The Wendigo

The eerie hush of the forest,

Enveloped in white snow,

Is unsettling, haunting.

Alone, are you?

Can you hear me?

Wander lost through the trees,

My land, enclosed,

Nothing but skeletal trunks for miles,

I am everywhere;

Can you not see me?

Better hurry quick,

Night is falling upon us.

I stretch my legs

And crack my fingers,

And I watch you

Going deeper into my forest.

Knowing your heart,

I can see right through you,

I know she who matters most.

A pause, wait, complete silence,

I watch the sun disappear.

Darkness descends upon my forest

When I call your name – 

But in her voice, and terrified.

Scared, now, are you?

You are alone – 

Yet she calls to you.

Horrified, lost just as you are,

Her voice trembles.

Yes, look for her,

Stumbling in the snow,

The icy night hanging heavy.

Find she who loves you,

She whom you love.

But she is not here, is she?

No – you find yourself alone.

Alone, except for me.

I lay in wait in the shadows,

Trails of blood in the snow

From my footsteps,

Criss-crossed among the trees. 

She calls your name once more

When you stumble upon my footsteps.

A look of mortification

Is frozen upon your face,

And you shake in fear.

My shadow stretches upon the snow,

Dark in the moonlight,

And it falls upon you.

My cold smile is haunting,

My figure that from hell;

My icy heart does not beat,

Gleaming from my exposed ribcage.

In a moment, it is over,

Your life ended in my hand.

Your blood drips from my teeth,

Your heart between my fingers.

I feel my body stretch slowly

As I grow from your sacrifice,

As your soul fuses with mine.

Sea Witch

 I am the sea witch,

Making my home in

The darkest corners of the ocean.

Nobody wanders into my home

Without a purpose, a question;

I am the knower of all,

Healer, oracle, giver of hopes and dreams.

Come to the sea witch, dear,

And I will give you all.

But there is a price to pay,

As you know very well;

Remember the Little Mermaid,

Feet forever on fire,

Mutely watching her love

Falling in love with someone else,

Turning into seafoam

When he turned away

For another beauty, someone

Who could speak and who

Was never in pain.

I am the sea witch,

Bringer of dreams and hopes,

An oracle of all things known and unknown.

Bring me your deepest desires,

Your darkest secrets and hopes;

Come to me for the help you desire.

Come to me and I will help you;

As long as you can repay

For what you have asked from me.

I am the sea witch,

And your desires are my rewards.

Your deepest hopes are your payments;

ANd I will forever hold that over you.

I am the sea witch,

All knowing and powerful.

I hear the ocean in my dreams,

Calling to me distantly.

She whispers my name seductively,

A song only meant for me.

I feel her tenderly touch me,

Caressing me lovingly;

She cradles me in her waves,

A gentle rocking in her bosom. 

I smell the briney breeze 

Coming off of the ocean;

A cool, salty scented wind

Fills my lungs with brine.

I feel the cool water wash over me,

The waves crashing against my skin,

Encrusting my skin and hair

In a salty, thin layer, a salty skin.

I see the ocean stretch on,

Spreading out to the horizon,

A glimmering reflection of the sky,

The waves crashing against each other.

The ocean calls to me in my dreams,

Pulling to my heartstrings,

The aching need burning deep in me,

The yearning never going away.

The ocean is where I belong...

The Old One/Fairie Queen

The Old One reigns the

Lands of the Fae,

Hidden behind the veil

Between the worlds. 

She is fairie queen,

With flaxen hair and

Dark green eyes,

Dressed in a green

Tunic and a brown belt,

Bare feet in the dewy grass.

The Old One is ageless,

Only her eyes showing

The eternal wisdom that

Seems much beyond her years.

A laurel crown is

Perched on her head, and

Wildflowers are woven

Into her long hair.

She silently rules over

her kingdom of the fairie

Since the dawn of time

Until the end of her reign.

The Map

Folded, worn, creased, torn,

Colors faded at the creases,

Lines disappearing, no borders

In spaces of land masses,

A well-loved map is laid out.

Faded circles around cities

Dreamed to visit one day,

Highways traced in pencil

Between places far apart,

Finding the quickest route,

Memories fill the spaces

Across the map,

Stories told and untold

Between the lines, dots, and borders.

Fingers run over the miles

Traveled back and forth

Across the world, many a trip

Immortalized on the map.

Within the creases

The map holds onto

All my memories of travel,

All the miles trekked,

The snapshots and stories

I will forever hold onto. 

Morrigun

Among the tombs of the dead

She treads, silent as the moon,

Pearly grey fog swirling around her;

It gives her a look of walking

Through thin smoke billowing

In a slow breeze passing by her.

