hen toothed with regale
shell broken skin
any moment slagged
in the bubbles
and spits
of observation ...
we were mostly Antigone kept
while Prometheus slept
Morpheus and the fae
would say ...
wander
the wonder
and awe
our never sum
our wind
rain and err
when there
lather chaos
fragrant entrances
exits with feasts ...
<birdhouse theater story, continuum calling bees>
my daughter is a mad weaver
I spied her vocabulary list
and sped into it like a poor kid
with a pocket full of change
heading to the candy store ...
the twenty words are woven
into this vignette from here :
( to you the reader I hope it doesn't matter
that I didn't list them as much as splatter
them from here on out, it was to prove to her
we could find a way inside the words
so that we could felt the light
with how shadows embrace
every underpinning
of our souls
intended
consequential
or knot )
commencement gradual
imperceptible rise
tide surfing spawn mechanical(s)
wading through organic portal geometry
asymmetry is pure ardor
chaos vine-d at first, thirsty bones demanding attention
with fervency we staged reprieves, make believes
made marionettes in trees
told every nose to hold a crown
while we watch eyes become kites,
each a different color
wafted wanting
wear became sate
wind in carve satiated, ate ... a nap waiting to happen
with marks left behind
as a way to say
what thoughts came
through today
I hijacked that single printed
sheet assignment of words
and said I dare you to hand this in ...
she didn't of course but just the same
spry sly and wily I am her father
and partly held to blame
for her at least
thinking about it
for a bit
(which of course is me as water is to ducks)
In the beginning of every story
there seems a sentence
in which the writer induces you
by tone as a sensory perceptive
tuning in of words
you might imagine wanting to say ...
as if the writer were
some linguistic angler fish
with a dream state fob of feel
wielded to reel you in,
to begin being content :
bones, flesh and skin of a soul
what will and its binary partner Love
seek to sing while aglow with life.
With quiet fortitude, I leaned into the wind on the journey home.
Sledge loaded precariously, hounds at the ready howling, I command, we commence.
The night was many knives, we were thirsty thieves, a team for destination.
We could have waited the night, that would have been prudent,
but would have missed the northern lights.
Winter has many countenances, a new Moon sky a-swept
pierce lit stars and Borealis, being among the best.
Luckily, my dogs were mostly rescues
and very amiable to the task at hand.
So any endeavor became joyful bonding.
Some were emaciated, nursed by pack and me to gallop strength.
My house was their house, a true abode for human and loyal beast.
When knowing the trek was to home, they sped against distance,
a torrent of legs and open mouths.
The reaching of said destination with its reward
of kennel and play was an elixir.
They taught me how to be benevolent to myself,
how to feel myself still a part of nature.
When one is injured, we might all stay together in convalescence.
And I quite suspect, they all see apparitions, their friends passed perhaps.
A pack, they sense, is always there, aware wearing
past present and future in the thin
membrane-d warm kennel
living-glow-of-bones-Charnel house
EJR ©
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