The Autumn King.

Autumn King, with the Fae in your eyes, let your spirit bind my heart within the forests of crimson leaves and heady words that spill from your lips to my ears. Let the way you roll your wrists over my hips be the dance that I follow with every beat of your drums. The night does not give pleasure, only aids it, and I am willing to wager my soul in this life and the next that you, Autumn King, will be in my heart and throat for evermore after that. The worship and hymns that I would douse upon your mind would send you higher than your mountains when I speak of your prowess, your cunning, your sly smile and devious footsteps that you take when you stride towards me. I would sit at your right hand on bended knee, Autumn King, for you are all I can taste in the air; the sweet scent of decay and renewal, a jumble among the scents of rain and soil and new endeavors that the season’s change brings.

Autumn, like you, is vibrant and wild and beautiful, capturing my heart every year, no matter what. Autumn, like you, revives my husk of summer, tossing aside the meaty fingers of the summer, with its heat and sun, and replaces them with the caresses of cold fingers and warm toes, and the special way the creek water meanders down and across your arms. There are lights in the sky that you put there, Autumn King, with your crown of gold and antlers four feet tall. I hang my wishes and wants upon your crown, leave offerings at your bedside for a restful night, and give myself to your needs in whatever form you require them to be. And all because you, Autumn King, have the Fae in your eyes and a mirror in your heart, residing in the ever-depths of the forest you call home within your chest. Let me get lost in the cabin you built riverside, let me put snow angels in the drifts behind it, cut cords of wood with the smell of fire heavy around us.

Autumn King, you sit on your throne of ashwood and mountains, and I cannot help but be in awe of the presence you present, the aura you exhibit, and yet I stand here unscathed, nay enshrined, in the promise of adoration and love. I care not if the world says your soul did not know mine until the year’s turn. I would and will pledge it to yours for the rest of my returns. I have no wish to leave your court, nor want to stray from your side, nor lay down the arms I took in your name. Autumn King, you leave me turned over like so many leaves, spellbound in the way the frost follows your footsteps. The way you turn the skies into masterpieces. You are in a kingdom of your own, and you fit the way a tree branch does within the foliage of the forest. There is never a dullness in your aura, and you waste no time on time wasted, for time is at your fingertips, and you are eternal and forevermore. 

Autumn King, I proclaim before your court that I do so swear to love you through the winters and springs, and love you through the summers of heat and scorching flames. I will love thine body, mind, and soul for all the years you wander the fields and trails, and within those years I will call you home, for home is where you reside and it is there that I may bask in your presence. There is no place I would rather reside than in the cracked marble and stout wood, the gaudy prismarine and dark oaks, the soft wool and stretched silks and smoothed furs that line your bed and fall upon your shoulders.

I feel you here, Autumn King. Your leaves of passion cascading around me as you open up to the glory of your reign, and what may a sea witch do when she embraces the heart of the mountain?

The walk from the foot of the peaks is a pilgrimage I take gladly and with longing, as the changing tides swirl around me, following me up the stone-cut steps to the Autumn King’s realm, steady and willing. The sway of the birch that watches my journey whisper words that echo in my eagerness, ready to catch me if I should fall – but I will not fall. No, not I, not for anything but the King. And so I press up the rocky face, writing down the things the King may deign to grant me, though I dare not ask him for more than I think I am due. The way he perceives my magics and the way he watches my movements makes me feel like a hare beneath a wolf, and it is an exhilarating thrill to be considered good enough to be eaten.

The doors are of oak and steel, sturdy like his roots, and I press them open with the tenderness of a lover shutting the door on their dozing partner. It was never my intention to be starstruck, and yet I was when I soaked in the gold and green mottled together in a stunning hue of the spirit of the wild. The court was filled with hardy grass, thick and lush, waiting for soft footsteps to befall them. Logs of spruce and the way the ceiling tilted away from the door to the sky made me feel as if I was already being watched. Of course I was, I was the King’s and that is the way one feels under his gaze, in the umbrella of his protection. He knows and he will give and take as his desires and whim wish. I prayed for the times he gave, and prayed harder for the times he took away. 


My body dances a wild, shamanistic rhythm that the Autumn King conjures within my bones, already ready to embrace the way I kiss him. So, let me tell you the ways the Autumn King delights the sea witch.

The first step is to lay eyes on him. 

