I’ve been told, though never seen,
That once each month in moonlight
Can be found some other beings
With eyes like gems in sunlight.

Though they seem to want to play,
Their goal remains each spring:
Go trick some children out in day
To catch in faerie rings.

The aos sí will keep their mounds
Free of mortal wandering;
At night you might just hear the sound
Of pixie folk a’ pondering.

If you listen to the sidhe,
Then hope may never find you.
Mischief is what’s in their creed
Like white-thorn bush in late June.

The Celts know not to dare disturb
These faerie circles’ kind,
‘Lest they find that deadly herb
Within their blood entwined.


Springtide Hymn

May 31, 2016

Few places are stranger
Than a graveyard in spring.
Both forces of nature are
At hand, marching onward,
Decay and growth entangled.

(Someone once told me
Cemeteries always have
The greenest grass, simply
From their unique fertilizer.)

True, it can be unsettling,
How beneath boughs of
Aspen and hemlock wreaths
Lie fallen soldiers and wives
Buried too young, taken by
Gods older than the soil itself.

Though death resides below,
Above ground, life blossoms.



April 28, 2015

Warm rains mists onto the hood
Of our car during a May shower,
Obscuring the windshield in waves.

An ominous blanket of fog descends,
Taking with it any sense of visibility.
While harmless, a vague feeling of
Grey isolation creeps in silently:
The rain doesn’t make a sound.

Our tiny world muffled, we’ll wait
For the fog to lift and reveal the
Sun-kissed city once again.



January 4, 2015

A whispering cannot shake death,
Yet winter love so sweet would live.
By spring, we soar like shadows fall
And rob our bed of all these dreams.

For when we lie, the stars will spin,
Leave streaks across the midnight sky,
Until, at once, the earth was still.
When I awake, you shall forget.

So come, spring sun, and dry my skin;
I dare not falter in my quest
To see your smiling face again.
For life’s regret is labour lost.


Vantage Point

March 9, 2013

The sun broke thickly
Over us, passing through
Both of us effortlessly.
I could feel the
Quiet warmth of
Spring sunshine pierce
My wintry gloom.
You had asked me if
I remembered where
I was a month ago:
My initial reaction,
Truly, had been a
Subtle form of amnesia.
(Reflection has never
Been my strong suit)

I thought about the
People and places that
I had surrounded myself
With, and the way I saw
My own path laid down,
Trailing off into darkness.
And then I saw it,
Shattered like glass,
Relief lifting weight
That I never knew I
Was carrying (or had
Long forgotten about).
I guess all I had
Needed was some


Mother Nature’s Son

March 20, 2010

The unmistakable smell of wet grass
Sunshine trickles through the cloud cover
Bathing a sweeping meadow in a golden hue
Up from the weeds stands a small figure
Two legs made of fallen branches
And arms of leaves and moss
Upon his head was an old bird’s nest for hair
And a cracked smile of bright green thorns
Mother nature’s son, he was
Everything she had hoped he could be

At his waist was a sword with no sheath
Crafted from a single blade of grass,
It glistened with the dew around him
For three whole months, he played in
That sylvan meadow and poked his head
In and out of the shadows cast by
The trees around his home
He knew his boundary, and yet
The curiosity of the world outside
Became too much for him to handle
The prospect of other meadows served
As the lure for his insatiable desires
His mother watched quietly as he took
The first steps into the forest, and alas,
Those were also his last
For when he stepped from his paradise
He began to unravel; slowly at first
But then so fast that he hardly knew
What was happening, until it was
Far too late to stop it

Carving a path out of the meadow
There stood a trail of parts, each
Blossoming again in the spring air
What he had paid for with his life
Was the hope of another being
To continue outside the meadow
Living on a lavender hill, his mother
Sighs contentedly and twists
Flowers and vines together
And starts on her next child.