Archive for the ‘Images’ Category

Charites

Wednesday, June 11th, 2025

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.

Neep, the Pukwudgie

Sunday, February 9th, 2025
A little Pukwudgie called Neep,
Who wanders the woods while we sleep.
He'll dance thru the night,
With mischief and fright,
A friend that you might want to keep!

The Ballad of Eli and the Undine

Friday, February 7th, 2025
In Cazenovia’s wooded glade,
A settler’s son did dwell,
With restless dreams and questions deep,
No voice could ever quell.
His father spoke of lands unknown,
Of spirits old and wise,
Young Eli searched to find the streams
Where silver waters rise.
One eve beneath the waning moon,
He stole beyond the trees,
Where whispered winds and sighing pines
Sang secrets on the breeze.
Through tangled fern and shadowed glen,
He wandered far and wide,
Till, by a stream of shining light,
He saw her at its side.
A maiden fair as morning mist,
Her eyes like water deep,
She gazed at Eli, still and calm,
As one of storied sleep.
“O child who walks the path of men,
Yet longs for what is more,
You bear a beast within your heart—
A shadow at your core.”
Her voice was soft as autumn rain,
Yet heavy in its truth,
And Eli felt his spirit quake
As fears that rose from youth.
“For in the dark, a serpent waits,
Not flesh, nor fang, nor scale,
But doubt and fear that grip the soul
And tell a hollow tale.”
With that, she faded like the foam,
The stream was bare once more,
Yet Eli knew his fate was cast—
A trial lay in store.
He wandered to the forest’s heart,
Where strangling branches grew,
And in the hush of tangled night,
A breath of darkness blew.
It coiled around him, cold and vast,
And whispered in his ear,
“You are too weak to walk this road;
I am your rightful fear.”
It filled his mind with shadowed doubt,
His limbs began to fail,
And sinking down upon the earth,
He felt the darkness pale.
The beast had won, and in its grip,
He closed his weary eyes,
Yet from the stream a voice arose—
A whisper, soft and wise.
“Rise up, young heart, and know your worth,
Though fear may cloud the way,
The serpent lives where courage sleeps,
But falls to those who stay.”
And so he stood with trembling hands,
His will a flickering light,
Yet step by step, he faced the dark,
And challenged it to fight.
It hissed and writhed and filled the air
With every whispered lie,
As Eli’s heart grew bold and bright,
He met it eye for eye.
“I am no slave to doubt or fear!”
He cried into the night,
“For though you live within my soul,
I hold the greater light!”
The serpent shrank, its darkness broke,
Its voice became but wind,
And in the hush of victory,
The night grew soft again.
Then by the stream, Ondina stood,
Her smile as bright as day,
“You’ve fought the war within your soul,
And cast the dark away.”
The forest sang, the waters danced,
The stars shone fierce above,
For Eli walked a freer path,
His heart a flame of love.
And so they tell, in woodland halls,
Of Eli’s trial deep,
Of beasts that dwell within the mind,
And courage waking sleep.

Cosmopolitanism

Saturday, January 25th, 2025
The 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, 2024
She 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)