
Archive for the ‘Images’ Category
Millstone Wights
Wednesday, June 4th, 2025
The Millstone Wights
The millstone wights look just like rocks
That tumble down the brook.
They always work; they never play,
Don’t even stop to look.
Their backs are bowed, their fingers numb,
Their faces smeared with silt.
They grind the streambed day and night
And never dream or wilt.
No song disturbs their labored hush,
No whistle splits the air.
The moss grows thick upon their arms,
The weeds root in their hair.
Yet if you speak, they'll lift dead eyes—
And turn to stone before replies.
A Little Song of Cunnilingus
Monday, April 28th, 2025
I sing of cunnilingus ‘twixt your thighs
My tongue knows where each silver note belongs
And when I pause, look up into your eyes
I watch you feel the joy of all my songs
Each iamb of each lyric draws the sound
Of depth that seems to linger deep within
Like gentle joy where life is often found
A sonnet so expressed is not a sin
The song of cunnilingus should be sung
In labial expressions meant to please
In cyclical expressions of the tongue
Like angels voices on a zephyr’s breeze
The song of cunnilingus greets the dawn
Like sunrise when the dark of night is gone.
Santa Monica
Saturday, April 19th, 2025
Saint Monica, the mothers' patron saint
A mother who is silent in her grace,
whose prayers rise up through centuries’ complaint,
whose hopes endure in troubled time and space.
And now a place southwest of Hollywood,
a place that knows the ocean’s primal kiss,
where palms reach high in solemn brotherhood,
and grief is baptized gently into bliss.
She stops to watch the angels to the east—
Los Angeles, where entertainment reigns—
a city crowned in hunger and in feast,
where fame burns fast and leaves forgotten stains.
But still she prays beneath the coastal skies,
for every mother's silent, sacred cries.
Cosmopolitanism
Saturday, January 25th, 2025The world is getting smaller every day
That means, of course, I must expand my mind
Perceptions always change, and that’s okay
Just think of all the joy there is to find
In Africa I found another tongue
In Russia there were dolls inside of dolls
I went to London once when I was young
I find it best to listen when it calls
The “it” of course is my humanity
I find it tends to be a source for good
The goodness of a world that’s fair and free
I try to know and do the things I should
Each person is at least as good as me
I’m just one piece of all humanity.
----------
I am a resident of this place.

Brigid of Kildare
Tuesday, December 17th, 2024She sings to help the living and the dead
She sings to help the poets find their song
Tis Brigid of Kildare who fills my head
And shows the words I write where they belong
She told me once of Coventina’s sin
She told me Coventina fell in love
A mortal man whose name she said was Finn
A poet’s story Brigid told me of
I wrote it down to honor it and her
A story made of words that must be told
Upon my page the words I did confer
I picture her as never growing old
A poet and a muse, with long red hair
She comes to me as Brigid of Kildare
The Magician
Friday, December 13th, 2024
The Magus (or Magician if you must)
Is he-behind-the-sleight-of-hand you see
He tells you things that you should never trust
Like how to be and also not to be
Magician (or The Magus, take your pick)
Performs the best when he is paid in gold
Simplicity is such a simple trick
Like magic that is heard but never told
Above, below, he’s somewhere in between
Where magic is the mover and the art
He’ll show you things you’ll wish you’d never seen
Like flowers that aspire in your heart
The Magus or Magician seems to be
A fool in search of some divinity.
________________________________________
Image by Pamela Colman Smith (16 February 1878 – 18 September 1951)
The Fool
Thursday, December 12th, 2024
The Fool begins a journey without end
A journey that’s forever and a day
To find true wisdom and perhaps a friend
Bewrayment are the words he’ll never say
Delirium and frenzy are his dance
A solitary dance to find a song
But if your paths should cross by circumstance
He’ll call to you to come and sing along
I know we’ve all been called at times to sing
And dance the tarantella like a fool
Perhaps he really thinks that he’s the king
And everyone must bow before his rule
His Highness is the Fool that we all know
Wherever he proceeds, we all must go.
________________________________________
Image by Pamela Colman Smith (16 February 1878 – 18 September 1951)