She is an eerie figure,

A shadow moving fluidly through

The dancing, iridescent fog.

She pauses at the crest of the hill,

Waiting for someone to join her.

In the silent night,

She gazes outwards over the tombs,

Unmoving and powerful, patient,

Until a ghost-like figure approaches her,

Standing beside her in reverence.

A moment passes slowly,

Fog rising off the ground,

Smokey and thin tendrils wrapping

Around the two beings on the hill.

They move on down the hill,

Moving between the tombstones

Until they disappear in the fog,

Evaporating with ease into nothingness. 

The Midnight Moon

Beneath the midnight moon,

Full and heavy in the dark sky,

I lay in the dewy grass,

Enchanted by the starry night. 

An owl calls out,

Its voice eerie in the dark,

A haunting cry echoing sadly.

Damp skin chilly in the cool air,

Toes curled into dewy grass,

Palms flat against the cool earth,

I breathe in the night,

Drenched in the silver moonlight.

Beneath the midnight moon,

I become one with the earth,

Its vibrations controlling my heart,

Its breath in my lungs;

I am one with the earth, 

A mother to us all. 

(Untitled)

When we were young,

Staying up all night

Until the sun came up

Just to see if we could

Was just that - 

Waiting out the nighttime hours

To see the sun rise,

Sleep four hours,

And go about our lives.

When we were young,

Staying up all night

To count the stars

Was just another night

We spent making memories,

Our dreams as big as the sky,

Undeterred by real life,

Just breathing the cool air

Until the sun rose on the horizon.

When we were young,

Staying up all night

Meant nothing at all,

Meant everything to us,

Lost in the moment forever,

Or until dawn broke our reveries.

Wishing upon a star

That nothing would change,

That everything would change.

When we were young,

Staying up all night

Gave us hope for life,
Dreams seemed more real

Than the moment we were in.

Our secret hopes floating

Away on gossamer wings,

To the stars and moon,

With whispered promises

Of greater things to come.

When we were young,

Staying up all night

Meant everything to us.

As we watched the sun come up,

We were changed,

People who could stand on top of the world.

We were younger then,

And the endless nights

We stayed up together

Were ours to keep forever.

An Ode to 3 am

Three am is the hour of creative souls -

Poets, dreamers, artists, writers -

People whose feelings, views, thoughts -

How they see the world, uniquely - 

Form their art to alter the world. 

Three am is the hour for people like me,

People who spill their souls on paper,

Who breathe life into their words, creations,

From their paints, ink, charcoal, cameras,

Unafraid to share a piece of themselves with others.

Three am is the hour of inspiration,

Awake and setting souls on fire with burning passion,

Giving life to the otherwise grey dreams; 

Breathing vibrancy into the lives and souls of artists,

Until we are too full to keep it to ourselves. 

Three am is given to those who see things uniquely,

Using our dreams as inspiration,

Our hopes and desire coloring our art,

Until our souls are scattered and laying open

Exposed on paper, canvas, film. 

Three am is meant for the artists,

The writers, the poets, photographers, painters,

We see each other, burning the three am oil,

Burning our own in solidarity,

Our own mediums mirroring fragments of our own souls.

Three am is for us, the creative souls who cannot sleep.

O weary traveler

O weary traveler -
With your heavy pack and aching feet,
Your fatigued spirit from wandering miles,
Rest here awhile, weary traveler.
Tell me of your adventures,
Speak of all you have seen.
Share about those you have encountered -
For you are fortunate to see all.
O weary traveler -
I see you have weathered many a feat.
You bear your wisdom calmly.
Rest here awhile, dear friend.
I should like to share in your experiences,
To know what you have learned,
Nay, what you have done.
You have wandered every-where.
O weary traveler -
Come, enter here,
Stay awhile, weary traveler,
Rest your spirit, calm your wild heart -
You make a traveler of us all.

(Untitled)

If I wake in a different world -
A world where chaos has unfurled -
Find me in the place of Fae,
Where magic and the spirit hold sway.
Do not ask me the way -
I will have forgotten the trail,
Though I may have wandered through the veil.
If I wake in a different world -
One in which devastation whirled -
I will have found my place
Among the Fae, with grace.
A world hidden without a trace,
Beneath the pale blue sky
Where the albatross will fly.

An Ode to Summer

We grew up in the long summers,

Days warmed and languid,

With our skin darkening and hair lightening.

Afternoons spent in pale blue water,

Jumping off diving boards,

Showing off for lifeguards who’d never notice,

Gossiping while drying off on deck chairs.

