.
I wonder what Winter will bring
Poetry
Homespun Twaddle
a fae should never wear feathers
they would float much too far off the ground
they’d soon blow away and might not get back
that’s what the old wives say
*****
don’t drag people down rabbit holes
until you’ve been there and back by yourself
*****
meddling with magic has unforeseen results
thinking you’re clever is the act of a fool
wizards and chess masters think they see all
but they have no control of the stars
*****
if you live in stone houses
don’t cast the first glass
we are all far too fragile for that
looking tough never works
when you’re shattered
false dignity makes it worse
*****
I am not wise
I’m an idiot
So I never bother with fools
We Can Dream in the Dark
Some people share joy, some spread defeat,
By placing small obstacles under our feet.
Any small weapon for them will suffice,
Any device that comes to their hand
Will be used with full force when they can.
I’m flat on my back, stunned, on the floor,
but I too have a weapon, I dream in the dark,
so I’ve turned off the lights and opened the door.
Putting guards on our the windows shuts everyone out
And that’s never been what this house is about
Words have been spoken that filled me with doubt,
Thoughts have been scattered and tumbled about,
They crept round our building dispelling delight.
The carpet was swept from right under our feet,
So I stare at the ceiling and wonder all night
What we ever did to cause such dislike.
Putting guards on our the windows shuts everyone out
And that’s never been what this house is about
Act what you say,
Say what you act,
Say to our face
What you say to our backs.
We will still party,
Despite your attacks.
If the cap fits wear it.
We know how you are.
Putting guards on our the windows shuts everyone out.
That’s never been what this house is about
At the Last
There are dark days ahead for us all.
Storm clouds hang close above.
I see how the stars, revealing the map,
have slowly extinguish your eyes.
The future seems something to dread
when your planets never align.
Come sit here a while, and rest.
The road has been long and you’re tired
and you lost many friends on the path.
You’re the last of the fruit of your family tree.
Yes. Finally. Yes. The last.
Every day it’s the same
empty house, old dreams, gathering dust,
you don’t trust anymore in the point of this game.
It would be so damned easy to quit.
Come sit here a while, and rest.
Look into the flames of this fire,
this fire that burns so bright,
red embers that glow in the night.
There are voices hovering near.
Loved ones are never lost.
They are one sidelong step out of sight.
Come sit by me here, in the light.
Living in a fairy tale
nice article that arrived in my inbox today – and illustrated by the wonderful Brian Froud, who really knows what The Gentry look like :)
Painting by Brian Froud
I’ve been looking into old faery lore lately. Not the sanitised Victorian version of miniature winged beauties, but at the old tales of strange encounters, customs that go back beyond memory, time lost in the faery realm and the darker aspects of the hidden folk. At the instigation of my writing partner, I watched a documentary and, amongst a few other ideas, one in particular got me thinking. The suggestion was that if faeries do not have a concrete and objective reality of their own in our world, but do exist for us in the realms of imagination, perhaps imagination itself is a state of being we do not fully understand, bridging the gap between our usual vision of reality and unreality in a way that has a validity of its own. As a concept, and after years of working with magical systems, that…
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After the Storm
A storm was above and the wind was intense,
Rattling resistant windows,
It battered against the glass,
Salt patina crazed, obscuring the view.
The sea wall boomed, a dark drum.
The rocks, veiled by mussel shell
Opening wide to the tide,
Lay hidden beneath the wild surface
Of broiling and tumbling water
Turned in a pool of cross currents
The fog horn sang out
Above the deep throated echo of sirens
Who lure sailing men to their sea graves.
The tides of the turn leave us debris,
Strange treasures with rope and mast beams,
Blue glass rolled smooth by long tides,
Smashed shells and well polished pebbles.
Fragments of cuttlefish bone.
After the storm we gather them home
To make decorative frames for our mirrors
All our mirrors face out to the ocean.
Wind chimes of shells hang in the light.
Cuttlefish carved into faces unknown
Hang from blue string on our walls.
The storm did no damage at all.
My fathers sword (a haibun)
In the mornings at breakfast my mother would ask ”Who are you being today? What should I call you?” It was an arrangement we had. I was an imaginative child and she humoured me. I would answer Robin Hood or Peter Pan or Galahad, needing breakfast before the quest. She kept to my names very well, but she much preferred her dogs.
you can’t go far in this life,
or do any good,
without a fantasy horse
My father never asked such a question. I was his carpenters mate, whoever I was. We didn’t talk much as he sawed and I held the board steady or passed him nails. I am sure he knew what I thought. He made me a wooden sword. It could strike a mighty blow.
in a powder of sawdust,
companionship
was always more than enough
i rode my fantasy horse
in the realm of dreams
but my father armed me well
Lost Watch
I lost my father’s watch in the sea
When I wandered about on a beach.
It’s well that it rests there,
He wanted an ocean burial,
But the sea was too far out of reach.
We didn’t have time for arrangements,
Time flew by too fast,
but now he is rested at last.
My family heirloom lies on a sea bed of shells,
Corroded by rust,
Informing the fish of the turning of tides
As it drifts back and forth in the currents
Showing it silvered face
round as the full moon, in it’s season.
I lost my father’s watch in the sea.
He would be happy,
But time seems to have stopped for me.
Like a screen on TV,
Gone blank.
Don’t Paint the Roses
she remembered she was falling
reaching for a cake crumb
swallowing a draught
that completely turned her head
she was running round the roses
painting red and white
challenging the chess board
to manoeuvres in the dark
she had a distant memory
of a love that struck a spark
but the tables all kept turning
when he tried to take her hand
in the horrors and delusions
that stalked this troubled land
he loved her all the time
but he had lost his mind
lovers often lose their way
whether they are sane of mad
all is topsy-turvy
when the news is always bad
they race around in shadows
tying to find a light
their dreams become a nightmare
ruining their night
but up above the stars shine out
constellations point the path
if only they could both sit down
gazing up at last
the roses never needed paint
he knew that all along
check mate only brings an end
to more that can be done
lovers only need to sit
and think what love’s about
and forget the silly games
that pull them inside out
Matlock the Hare
Loved the illustrations in this so much I went straight off and bought it.
“What readers need,” a portly editor from a major publishing company told me many years ago as he confidently struck a pen through great swathes of my manuscript, “is peril. Plenty of peril. A lot less of all this ‘character and emotion’ nonsense. Ideally, it’s a woman in peril. All the drama you need in just those three words – woman in peril. Saves readers having to believe in a character, see?”
The truth was, I didn’t ‘see’.
“How about,” he suggested, scribbling over the first line of the manuscript, “we start it with – ‘She woke up to a knife at her throat’?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, gathering the remains of my work before asking, “Do you think Gulliver’s Travels would have been published today?”
He blinked back, confused. “The bloke who gets tied up on a beach by some dwarves? No chance. Where’s the peril in…
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The Dreaming Path 