Inspiration

insight flashes, bidding you take leave

Follow.

there is divinity there

floating hot 

yet temperate

reach out and t o  u   c h

consciousness sharpens

pulsating warm against the skin—

so many ripples!

sing your dances

dance your songs

that is where We belong.

See the journey through.

Eternity

Day by day,
I am withering away.

I am just one
miniscule
entity

trapped and blinded by my transience.

In spite of me, the trackless sea flows on.

Tempestuous or calm, it never matters,
because it never ends.

It’s not a sad existence. It isn’t lonely.

It just is
and ever will be.

Amen.

Jarilo: a Caitiff's Story

Where moonlight illumines what no light should,

and mist eddies ghostly through darkened wood,

laying merciless claim upon lost souls who dare,

whereby foolish pride fell Wildwood ensnares;

Where shadows revel in hatred of light,

a fae-child dances to worship the Night,

her elder flute sings its darkish refrain,

and Aesir-bones rattle to Fortune’s germane--

That silvery moon, wise Vakr on high,

watches this fae-child with smiling eye,

though gave her, he did, to the Autumnal court,

to a fae-Lord he chose, of jovial sort.

Brown hair had Lord Fae, like tree roots entangled,

with glittering eyes and raiment well-spangled.

He called himself Vardo, he liked how it sounded,

and his musical skill was very well-rounded.

Loptr with fae-child, in shadows entwined,

who traces her closely (those shadows to bind),

chose for her, grudging, a mother who cared,

a fae-Lady gentle--while he despaired.

Blue-skinned was the Lady and goatish in mien,

a natural archer, though tempered serene.

Her name was Lalaith, like elven laughter,

and the potions she made were widely sought after.

The Lord met the Lady one afternoon, drunk;

he sought an elixir ‘gainst Berrywine’s funk.

‘Twas after a party of Vardo’s design,

to honor his artisanship, newly assigned.

The party, it lasted a full fortnight--

a lavish affair, to his utter delight,

where Berrywine abounding, by his decree,

none would stay sober--just merry and free.

The Lady his hangover did banish posthaste,

though he found later it was with love replaced.

Days into weeks, Lord Fae only got worse--

‘til he chose to woo Lady, with music and verse.

Marriage followed soon after, in an Unseelie square,

a child came next, blue-skinned with brown hair.

They called her Jarilo, an ironic choice,

for such a name echoes with Spring’s verdant voice.

Now, Vakr and Loptr gave their last gift in parting,

sacred runes, to enable Wisdom’s parsing:

the fae-child, beloved, held knowledge innate,

concerning the myriad threadings of Fate.

Vakr, of course, wished her glory and gain,

but bitter Loptr felt keen his own pain;

so Vakr gave power, while Loptr took--

and Jarilo paid blindly for each Fate-thread she shook.

And Vakr or Loptr, neither could fend

the fae-child’s gifts ‘gainst kith and kin:

Old Raven and Trickster--mighty and ancient--

both of their temples stand lonely and vacant;

for Fae-folk, by nature, are fickle of heart,

they’ve no patience for what Aesir impart.

Poor Jarilo, then, found herself scorned,

They named her Caitiff, and she left home unmourned.

Where moonlight illumines what no light should,

and mist eddies ghostly through darkened wood,

laying merciless claim upon lost souls who dare,

whereby foolish pride darkening wood does ensnare;

When rime covers earth in frigid embrace,

and vibrant life relents the ages-old race,

Hearken where shadows dwell hating the light,

there you’ll find fae-child in worship of Night.

That blue-skinned Unseelie named after Spring,

a wandering pilgrim ‘neath Muninn’s dream wing,

she runs ever forwards chasing Huginn’s black tail

in search of her home, where none can assail.

Her elder flute singing its darkish refrain,

and Aesir-bones rattling to Fortune’s germane;

if lucky you are, with gold coins to spare,

maybe you’ll tempt her to scry your welfare.

Excuses

I am her passionate abyss:

Pervasive. Eternal. Intrinsic.

Compressed by the depths of (in)sanity—

that narcotic, neurotic ocean of equanimity

quietly promising

to drown her.

She thinks she has mastery of those waters,

even as they hold her thrall.

She thinks I am pain and destruction,

but—ever faithful—

I am the liberation of her Soul.

My only price is courage,

a price she struggles to pay

out of fear, or loss, or not knowing—

endless excuses to fill her days.

But the price she already pays is killing her,

for that ocean to isolate her from the world.

But I am her passionate abyss;

I am her shroud—

a sail unfurled.

