A Solstice Story

The White Lady wanders through the world on Solstice Night, her heart as cold and lonely as the dark night.  

Stars sparkle in the sky above.  The crescent moon sails on silver clouds and its light catches on the snow-crystals floating through the air, blown by the wind from the branches of sleeping giants.

As she wanders through fields of star-dust, an owl flies silently overhead watching her wandering.  A fox hides among the hedgerow, watching the White Lady pass.  A deer stands in stillness inside the edge of the wood, watching as she wanders close to the forest.

She hears music, so soft at first she cannot tell from where it comes, but the song grows and she follows the music, drawn deep into the woods until she finds a great ancient Pine. 

The music stops and she sees at the base of the tree a bundle tucked into the needles and roots.  She picks up the bundle only to find that it is a small child.  It is the child of Hope, the child of Light, the reborn Sun and the gift of the new year.

The White Lady holds the child close and smiles as she carries it back to her home to care for it, and the Green man, having seen all that has happened, smiles at the light that begins to glow brightly in her heart.

Yule

From the Darkness of the Void,

deep and silent,

on the longest of nights,

stars sparkle in the sky above;

reflecting sparks rising from the fires of Hope.

And in the East,

the horizon shimmers

with the coming Dawn.

I Remember

I remember the sounds the world made, the songs of trees and stones and stars,

the sound of flowing water that made my heart sing,

I remember the sounds I knew

before my soul went deaf from the fever I had as a child.

I am learning to hear them once again,

and I am learning to sing.

Burning

My dreams burn;

the inner-most places of my body and soul,

guarded for light years

by ice-walls,

from anyone’s touch,

burn with memories.

My blood burns,

with the heat of the bed,

now cold,

my skin with blisters and scars,

my tongue with the taste of salt.

My mind burns,

with his voice and the music,

with the scent of spice and sweat and smoke,

with pictures of him in that bed with another.

My heart burns itself to ashes,

with the pain of cold empty space,

and the coals of the flames it once felt.

Autumn Ride

Brandywine mare moving rhythmic under smooth leather and soft denim.

Wandering careless among crimson leaves.

Smoke rising from home-hearth, strong scent on whisper-wind.

Afternoon sun glowing golden through bare branches of old apple-orchard on october-mountain.

Wild geese flying low, sing of Scottish Kings.

Lace

Light caresses of

Afterthoughts

Catch in Cobwebs of

Electric Storms

The Flame Within

I walked tonight, just the short distance between two places, neither one of much importance.

I could have been on the moor, or in Pennsylvania wandering a cornfield, post-harvest.

This isn’t Kansas - This isn’t Oz.

Through a crack in the sky shone the clear, dark, icy night of space.

The total absence of warmth - The total absence of light from without.

The wind unrelenting on my face.

No warm soft kisses, no strong arms, no hearth and home with love and comfort.

Alone outside on a night like this will doubtless bring tears to the eyes.

Blame them on the cold of the night.

Survive on the flame within.

Shadow Dance

Shadow Dance

When the sun comes through the window in the afternoon,

and the shadows of the curtains are cast upon the walls and dance,

and the birds chatter in the trees, and the leaves whisper,

I can almost hear their secrets.

They tease me with their hushed proverbs, knowledge unknown, time forgotten.

And I know that the wind holds wisdom, and I remember the voice that told me,

that tried to teach me its language.

I remember the sound of laughter, and the water of the river that flowed, that flows still, running over rocks and keeping such memories that they shall never be lost.

The silence becomes easy and the passage of time un-feared.

The face that I see when I close my eyes is human and not an angel.

All is not dark, all is not light, but shadows dance and lie still and dance again.

Glaciation

Glaciation

A cold wind blows through the fence;

the gate swings shut with a glacial clank.

Snow falls and settles, turning brown sand to white.

There are no toys in this sand-box.

The wind blows down the slide and climbs through the spaces up the ladder.

Empty swings rise and fall with the wind, the see-saw seems to balance,

the wind lifting one side and then the other.

Soon all is covered with snow,

and more snow falls

and the wind presses against it,

and more snow falls,

and none ever melts,

and snow presses against snow,

and ice upon ice,

and a cold wind blows through the fence.

I am a writer

I am a writer.  I have been since I was a child.  Recently I have been looking through a box of my work (hand written because I had no computer until a few years ago) and have decided that some of it is worth sharing or at least using as inspiration for new stories or poems.

My first blog, http://findinglightamongtheshadows.blogspot.com/  is about my journey in a more specific way and I want to stay on point. 

While all of my writing is about my journey, or a reflection of it, much is simply fiction or poetry about life in its broader pallet.  Here is where I intend to share with the world all of the colors of my work.  Some of it is very dark, which should not surprise anyone who has read my other blog.  It should also not be cause for concern.  Much of my darkest work was written long ago when I was wandering in the wasteland.  I want to be open and relatively uncensored in sharing my writing because it is good to remember where you have been and to see how far you have come. 

So welcome to the other side of my shadows.  I hope you enjoy reading.