I woke up half-elven today.

The pale colors of November are here

Although the fields are still deep to the greens

With the rains of September gone chill,

Also, down where the mist is still pouting off

Heard odd words in the voice of the stream

I had one cup of tea for my breakfast

And went out the door to my errands.

At market there's talk of the music

That Earl has been hearing in dreams

And the women are asking each other

How madness is cured while one sleeps.

“Oh, good morning,” one says as I pass by.

“You'd know since you once were with Them.

Is there something to cure such strong madness,

As Essies' dear husband has been?”

“If there is it won't do that man good.

Why not let him write music for once?

Maybe those are just Earl's best excuses

For not getting the corn planting done.”

This blunt truth is escape for me, really.

I tried for so long to explain

—With no luck—that the Good Folk aren't like that.

Now I just play along, like a game.

They won't ask if the fairies are people.

They won't ask what it's like in their world.

I came back from my journey with songs

That they leave me no opening to spill.

And most morning I don't think about it.

The stream's just a spring and a stranger

I wake up just human inside.

But then some days I have to remember...

And say other things that aren't wise

When I can't tell what Faerie was like.

I hear it explode behind me—

The gossip, conjecture—and sigh.

I walk home, all surrounded by voices

Of autumn that speak to my heart.

While I would not give back all my time there,

I wish I weren't torn up in parts.

Slowly all the leaves fall from the oaks

A burnished nutshell brown

The wind sings sharp and the note is cold

It makes an uncanny round

I'm going up the crow road

Through the wastes and wood

I'm following the flight of crow

And step where no man's stood

The ground is stiff but the trees lay gold

Pillows for my head

The thatch of red and ocher hold

A canopy for my bed

I'm going up the crow road

Through the wastes and wood

I'm following the flight of crow

And step where no man's stood

Through the mountains before the snows

Fall to quench the world

I take this path to keep my oath

As the grey clouds whirl

I'm going up the crow road

Through the wastes and wood

I'm following the flight of crow

And step where no man's stood




***
I wish I could play you the music that inspired this lyric.
It's mellow and bright, a little minor.
You'll have to wait until we record it, I guess--it's really pretty.

To the Impossible

I wanted you
to take pictures of me
To treasure me
To hold up prints to frames
and choose the best one.
 

I wanted you to have a smile,
a secret smile
remembering
the picture there
that was always there
 

You'd see it fresh
and think “I love her”
with a thrill of owning
that comes with history
and a future.
 

We make these crazy pictures
in our heads--
just instants of them
and shut them away,
laughing.
 

But hope is like that.
It shoots out Polaroids
of never-beens
and even the miss-takes
lurk in storage.


At this point, just a silly thought.
Could be the germ of something else...could be nothing at all.

Definitely curious whether it resonates with anyone, or doesn't. How's it working for ya?

I. Call me a Coyote

I don't look for trouble

It just falls into my hands,

Like girls on watch for bad-boys,

As I step off the trains.

Call me a coyote,

You can call me a tramp,

But if that luck's in my nature--

Fair to blame me in the end?

...

II. Mischief Walking

He said his name was Gin, and most took that for truth

But he smiles when they call him that, and I took that as proof

We're a joke for him to play, a new tricky fiddling tune

____I never call him anything but “Hey!”

He plays for choir on Sunday with a sacred kind of glee

That must be irreligious—that's struck more folk than me.

But he don't do any preaching, seducing, or ask fees

____I don't know whyever he stays.

III. Betting Luck

Pearly told him she was something,

Girl she'd taken for apprentice.

He had seen her at the meetings

And he didn't think she could be.

But she walked in: luck stood off her

Like the smell of rain on sweet earth

Rising toward the crone's small magic.

He took back his doubt about it.

IV. It Started at Pearly's House

Jade's no Trickster goddess or even good at lying

Smart as whips, and fast as fire but upfront without trying

Chances were she wouldn't have a moment's luck to do much—

Couldn't figure what he'd gain by challenging my girl to such.

Dropped from a height of a hundred stories

Down past the glimpses of lives through the window panes

Falling and turning through the air like a penny

Hurtling to kill beyond terminal velocity,

I felt the chip like a cliff-fall heart attack

Before I hit the pavement in a fountain of shattering

Three times it turned but that didn't turn it back again

Spellcrafted flesh torn out and made spectacle

Wonder of a master—blown in fire, build from sand

Lost my heart to craftsmanship, an artifice of life

--Never believe it, if you see a proven miracle:

Someone paid the price for giving stone life, or the opposite

I swept the street with care and dusted all the window sills:

The zero-ground where impact made a universe from one sun

Sifted out the shards from all the grit and debris mixed in

Collected from eye-witnesses accounts to reconstruct

Pictures of disaster, so I could piece it back, bloody fingered

But despite it all, I never found the last pieces of my heart.





***
Seven weeks since I posted here! Whoa. Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing?

I'm torn about friends-locking posts here, since I did just read a magazines guidelines that counted blogs as publishing.
(Sheesh. All three people that pay attention to any given one of these? My circulation is abysmal....)


Well, does this make sense? I don't know, the metaphors in fairy tales are so much fun to build up on...

The Triptych just came back with a "we spent some time with this" note, which is encouraging. I've changed the order,  and sent it back out again...
 