The orbs that gaze back at me are buried with intelligence and wit, ready to twinkle with a laugh, and ready to raze entire kingdoms if they so wish. Seeing the Autumn King is like watching a bonfire build in the hills of the most majestic mountains. You can watch the embers twirl into the air, giving thanks to the jagged formation that protects us from the southern winds. Seeing him is like sharpening a sword and licking the blade immediately after. He is a room full of presence, and he does not need to be in the room to feel him. The Autumn King moves in a predatory way, and it sets my senses aflame when he stalks his prey. There is no stopping his kill, there is no mistaking the claws that dig into the ground to root themselves with the ancestors to become more.

There is a way his jaw moves when he thinks, the way his eyes tilt to the sky as he considers his words. The sprawling plains of his chest and shoulders, bearing the universe like a woolen cloak. The Autumn King embodies the energies of the wild with the reach of the cedars and evergreens, tasting of mint and sunshine-soaked acorns. He carries only what he wants to. The throne suits his cut figure, impressive and overbearing – just the way I like it. He fills the halls of my water-locked chest with the way he fingers the bracelet around his wrist, when he must dig deeper into a mystery. The Autumn King charms me with his laugh and grin, and I cannot help but swear fealty to the way he breathes. The rise and fall of empires resides in the palm of his hand, and with merely a word, he will topple usurpers.

The second step is to listen to him.

The way his laugh rumbles like a snowy avalanche, smothering me in the same way a lullaby may lull a child to sleep. The pronunciation of his words are careful and invigorating and always leave me pondering what I can do better to match the elegance and might that fill his throat. His humming is intoxicating, a sound I wish I could hear every morning; the coffee of the gods living in his noises. The way he sighs when I am too much, when I am more than too much, the way he adores nature and the rustling of the weeds and grasses between the trees. The way the Autumn King breathes is synonymous with the feeling of flying without wings – daring and addictive and perhaps dangerous, but I would risk the wolves to hear his howl in any of the moon phases.

I study the words between his words, the music he tucks away into the sentences he lays out for me to read and research. There is an order to the library of his mouth, and I want to spend years reading the experiences the Autumn King has felt and lived. For where else would I learn to sink into sleep and love and empowerment than when he fills my ears with the singing of a hundred lifetimes? He is a choir while the world is off key. Golden leaves grow from the litany of his knowledge, and in the grand scheme of things, what is one witch mewling at the King’s feet? I am unremarkable and yet he makes me special in the way he reserves words for my ears. I am a court of intrigue to his tongue.

The third step is to taste him.

Notes of steel and ash surround me, and the Autumn King’s tongue carries the taste of whisky, fresh air, and telltale notes of chocolate. He is sweet and soft, and loves to remind me what royalty tastes like. Thunderstorms of nerves and lightning casts itself from me to him, where I drink the magic that he allows me to. There is nothing without governing and when he says swallow, I do. When he wishes me to wait, I do, and when he wants me to drown, I will do that too. The senses are perfectly intimate and the tip of my tongue delights in tracing the sharp edges of his jaw and collarbone, the hollow of his knee, the cusp of his wrist.

Don’t clean up the mess around my ankles and throat, no, let my skin soak it in to savor you regardless if you’re touching or not. The wine you serve paves the way to new places on your body, like the ice cubes you drag over my hands and set loose down my spine. You cling to my lips, where the lingering feeling of smoke and bones settles itself into my head, and forevermore you are the fog and mist that brings to life the fireflies that ready themselves to feast on the evening. I want to be the food you indulge in, the resting flank before you, the thing you tear into when you are insatiable. I want to be the feast you return to every evening.

The fourth step is to touch.

My favourite spot is between the Autumn King’s fingers where mine may intersect when he grabs mine. The way his back slopes into my hand when I knead him soft, is delightful. I revel in the way my palms fit over his shoulder blades, the tips of my hair dragging along his spine and across his neck. The way he cups my cheek, the way his lips fit mine just so. The way my face angles into the crook of his neck where I drop kisses like butterflies. The way my legs curve around his when he cradles me to him. I love the way I fit into his lap when he sits me upon him and his throne, daring the court to whisper of the witch. I celebrate the way he taps his foot to our song within our blood to annoy a lesser man, a lesser woman. I glory in the beat of the Autumn King’s chest beneath my ear. I want to live in the hollow of his throat, and call hearth and home the rugged peaks of his shoulders. I want to dance down his abdomen with kisses and praise, cross the rivers of his hips and blaze a trail down his thighs, exalting each in the way they are meant to be exalted: with care and attention and pointed playfulness. I will fall into the footsteps he leaves in the bed, and I will follow the finger that dips between my lips. The descent of his hand is a signal of quiet, and the splaying of his fingers is a sign of pleasure. 

