The Woods

In these dark woods
she burns like fire
eyes of earth
that promise life
yet tell of death
she is the priestess
who guards my desires
through winter’s night
while growing them
anew like the spring,
wrapped in painted vines
her tendrils
seek out my madness
and wrap it in the sanity
of her embrace

Mortem Artis

now set aside the golden lyre
forgot the pointed quill
the canvas stretched remains unspoiled
the wheel it sits quite still
no strings to sing a lover’s song
no ink a heart to spill
colours crack upon the wood
as art requires life’s skill
dust has gathered on the dreams
that fuelled his ballad’s fill
the muse has left the vacant form
no more to drive his will.

The Elm in The West Wind

The tall elm writhes
and sighs
at your touch
a gasp
from spreading boughs
as your unseen fingers
find places never known
by the lesser elements
she scatters her leaves
which turn and trip
a terpsichorean flight
of wayward grace
upon your breath.

Naked, she shivers,
though not with fears,
save the fear
you will not grace her
with another kiss.

Determinist Verse

I write
in voices other
than my own
this cadence comes
from ghosts within
whose turn
of word and way
is other to me
no long, strong
hanging consonants
no slipped
or drooping syllables
I try so very hard
to hide
and yet …
… if they were
to inhabit my lines,
I would not sound
like me, the me
who writes
in voices other
than my own