When every feather in your hat looks like a dead bird

When your lights wink like dragon's eyes though all they are is fire

When every lyric the children sing is melancholy, morbid

And no one asks you to the dances or even thinks not to

Then you'll know the story's true

The ones about witches were speaking of you

When a drop of your own blood, pricked by a hem stitch

Recalls the fresh crimson from something young and broken

When only the clock's tick saves you from a stupor

And a pop of resin from a dream of dying quickly

Remember the fairy tale

And who casts the magic spell

When your cat hisses at a shadow even you can't see

While your heart and mind race with the rumors of goblins

(Though you know the goblins really were just warlocks

Who thought stealing children worth their wicked whiles)

Don't curse the cat in anger--

You know who birthed the horror.

A house fills with ghosts,

Like anything material.

Polish shows, reflects

A blurried plane of history--

The windows glow clear

Sharp with images in the night

But seek out shadows

To lurk with.

“It wasn't my fault I opened the box”

you lie to yourself—and it hardens your heart.

So you stand at the door, and it's closed to you.

You watch as girls with fright-wide eyes do

They enter, disappear, and you're left to wonder

Embittered.

Everyone lies to themselves, sometimes.

But the young who haven't made your mistakes

The children, pure from blame for now

Aren't the only ones who go under the gate

There are also the forgiven, the heroes, the sorry--

Liberated.

Not just virgins, not just the shakers of heaven,

But you, if you see your fingerprints, your heart

And confess “Only hope is left in the box.”

Then follow your children through to the future

That under-the-mountains, around-the-tree, past the vine

Wilderness.

The Lost and the Passing

Etch glass with gossamer

Spider-king, high in cathedral

For all is lost here but memory

And the traces of shining

In the dust, in the gossamer

That silvers on the dark.

Smoke rise from the river

And drive away the night

Billowing mast for ghost-ships gone

Towering into castles

Leading away canny life

To join the spectre dancers.

Dream fill this glass with color

Hover, glinting, in the light

Mote cast upon deep richness

Make for tomorrow

By bathing far into the present

Drawing up the past from broken

glass.

I had my third "this one not for me, but send more" response from an editor to a poem submission this week. *momentary smugness*

This probably means I should write fantasy poetry someday.

I did something stupid and sent stuff to a market that is full of word-fat dark poems just because it's submissions were closing in a few days. *g* But whatever. They'll just come back anyway, right?



So I'm going to be disciplined and start writing poems. I will post Crone, the only new poem since my batch in July or something, later, but for now, I'm just going to write one in this posting field.
Sorry, kids.


Witch Below Water

Voiceless weed sways with the brine
As scales brush past them in their time.

Give up your voice to me (and give me your entire soul, too)
I will give you legs, a way to mate with a land-man, draw him to you.
Give up your lungs for sea (and give me your future palace)
I will give you sky, your dream of the perfect man and his caress.

"Aren't mermen worthy, Ariel?"
"The land-man loves me," you tell yourself.

Leave me a count of three (time to steal what's left--your soul.
You can't speak, and men are trained well everywhere to love what's whole)
Leave me, with desire's speed (but despair is blooming in your heart
You can't return, you can't come back and all your past's been torn apart.)

"Isn't the sea good enough for you, mermaid?"
"I left it too lightly," admits her shade.

Voiceless foam floats by the sands
The wind sighs past--it understands.




*gah* Enough wrestling with this now.
Criticism?

You've come this far on Coke for water

Building your armor to hide that you're hollow

Doesn't it burn you away as you falter

Reach for the poleaxe you use against sorrow

And masks to keep you

Safe from healing

Safe from innocence

Drink in this blood, Choke it down

You need it to make you alive

'Cause you're dead, You've always been

Face up to the sacrifice

If this keeps on, you'll walk more dead

If you don't put out those spirit candles

For once new cells to grow instead

Let go of vain hope in your own will

Strong enough steel

Pointed at you

Kill what's wrong, not save it

Drink in this blood, Choke it down

You need it to make you alive

'Cause you're dead, You've always been

Face up to the sacrifice

Under the bridge

It may be

That a pot of gold waits for the taking

Or a troll sits in wait for a victim

But the question is

Will you look under?

Over the mountain

It could be

That gems grow on trees for the picking

Or wolves are like bears and they're hungry

But the choice is

How brave are you?

Inside the keep

There may be

A lover to suit my soul's longing

Or a foe that will be the end of me

But they asked me

Will you be worthy?

On the horizon

It may fall

That I have arrived to my ending

Or new skies beckon me toward them

But the answer?

I will.

Skitter in the road today, my pixie

leave me now to welter in darkness

Leave off your airy baubles with me

strip yourself of jewels and color now

Life is leeching out this city's corners

love flees passion in this rumpled berth

Skitter out to play where the light strikes dust

talk with all those lessons waiting to be opened.

Dance without your shame tonight, my lovely

let the moon reflect upon your earthy sweat

Sing into the silence where, beasties waiting,

those without a spell stand without a prayer

Tempt the fates with laughter, my rare beauty--

I'm waiting in the deepness for those summons

Step out in the light where blood grows warmer

come to me, my love, and spill your secrets.

The moon compelled me out tonight

The air breathed intoxication of soul

In vain I stood by my window there—

I was drawn out by the heady perfume

Of night—of laughter, dancing, love

Of stars, and dew and shadowed faces

Alone 'neath the whispering trees I hear

A song to this night, that stands alone

It was sung thus, sweet, maddening:

Slip out, sing with us, dance and sway

Come out, come with me, till the morning roams alone

Twirl, dervish; whirl, dervish—turn gypsy girl.

Dare, dancer; dream, dancer—drive away the dark fears.

Moon beams melt, moving on you

Dreams blend down, under the sky

Sky sparkles clearly, covering the moonscape

Precious gems shimmering, treasures adrift

Light floats with shadowed skirts,

Dancing on, claiming a wondering soul

The moon compelled me out tonight.