The last step is to scent. 

When he enters a room, the presiding smell of the Autumn King is power. Of that tantalizing aroma that so many aspire for, and will never truly grasp. The way of holding oneself as a king translates into notes of stone and musk, of evergreen and flighty rivers, of the exquisite pouring of commands. It is in the smell of the hunt, blood and fur and leather and adrenaline, when the King wants to buck even after he hunts. Might so lingering that I am drunk from the mere idea of being in the throne room with him. The Autumn King is of deep trails, of thin air, and the threat of snow and ice; of the dagger that traces the wood and the wild, of the steel that rends life from death, and carries it like a trophy. I can smell the way he tastes, sweat and exertion and the clean taste of what the body does to the mind when you want something more than you want to breathe. I can feel the drifting of want, the desire underneath the robes of gold and green, of the way he bathes in waterfalls of quartz and sandstone, carved to fit him the way all things should fit the King. I want the scent of the gods to fall flat before him, and I want the way he drifts into a room long before he ever arrives, and long after he has left, to be the one I remember in all my life and times. The one I can trace across the seas and trenches. The sea witch will bottle the way the Autumn King bears his title. And I will never forget the way he knows how it makes me feel, and the way he casts it knowingly over me.


I awake in the hall of the Autumn King, trees stretching on the ceiling above my head and heart. The sheets of cotton are held back with my knees as I let the chill air flow in from the balcony. A mastercraft of wood and stone, my four poster bed is decorated with the dances of stags and the flight of the sparrow. The rug tickles my feet when I swing them onto the floor, reminding me of softer things that held me last night, the welts in my thighs a reminder of the harder things that cradled me last night.

I dress and wash the way the Autumn King likes; a dress of blue and gray and an anomaly in the land of sage and thistle. A witch is a previously strange creature, and the gods would watch me closely as they do their charge. I would not disrespect either powers that are within these grounds, or ever. Not if I wanted to return to the side of the Autumn King, and I do so wanted to return to his side. He haunted me between the sheets, long after he left in the wee hours of the morning. I had seen the barefooted steps across the floor after he had left, and I wished they had turned around at the door to embrace me once more. But I will walk for that embrace. 

The corridors are quiet, empty, warm, and I gathered my skirts and shawl as I headed to his rooms for breakfast. It was a tingling sensation to be at the beck and call of such power, such hands and command. It was slavery, in the finest of forms, and I adored the shackles the Autumn King placed on me with care and love. The way they fit me tells me they were mine alone. The tingling spread from my fingers to my body, like drinking tea before it’s cooled.

Portraits of places and faces line the hallway. I can smell breakfast, but what it is is still a mystery to me. I hope my first meal is not bread but him. The King tastes sweeter than any fruit or wine I have tasted in my life. He does not wait for things, but he waits patiently for me, and I hurry to keep that minimal. The King is kind and demanding and I would bend to his will every time, without question.

I find him in his rooms, every bit as much a presence here as he would be in the throne room, presiding over court. He is burnished and soft, a stalwart defender, yet tender and yielding to the right hands. I touch his shoulder gently, before bowing low. He smiles, and it is the one he presented me with only hours before I became the tool in which he used for so many long star turns. The King burns me up just in his presence, and when he leans in to kiss me, it feels like coming home after eons of travel. The walk from my room to his went from miles apart to nothing but a step in the moment it took him to press his mouth to mine, with that fire he likes to consume me with.

I am the kindling of desire, and I wanted the Autumn King to turn me into that which adorns his palace: gold, red, and a higher purpose. To serve, that is a higher purpose in which I fall into gracefully. None would see the King without the passage given by the sea witch. Curses strewn among his enemies so strategically, they pin the blame on only themselves, and corrupt the ranks in which they circle. Leaving the King to his realm and better people to serve him.

The King wants me to taste the drink he has offered, and I take the goblet with no hesitation, running the spirits over my senses. Fruit and wood and musk. 


I will accept everything he gives me under no other terms but the ones he lays out for me. His, the Autumn King’s witch. She who watches the waters in the name of the mountains, she who curves the tides for the forest of the King. She who hunts the depths for the heights of his glory. I will cast circles and create runes and circumnavigate his enemies, no matter how they prefer to strike.