Dead Wrong

It was getting late, but neither of us could slink off to our respective beds just yet. We’d been embroiled in a duel that had lasted all afternoon. Passions were high, and a winner had yet to be determined. As I continued to observe my rival, I noted with grim satisfaction that he was visibly tired. I was, too, but I was still capable of hiding my fatigue. Hopefully, the difference would mean my victory—but only time, and luck, would tell for sure.

Up until now, we’d been trying to decide the fight with swords. But he was too fast, and I was too determined. So, useless, our swords both lay in the perfectly manicured lawn—sad, discarded monuments to the violence of our feud. Meanwhile, we decided that the final outcome could only be determined via the use of firearms; and six-shooters were our firearms of choice.

His revolver, a custom, looked to be designed more for appearance than for pragmatism, which was a surprising contrast to his more taciturn personality. My own weapon was spartan by comparison, totally unmodified from the original. Still, I kept my observations to myself, and we both loaded a single bullet into each of our guns in silence.

The time for acerbic repartee had long passed.

As one, we assumed our positions opposite each other, just six paces apart. Our stare-down persisted. 

Then, suddenly, one of his sheep let out a startled bellow; and we used that as our signal.

Click, his gun sounded first.

Mine answered, Click!

Together we shared a brief moment of mutual relief. 

Then, click-click! Both of our guns continued their still-innocuous symphonies.

Click-click!

I gained confidence with every unsuccessful round.

Click-click!

I felt looming victory in my bones: my rival would die by my hand before the sun set.

Bang-click!

There was an instant of stunned silence. Then, dead wrong about my victory, I felt the bullet hit my chest, right over my heart.

In slow-motion, I fell down onto the cool grass. 

Pleasantly surprised, I closed my eyes in surrender to the feeling. There was no pain. There was only relief.

Blackness consumed me.

Silence.

Death.

Then: “Madeleine… stop being so dramatic.”

I opened my eyes and laughed at my rival, my friend.

Sitting up, I picked up the Nerf dart where it lay on the lawn beside me. I could hear his family and friends sharing my laughter across the yard on the back porch. I grabbed the hand my friend held out to me, and let him pull me back onto my feet. He playfully shoved me, teasing me about my antics, and invited me to race him back to the porch with a tilt of his head.

Wordlessly, I accepted the challenge, and we ran back to the porch as the sun finally went down somewhere behind us.

Running Away

The sky was greenish-grey that day, and the heat was physically oppressive, even with the steady downpour of rain. To most people living in Southern America, it was a warning to stay inside; to my sibling and I, it was something else entirely.

The rest of the family was off running errands. So, alone and bored, we decided that it was the perfect opportunity to go frolic together in the rain, like the overgrown kids we both still are.

We didn’t even take the time to put on the bathing suits we’d brought, as Texas weather is known for its unpredictability. So, fully clothed, the two of us raced through the house—giggling madly—onto the driveway where we chased each other and hollered for no other reason than our own enjoyment.

Our antics drew the concerned/disapproving glares of passersby; but we were lost in our own private universe, heedless of everyone else except for ourselves.

I was on break from college, and my sibling had been struggling in Washington State in the aftermath of our parents’ divorce. For us, to be alone together and goofing off with such reckless abandon was a rarity. The significance of this glorious moment wasn’t lost on me, but I kept the sentiment to myself.

Then, out of nowhere, the superheated air turned into a deafening peal of thunder right over our heads. It was intense enough to rattle our bones, and sudden enough to scare both of us senseless.

As the noise faded back into the oblivion whence it came, both Kitty and I let out identical, blood-curdling screams. We were filled with the abrupt, all-consuming need to flee; and we did—running away into the shelter of our grandparents’ garage as if a monster were on our very heels.

Then, once the two of us were safely underneath the garage roof, our fear turned into manic, relieved laughter. 

We laughed at ourselves and at each other over the utter silliness of our reactions; and we continued laughing as our family drove up and into the garage not too long after us.

Eventually, we came out of our universe to spend the rest of the night—and the visit—among our family; and the moment turned into treasured memory.

A Moment in Time

It’s a cold day at Carmel-by-the-Sea, so my sibling and I are both wearing long jeans and t-shirts with hastily purchased, light jackets bought at the nearest superstore. It comes as no surprise to either of us that the jackets prove useless against the chilly wind that buffets us, making us shiver as we take a moment to look down at the almost-vertical sand dune standing between us and the Pacific ocean.  

Then, as if a pistol banged “GO” beside us, we hurtle down the dune together, already breathless with laughter before we even begin.

Sand kicks up behind us like banners, proclaiming to the world (at Carmel) that we are here! And that we are about to enjoy some serious ocean water!