Nights beneath the stars,

We burnt marshmallows around a fire,

Cigarette smoke and spilled drinks,

We were mellow, laughing, barely talking.

Sneaking out by the light of the moon,

Breaking rules and meeting guys,

Losing sleep to make memories. 

European vacations on the beach,

Hair stiff with sea salt,

No care in the world,

Except having adventures for stories to tell.

Falling in love for the first time,

Only to have a first heartbreak.

Waking up early for practice,

Only to skip for Starbucks or laying in a field,

Enjoying our mornings leisurely,

Grateful for choosing to relax than to swim.

Bike rides and walks for hours on trails,

Getting lost in nature without a care.

We grew up in the long summers,

Restlessly and recklessly in the moment,

Our lives seemingly larger than life.

We lived for the long summers when we could grow up. 

Cigarette Smoke and Coffee Mugs

Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air, twirling from ash hanging from cigarettes - 

Steamy coffee, dark and bitter, sit in small mugs, waiting for cool fingers to wrap around the ceramic.

A small café, cluttered with tables and mismatched chairs, barstools under neon lights, people laugh and talk.

Tabletops of twos and threes are clustered around by people, talking to each other through cigarette smoke and coffee steam. 

Ceiling lamps swing, casting dancing light through the twirling smoke.

An open door allows a rectangle of light to fall through the smoky room, hits the floor, with dust motes floating in the air.

Warm air fingers its way through the door, making the dust dance, the smoke slowly stretching outside.

Weary travelers, transient and forgettable, walk by the storefront, ignoring the clatter of coffee mugs and singsong voices of the waitstaff. 

The occasional businessperson nips in for a coffee to go, a croissant or pain au chocolate in wax paper in hand, on their way to work.

Regulars have their own tables, the waitstaff bringing their orders with ease as soon as they sit down.

Empty mugs clutter tabletops; newspapers and ashtrays and plates covered in crumbs take up the empty spaces left by mugs.

Some people lean over the backs of their chairs, talking to others, the waitstaff weaving around them with ease,

Other people sip on their coffee, reading their papers or writing or people watching, absorbing the energy and vibes.

Perfect harmony, everlasting warmth, ceaseless energy, a café in a tucked away corner, a hole in the wall.

Lazy Saturday afternoons spent sipping on coffees on the outdoor tabletops, the cobblestone street filled with people from everywhere,

A tabletop inside, tucked away in a corner, covered with notebooks and pens, a coffee cup precariously placed at the edge,

Groups of friends crowd around tables, espresso cups and coffee mugs in their hands as they talk and laugh.

A café tucked away on a cobblestone street, part of the tapestry of enjoyment and comfort, a place for anyone and everyone. 

(Untitled)

I am a child of the mountains, royalty of the sea. 

Within me resides the wise spirit of the earth, filled with clean, thin mountain air. 

Within me resides the chaos and strength of the ocean, with sea foam and brine. 

Wild, free, I am the hurricane and the ancient, weathered summit.

I am fierce, reckless, carefree; the waves are the beating of my heart. 

I am unmoving, fearless; the alpine winds are the air in my lungs.

Holding court in brackish haze that surrounds snow-capped mountains,

I have come home - at the end of the world between the ocean and mountains. 

Cliff faces and ocean waves, my birth place and my royal court - 

My whole world in this in between spot, at the end of the world.

The Ocean Calls Me Home

In the night sky, hazy with sea brine, hang stars, winking distantly -

Suspended in the dark spaces between the minutes, remotely lighting up the sky.

The moon, haloed and full, grins down upon the earth, passive and patient - 

The thin, shimmering moonglade cast splits the ocean in half all the way to the horizon.

Waves roll and crash onto the sandy beach, a constant rumble - 

The music of the ocean is eternal, constant through stormy and calm weather.

A breeze is thick with brine, salty, cool, causing the trees to dance;

Sand and the smells of thyme and lavender and ocean brine are carried with the wind.

The distant horizon is smeared in the brackish haze, dark, faraway;

Ocean and sky are indistinct, becoming one in the black line in between the water and the heavens.

A lighthouse breaks the darkness at intervals on the pier, an arm outstretched,

The light, a slice of bright white in the blackened night;

The broken arm of the pier reaches out into the ocean, grasping,

Crumbling rock and cement barely clinging to itself against the ocean waves.

Suspended against the dark spaces between the minutes are the stars - 

The full moon is haloed in the brackish haze, grinning, passively watching.

The sky and the ocean disappear into the horizon endlessly, forever, into the dark - 

And the rumbling of water against sand calls to my soul, forever pulling me home.