I love the wilds with as much fervor as I put into loving the Autumn King, and the blooms that crop up around his heels smell of the ocean rains and of the safety of the lighthouse. He will reign from on high, and I will guard the stairs to his abode. No resistance shall be given, not until he asks for the knees of the witch, in which he will receive all of me and more. The powers that flow from my hands are akin to the powers that are wrapped around his fingers. He brings a presence to the room that I will never shake from my body, nor would I want to. There is too much to love, there is too much to exalt. Will he ever wonder if the Sea Witch casts her nets with him in mind? Will the King think of my waves as a luxury, not a burden? No, these thoughts are gone – the Autumn King is one in mind and body and soul, and no other would understand better the way the waters always greet the earth. Why else would he build upon the ocean if not to steer the waves in which he controls to the best way it pleases him? There are no reins needed if the waters move with his pleasures. And she will always move for his pleasure.

Yours faithfully,
The Sea Witch

The world is a paragon

the story always ends at the carfax,
   lost in translation, somewhere in the barathrum of the world
 like dragon tongues, blundering in the darkness
waiting for purity to light them aflame once more;
             diaglyphs lay scattered on my chamber floor,
           scented with the oils of lilies and mountain waters
   depicting the emergence of all life, scrawled in gold and jewels –
          patrons always seemed to discard the thought of nature
and her intimate beauty that surrounds us every day:
    what need is there for gold when the rosy light of the sun
      soaks the plains more thoroughly than the monsoon rains,
                and what use for jewels is there if we have stars,
    scintillating and luminous in their navy cradle of velvet,
       selcouth but always present in the eyes of those
           who can lay claim to the ambitious ideas of the universe.
  one day, we will open our eyes as a whole,
                        and see that the gods never abandoned us –
                               they were right here before us all along.

I am a gallery

I am a gallery, long floored and wide brimmed
      no footsteps from tourists have padded these halls,
       signs suggesting an escape from my reality are nonexistent.
these white-washed walls stand at attention
for my eyes only; examining the lives I lived
many moons before.
                   The doors are barred, blockading the outside world:
these halls will only host echoes and silent smiles,
where my artwork patiently ages …
I must peruse this museum of life alone.

ash, fir, and pine,
framed in symmetrical rows,
     molded and carved between my own hands
until I thought them fine for such golden moments.
               beneath each story, a silver plaque lays its head,
with names etched into them like quill on parchment.
                        these were the souls and bright eyes
    I gave legendary status to;
for once upon a time, they were larger than life
                when my own was full of strife.

                               My Spanish rogue, brighter than la luna
   he dripped in jewels and light, most becomingly
with eyes that always carried a smile, sometimes a little sorrowful
            his mouth covered with wine stains I dared not ask about;
          what morally lost princess could turn away from him,
  he who carved my name into his heart and crown –
                  yet somehow, through my rosy visions, I never noticed
       his backdrop of velvet already dirty.
                            a deeper heart would know, and see,
        through our sheaves of bandwidth and jungle of cords
              that longevity was in the cards, but not eternity;
I did not know how to read them back then.
we rode better roller coasters than Six Flags
                                              swallowed swells and carried waves,
Este amor no estaba destinado a ser
        I longed to hold him to me, for his laugh to touch my ears
              where were the fates when we needed them most?
                                  our nights were filled with passionate music making
            and would wrap the early dawn in perpetual enthusiasm;
       we raised each other up, over mountains and canyons –
                        we did what we were meant to do, and we loved every moment.
                we had triumphed where others had fallen,
                            learning the meaning of trust and hope, even when it was tiring
  and loving with every fiber we could muster,
                 though few others would ever attest to it.
          but, like a woolen blanket spread across the rocks
           waiting for the sun to burn it dry,
   we let the rays soak for too long, hovering on the edge
before ash and fire could be smelt like rain after a hot day
                            all mountains must eventually crumble,
       some into the sea’s roiling embrace.
       we tumbled into a smoky gap,
           with only the twilight to fill the space in our hearts.
an unpredictable future withheld –
                             perhaps that was what kept us going for so long;
         the knowledge of unknowing, looped in mystery …
             but our rope had been cut, shorn like spring sheep
                                  there were too many cards down, too little chips left.
           we were a double edged wound that wouldn’t stay shut.
         our silence felt like harsh singing in my lungs
                                                   like a wet blanket over my mouth.
    we were so young, so in love, so helpless;
              I felt as if years had fallen on top of me, too heavy.
      who said it is better to love and lose
                       than to love at all?
                 life always scolded us, warned us it wasn’t fair.
           I could only shake my head, commit to memory
                     what my heart did not wish to learn,
                             and move to the next story in my halls.