Behind us, the rarity that is our family’s laughter fades into the wind. Despite all of the dysfunction that has plagued our family for as long as I remember, I’m glad they’re having fun. But, at the moment, I only care about my sibling and me. 

Stumbling down the pock-marked dune, we meet the water line at the same moment—but we’re instantly taken aback by a wave that’s risen to meet us. Black and ominous, it towers over both of our heads like a looming leviathan. And, for an instant, we look at each other and share the same half-overwhelmed, eager smile. 

We’re together, I wordlessly tell them—and I know they hear me. Together, we survived yet another family outing, just like we always do… just like we always will. 

But the wave comes crashing down, then, like a deluge of ice, and shatters the moment we shared with all of nature’s aloof glory. 

Both of us scream. And laugh. 

Then, we scramble away from the surf like two people gone mad. 

In front of us now, the dune looms sandy and high. Like twins, we sigh with the same breath, and my sibling lets out a small groan at the imminent tribulation. The sky above us begins to darken into early evening, and the wind—somehow—blows all the harder. We can just see my cousins and an aunt up top, posing like they’re Charlie’s Angels. And we can hear the faint sound of our parents laughing together.

If there is a god someplace, I hope they’re getting my silent gratitude loud and clear. 

This halcyon moment in time is one I’ll remember forever.

Reflection: The Gift of Richland, Washington

People don’t understand why I love Richland, Washington.

To them, it’s a boring, non-entity on a map, in a state that people often overlook. Maybe because Washington state shares its name with the national capital and is often mistaken for the other as a result. Or maybe because once a tourist gets out of Seattle or Portland, the bustling city turns into rolling farmland and—in their eyes—loses its worth. I don’t really know, but I am thankful that my father brought me there. Otherwise, I would be just as misinformed as they are.

Granted, the city I lived in once is quaint. Its two sister cities are more up to speed with the rest of the world, albeit in very different ways: One of them contains a mall, making it the hot-spot for teenagers who want a taste of adult life without any of the responsibility; the other is the Northwestern equivalent to a barrio, of sorts. But I lived in Richland, the quiet one, with a colorful history that eventually evolved into a heady sort of tranquility that is still capable of leaving me breathless every once in awhile.

The one feature that makes the city stand out at all was, historically, part of the one event that brought terror and sorrow to a great many people far, far away: Richland supplied the plutonium that completed Fat Boy, which was the second nuclear bomb that was ever detonated.  And though the bomb ended up contributing to a black mark on our nation’s history, Richland took an interesting sort of patriotic pride in the fact that “they” helped hasten our World War II victory over Japan.

Now, though, all that fervor has transformed into an old man’s recollections of an antiquated world, and a child that listens to every story that the old man tells with big eyes and a bigger imagination.

Richland is a city of the retirement crowd, and a city of young families. The only way that the word “nuclear” is ever brought up, now, is in the familial sense. Jokingly, I once dubbed the place Mayberry, referring to the city’s inherent innocence, but the nickname stuck.

To me, it’s not just quaint—it’s pristine.

The Texan city I used to call my hometown before Richland is a hotter place, and a darker place. Growing up, I remember the days where, after stepping outside of my house, I would be immediately drenched with the muggy slime of the city. Only a block away, I would hear the blaring cacophony of sirens, wailing over a murder or a drug bust—whatever the crime du jour happened to be. The mall that I frequented was periodically home to gang-related turf wars, or to violent thefts. Once, when I was twelve, I vividly remember hearing about the shooting of an elderly woman there, when she tried to resist the man that was stealing her purse. And I remember knowing, even then, how shocking it was for me to be so unfazed by the tragedy.

But just a little later, I would end up moving to Richland, where everything would change. At first, though, I’ll admit that I hated it.

After the life I left behind in Texas, I felt as though I had been sentenced to live in a G-rated movie for the rest of my life. My parents even enrolled me in a Catholic school that was just across the street from the house we moved into, seeming to forget completely that we were a nonreligious family.

The day my misery ended, though, was the day I met my first friends there. I didn’t know it then, but for the first time in my life, I would be forming friendships that would last far, far longer than the one- or two-year-long friendships that had been the sum total of my social record up until that point. These friends would allow me to put down roots for the first time ever, and they would keep me laughing and, for the most part, happy through some of the toughest years of my life.

Looking back on those days, it was like I was given the chance to have a second, much happier childhood.

And that’s the gift Richland gave me. And that’s why I will always love it.

Incubus

I. (Incubus)

Languid and wanton,

He lies alongside me,

shrouded in sable shadow.

He sighs acidic everythings;

seeping poison that stings my ears

and utterly dazes me.

