Poems and Fiction
Kittens
Kittens sleep with wanton disregard
For anything but dreams
Of mice the size of Cadillacs.
Behind each face of fuzz and innocence
There dwells a warrior's soul,
A reward far beyond Valhalla
For those who fell too young,
Their last breath turned to ice
On blood washed plains far from home,
A second chance for those so brave
To win victories without end,
Turning pirouettes in midair
With grace and speed they never knew
While wielding swords of iron,
Subduing yarn to lifeless tangles
As though it were a dragon slain,
Owing no allegiance to haughty Kings,
Or fair maids who fill their dish with cream.
What do you wish you were? --published in Flashquake
I'll never understand this man,
he bounces on and off the stage
of my life more often than a
Mikado road show extra,
charming me back into his orbit
each time I break away,
extending the embargo on my heart
and leaving nothing but empty
behind each time he goes.
Friends meet him and ask where he's from,
and he makes jokes about 'the crash',
energy beams and escape pods
with a twinkle and a grin,
his man of mystery persona secure
if he makes them laugh playing the clown,
pinning him down to truth futile as
holding snowflakes in your hand.
But he turns to me sometimes
when their magpie minds move on,
sadness and starlight in his eyes,
and I wonder what he wants me to know,
what truth he can't bring himself to say.
I've asked more than once
when I see restless settle on him
what he needs me to be,
what it would take to make him stay,
and he gives me that grin
like some shaggy guardian angel,
keeping it light, keeping it shallow,
and asks, what do you wish you were?
And I answer with my heart,
caged in as it is with truth
that always makes him pull away,
the distance growing between us
in painful minutes and eternal hours,
until the day I wake to find him gone.
Winter--published in Poe Little Thing
You warned me you'd not stay,
Your kin, mayfly creatures
Seeking all they can wrest
From seasons of warmth
Spent in another's arms,
And when the winter cold
You so despise descends,
Dissolving the leafy green
Bower that sheltered us,
And the world transforms
Into a glittering morgue
Of snow and ice,
You will leave me then.
And while you flee the doldrums,
I will founder in the depths
Of days that never know sun.
Moon Dragon--published in Dreams and Nightmares
Moon Dragon rides low in rum dark seas,
Her sails stark against a lowering sky
where storm clouds shimmy across the
face of a newly risen gibbous moon,
Her crew scurrying to lash down cargo
hard won, their victory coming too near defeat
for them to feel easy in their winning.
Moon Dragon's Captain waits and watches,
Planks creaking under soft leather boots
as he paces in front of a personal treasure
plucked from the decks of the Scurvy Muse,
His prize bound to him by sodomy and ropes woven
from her hair, quenching the fear she could
steal their souls with the touch of her hand.
Moon Dragon runs before the coming storm,
Ordered by her master to flee hungry winds
sent to hunt them over the endless ocean deeps
and avenge the binding of a cherished daughter,
Sails taut with captured wrath, Moon Dragon flies
over storm tossed seas, as wings once carried her
across the face of a newly risen gibbous moon.
When they sailed to Avenlee--Aoife's Kiss, December 2006.
On the day they sailed
Heeding calls to war and honor,
A hollow-eyed dragon carved
on the prow stared blindly
at the restless winter sea,
While scarlet runes rippled on
billowing white sails like blood
splashed on freshly fallen snow,
And the wind blew bitter cold as the
despair filling Anja's veins-
She held the farewell cup
and averted her eyes as befits
one whose role is to serve,
Bit her lip to stop the words from
spilling out as each man sipped
the wine and murmured thanks,
Knowing they would scoff as they always
had at her visions of fire and
proud ships sinking in far off seas.
Until she reached the last in line,
The only one who believed her dire dreams,
And he covered her hands with his
around the silver chalice,
Looked in her eyes and whispered
'I will come back, wait for me',
And she searched for a courage
to equal his before she pledged,
'I will wait, I am yours',
On the morn they sailed to Avenlee.
The pressure of starlight--published in Star*Line
They say you handled it well,
Never letting sorrow linger long
On the lines of your elegant face,
Learning not to flinch at the mention
Of your modern day knight errant,
Thanking those who called him a hero,
And that you showed grace while fielding
Half-hearted condolences from effete young men,
The ones who spoke so casually of ships lost and
Broken bodies scattered among far-flung stars,
That you knew they'd never brave the same terror.
They say you handled it well,
Those who didn't see the distance in your eyes,
Or how you whispered to fireflies perched on your hand
Asking if they'd deliver words you never got to say,
Entrusting tiny messengers with the longing so well
Contained by polite words and pleasantries,
Longing that pleaded with you for release,
Under the pressure of starlight.
A love poem, of sorts-- unpublished
Come with me and be my love,
Though you are no Marlowe,
Or shepherd spending nights
Under starry, starry skies,
And I, I am no maiden fair,
No tragic heroine doomed by
The bard to die with the blush
Of youth still on my cheek.
Foolish hearts pay no heed
To years piled high,
Or hair that sprouts more
Silver with each passing day,
They still count up the ways
Of love and search for the
Sweet smelling rose, by
Whatever name it answers to.
So come with me and be my love,
Though you are no Marlowe
And I am no maiden fair,
Come and walk the world with me,
For we've years to go before we sleep,
And I've still a taste for desire.
Wolf
The grey wolf curls tighter
In his mountain and dreams.
He is a pup racing wind
Filled with the tang of cedar
And the sting of ice,
Chasing the sun toward twilight
At the end of the world.
Fires warm a heroes' hall
In his dreams,
Warrior maids offering welcome cups
To a gathering of angels,
Brothers and sisters in arms.
He dreams of walking in shadow
And forbidden kisses,
Of winged steeds searching
For the fallen dying on
Crimson stained snow.
The grey wolf whimpers,
Curls tighter in his mountain and
Dreams of a time before he was bound
With a ribbon soft as starlight.
End of the world
Anya sits in a window above the fray
waiting for the end of the world,
slowly sipping a glass of whiskey
though she's in no rush to be numb,
not while she still has time to feel,
to watch sun-sparkles dance in a fountain,
or the stars come to life one by one
as day slides into night.
Down in the square brash young men
make plans for a way around fate,
speaking of impact velocity
shockwave fronts and
tunnels bored into mountains,
words they learned on the television
but don't really understand,
While the old men who claim to be holy
tear at their whiskered chins,
faith in a Lord of miracles shattered,
their prayers for divine intervention
turning to salt in their mouth.
Anya sits in a window above the fray
waiting for an end to the world
she's in no rush to see come,
not while she still has time
to decipher the myth of the man
coming to her across the square,
their eyes meeting over chaos
and the noise of fear,
his promise she won't be alone,
promising there's still time,
even at the end of the world.
Twilight
By
Jaime Lee Moyer
I see you in the pantry
You built for me
Always just at twilight,
Mud on your boots
Darker stains I can't bear
To name on your uniform.
I've learned not
To reach for you,
Not to listen
For imagined words
Or to think you'll
Hear me call your name,
But for a moment as
The sun sets on another day
Our eyes meet in silent farewell,
Your weary smile mine alone
Before you fade into the whirl
Of jars and spices on the shelf.
I blink back memory and tears
Gather up the rosemary I came for
And knead it into loaves,
Each wrinkle on my hands
The aches in my fingers
Sharp reminders that while
My hero never grew older,
I did.