          My little lion man, sharp and a gutter
who shattered the illusion of age
                         a storyteller that spoke of desert dunes,
         wild nights in the field, flames beyond man’s reach
                  uncensored, but not uncouth
         it was just what my lackluster fingers needed.
we tread down winding paths unbeknownst to us
                             finding forks and hidden hollows, dark foliage
            and hopeful shrubs.
                                but we found the bread crumb trail,
              and clear sea breeze skies once out of the woods.
                   I did not go wanting when I yearned
                                to learn something new.
             the old and new age jumped to life
      and we sifted through it all together,
                         his patience knew no bounds, his caring had no scale.
            he drew me out like fresh taffy, sinking his teeth in when ready;
                        discovering dirty secrets, long withheld from friends
                 and heart wrenching stories, long mulled over through tumultuous years
       my mind’s eye took an aerial view of all life,
                                     while the world swirled below like coffee.
        with him, suddenly the moon and stars were in reach,
                   all of creation opened before us like a show painting:
                 we just needed the keys to the ignition.
                      but storms did appear, anticipation and doubt
                                disabled the strength in myself that I once believed in.
                      I was only human, I cried, I could only go where my dreams went
             that was the path I wanted to follow,
no thought of the miles that accompanied them
we did not say goodbye,
                     he could not stand the word.
         I left his side more than once
                    tried to keep my head from the deep blue.
      the pain only grew, vast expanses of blood sinking me
            and I hoped, every day, that it would all end –
                        whatever end that may have been.
it would be many moons before those wounds
          would stop oozing; or, perhaps, stop gushing.
        our story was a good one, our good times were many
                    I played them like a projection slide,
         and slid past him to my next adventure.

                                  My lone ranger, hidden in the woods
              bow in hand, wit at the ready –
                       he was made of fire and lightning,
              earthquakes and avalanches;
        he would twist others into elaborate dances
                             with the grin of a wolf on his lips.
              he was the yin to my yang,
                dark energy to the green light
                                         Dionysus to Circe,
           he was wicked and true,
                       unforgiving and nurturing;
                he could make a woman melt
                           with but a mere sentence
            he created laughter and curated frowns
                       introduced me to cynicism, suspicion
             people were not trustworthy,
                 and heaven help the human who turned on him.
                            he was not of this world; he did not live in this plane
       the water and earth were his home,
                living free on the currents that slipped past his dwellings
                                  the sun would beg to chase his heels,
                  to gambol alongside his daily wander,
he gave and took life away in such simple manners
            it was fascinating and terrifying to watch.
              we were lost kids,
           built in hell and love, burning the countryside together
             we lusted for the mountains to be our backyard,
       and did not have to tame that quiet beast when we sat side by side
                he had a thirst that could not be slaked, I gave in every time
                         and he had a mind that could never be still,
     conversation would go on forever, intelligent or hearsay
        but we did not stop, and we never held back.
fate is cruel, that timeless bitch
             his sanity called for a retreat, falling back to his own
                    I called to him in my dreams, but the response never came
                  I became a nightmare, walking through my own seven circles;
             I had become the sun that begged to chase his heels,
                                only to be met by the night every day.
I loved him thoroughly, no restraints or knots.
                                       he was wild and polished, and he built me like a bonfire
                   I will forever dream of a day when perhaps
       he will be there again; a different life time, the same soul.

              These spiral stairs take me down the lane
          spotlights light on the good times,
                            full of raucous laughter and overflowing care;
       I move past the blank, the dirt: my enemies.
          for over the years, strings are cut –
                       sometimes, yes torn,
       but a puzzle does not cease to be one
         when the pieces are no longer together.
    I can hear the scorn, feel the heat,
                       ‘What kind of person sees love, and not hate?’
         when does the world stop spinning when plunged into night?
you care not how I see the world, light filled and hopeful
                                   love lives on every year, through us all –
          a single human cannot live forever and on,
                                only to see one other entity as clearly as themselves in a mirror.
I have loved true, all my life
                and to this day, I still do,
             my heart is filled with those memories and moments
               to enjoy whenever I need a smile;
             what shame is there to be felt in loving love?
          these are my treasures, my relics – priceless;
                           not tragedies to be mourned and grieved upon.
the Threads of Fate have held us fast
                        tied for all of history to watch over while we sleep
           and the open-minded will see, just as I do,
                    that love does not have to be for only one;
                      for though I love my half always and on,
                                          he was not the first of my suns.