His arms are my arms;

they constrict and bind me—

a sensual, fiendish embrace.

Supine and inert, I am captive-

held by His wicked charm.

I am His, and He knows it.

He gloats, belching victory

over my half-devoured soul’s remains;

and so begins the task of conception.

When He is done, I am abandoned

to deliver His two favorite sons:

still-born Misery and Deceit.

II. (Return)

Light calls me home—

I would answer the summons

but for His sudden, rebellious hands.

Searing and infinitely pleasurable,

they rend me with violent precision

and remake me in His image.

Too easily, I surrender—

My mind shatters to learn the Gospel of He.

Our blasphemous dance begins anew,

and the Light is forgotten…

Replaced.

The waves of His reclamation

erode my soul to dust;

I am mourning something 

I can no longer perceive.

He is my God and my Sin;

and I am His beseeching slave.

Salvation does not enter here—

in this, our forsaken paradise.

III. (Judgement)

A pyre smolders.

Ashes that once held form slip

through His fingers—

softly, gently—

a morbid mockery of angelic down.

He turns away,

heaving a sigh like a starving man,

patting His over-full belly.

I am His no longer—

only because Death now owns me.

My new Master draws me away

on invisible wings,

and the void bids me welcome—

but Death clings hard to me then,

whispering her almighty conflagration,

“This is my judgment.”

And She burns me

Alive.

Eternal Refuge of Souls

Floating deep in this sacred void,

this eternal refuge of souls, 

enraptured by a blazing universe of infinity. 

Come close, my Beloved, 

and bear witness: 

the Sun of our conception. 

Bask with me in its healing, holy light.

Beginning

Fashioned before the verb takes its necessary action,
what is termed as "Perfection"
flares too briefly in the realm of man.

There is no telling "me" from "you,"
or black from white.
Right and wrong, also, cannot apply.

Yet, this Ideal
can never feel
that by which it will soon die.

The very moment of articulation—
even pleasant salutation—
fatally mars the all-too-fragile flawlessness

that exists
at the Beginning.

Tanka

An oak tree’s leaves

blow in the autumn wind:

The breeze displays

its transience;

the oak, its proud fortitude.

An acorn, falling fast

from its dangling perch,

lands at my feet.

Too briefly, I ponder

the future tree.

Haiku 3

Squirrels play a game,

chasing in surrounding trees.

I crave to play, too.

Haiku 2

The cat sits, idle

on the windowsill, staring:

What sights can it see?

Haiku 1

Listen carefully:

Even in the utter dark,

the cricket still sings.

Never Again: the Vicious Cycle

I. (Judgement)

The flaring sunlight floods my senses.
Exposed, ashamed,
I feel their eyes like pins and needles,
never blinking,
gouging every flaw...

Scrutiny that makes my skin crawl.

Flayed to the bone before them;
Will it ever be enough?
Lies sweet enough to sustain

futile hope.

I submit,
so I don’t feel so lost...

Will I ever be enough?



II. (Absence)

The air is stale, now.
Choking, suffocating,
words are forgotten in the struggle—
just to breathe,
just to remember.

This peace is a lie.

Footprints tell of His passing once
yet He clings to them—
swears by them.

Useless words.

Tears fall into dust.
Dust becomes quicksand.

I am left to claw my way out.



III. (Maelstrom)

Ozone crackling—
stabbing, desperate,
a tightening coil, paralysis.
It hardens into ice and blood freezes,
voice freezes,

I—

With terrible fury and trembling face,
lightning strikes,
searing.

Ice melts.

Walls crumble at my feet.
Something else is broken.

I am left to pick up the pieces.



IV. (Repair)

He finds me there
like broken pottery,
and collects my scattered fragments.
He is gentle, patient,
secure—

But these broken pieces don’t fit together.

No matter,
he says, no matter.
Pay it no mind.

And reverent fingers

trace gold my history
all over this shattered body.

And, knowing his beauty, I am whole.



V. (Resolve)

Still trapped—
grasping, squeezing—
shoulders tighten, spine stiffens,
accommodating the stress by rote:
this stubborn shade of torment.

But fickle clarity peals in a sudden, heady rush.

Tired muscles sag in wonder,
and, finally, I catch my breath;
the shade passes...

I declare: Never again.

defiant despite my fragility
amid winter’s bleak hemostasis

finally warm,
the flaring sunlight floods my senses.

Pith

Then, time was eternal
and fleeting;
and I was rooted warm—
one with the earth—
yet a comet held me fast,
and I breathed stardust
as I raced through the heavens,
even as I was breathing air.

And the flute continued singing.

And I was myself again.