Raven

 

Once upon a time, a long, long time,

Winter loosed its callid grip.

Amidst the rising waters, whispered and stirred,

from their berth, flew a dark cloud.

It grew eyes, dragon feet,

and mind sharp as midnight hour.

It blossomed blacken plume,

a velt, knighten flower,

blackest rose of winter.

Eyes like the sun, tongue like the moon,

tail splayed in stars, wings, voiceless as time,

cries sonorous, “aawk, aawk, awake!”

wakes the dawn.

Grey wolf, bronzed man,

Yes, man of smoke and flame, follows.

The dark, svelt angel,

who heralds the vast, spirit worlds,

above the earth yet red in tooth and claw,

he bays, death’s hound, at the open wide gate

of the savage moon.

Friend, foe and mocking one,

his bill severs the night, flesh from bone and blood.

Eyes like jack-o-lanterns burning,

speak riddles, sing of truth and lies.

Is he life or death?

A celestial ferryman of souls,

or hungry ghost, swallowing lands,

fallen-one, given wings to mount the night

a disgraced Lancelot, guarding the wilds,

Memory of Odin, ever alight?

Who is he, of matter and spirit,

our hopes, dreams, kindness, cruelties, questionings and fright?

 

The Changeling

 

Where moor dust and night shimmer collect,

on cloven grass below,

heaven and earth, and eldritch things,

begets a child.

But a wraith, a wisp, fairy-sprite,

cries the changeling.

Her dreams are unicorns, her sighs, crystal wings,

and her longings all wrapped up in the moon.

Do fox and sheep wait by her cradle,

quaking aspen, oak and elder tree?

Do not starry Orion and twinkling Ceres

lie at her whiten folds?

Come morning, the sow will roan

the cock chime and heifer low, earth telling of earthly things.

Yet fay-reeds will fan, the toadstools like folded lyres, sing,

the choir of crickets, damselfly and bog-rose

raise once more, its lonely antiphon.

Only things of heaven do things earthly dream,

of trollish feet, elven lips and angel wings,

doth cries the little changeling.

 

 

Summer Fair

 

 

On July 1st, I wore my first festival dress.

In snowy lace folded between shards of rose and ice,

like spring breaking free from winter.

My gloves, newly-riven snow or perhaps dove’s wings,

gilded with silver morning

dewy in youth and recklessness,

soon to be torn or ruined.

My shoes, black hooves, like a kid jumping on rocks

a green stream underneath.

My cloak, a cold phoenix, burning with ice,

aflame with the chill of expectant love.

Inlaid, gold lining, a tracery of heaven,

flitting like pollen or moth’s feet,

the handiwork of too much time.

I am a lily, new with moss,

queening her silver, gold and opal,

aflame and ashen, ancient and new

O whom do we owe,

a theme timeless as beauty itself.