               To him I bring my hopes and dreams, eternal love;
                            he was carried to me on wings of patience and luck
                                    the kind girls can only dare to dream of.
                          his eyes hold the world closely, brighter than the North
               he shines through me like a whisper wind on a summer night;
                    we are the sun and moon, turning to keep the other bright.
        we have knotted our strings, entwined beyond the mind
               our love holds a sacred, unwritten agreement –
                                                     we never leave the other behind.

The doors of my gallery swing closed; oiled hinges make no sound
                                         the key of my design I leave inside, safe-kept by my wards.
                 my timeline is not freely given away to man or beast;
                   I shall carry my loves until I should have long past died.
       their strength in time, and their hold on my essence,
                                  those are the things that make a person become who they are.

And in the end,
     When the doors shut for the night
       We all dissolve into stars;
            I am nothing but a nightlight.

dawn to dust

There was a stretch of land, filled with the harvest of Mother Nature’s bountiful corn. They shook in the breeze like a child with a tambourine, and the sound whistled over the tops of the stalks like a hot air balloon. The sun was the most brilliant azure on a late afternoon, so beautiful it made even the hardened of veterans realize just how small they were in the wide, wide world.

A path ran straight through the field, leading in a pattern that no one ever quite understood. But if you walked for long enough, you would come to a clearing, almost in a perfect square. A small house stood there; white washed rancher, sun burnt just as anything else could and would be in these parched lands. The window frame were cracked, splintered just enough that if you ran your fingers across it, you would come back scathed. The door was wide open, also in that dim white color that seemed to make up the house. You couldn’t see inside properly, but it gave off the feel of a very old home, that had almost seemingly fell out of the sky to land where it sat now. A dirt path ran around the house, and a small garden lay at its side, with enough desert fauna in it to make it appear to be something from nothing. A dusty and beaten ‘Welcome’ mat lay at the front of it all to complete the picture.

And to the side of this picturesque house sat an old Cadillac. The burnished red color blended into the dying light that permeated the very air. Its tires were the color of chalky coal, and looked like they hadn’t moved since it was built. The windows were rolled down, as if the car needed to breathe in the prairie air to move once more. The windshield was wholesome, if dirty, and small animal prints covered the left-hand side of the glass; someone called this vehicle home on cold nights. The leather seats were cracked and worn, and matched the leather steering wheel. Small pieces of duct tape were wrapped around the handle in some places, making you feel like that time your bike broke down at your best friend’s place, and all you could do to fix it was wrap it with the duct tape your friend offered you. And on this old piece of history sat three girls. Perhaps only a year or two between each other from youngest to oldest, but they sat there nonetheless. They wore similar gowns, as if ready for bedtime. The tallest (perhaps not the eldest) wore a gown of purple, the hem trailing the bottoms of her knees. It hung comfortably on her shoulders, and was just barely starting to hug her hips as she grew into herself, and she stood near the hood, leaning against it to watch the sun go down. The middle child’s gown was the color of sea foam off the Caribbean, or so I hear. It threw itself around her calves like a contemporary dancer, and fit her just the opposite, rustling against the trunk of the car where she sat. The shortest girl had a gown of beautiful blue, the color of the prairie skies on a hot summer afternoon. It flowed past her ankles onto the roof of the car, where she had settled herself contentedly to watch the spectacle of a dark colored rainbow while the sun bowed off stage.

There was hardly a sound to be heard, except the crickets and the soft breeze grazing the stalks. The girls watched, unblinkingly, hardly daring to move lest they miss something that could change their home. It was a scene out of a fantasy, and old western. Time was frozen here; there was no changing that.

A shooting star crossed the navy blue that was finally descending onto the fields, and the shortest (perhaps not the youngest) gave a trill of laughter, the sound so pleasing to the ear. It would remind one of the early morning birds that woke you up ever so quietly, that you just knew it couldn’t have been anything else. Their eyes were turned to the skies even more intently now, focused on spotting the falling star before it burned up in our atmosphere. To imagine such an otherworldly thing could disintegrate so gracefully in the view of our very plain eyes, was such a concept that wouldn’t be dreamed of by those girls until very later in their lives.
The moon began its ascent into the sky, crawling from the horizon after it had kissed the sun goodnight. A crescent moon, divine and destined to leave Earth dwellers in awe for many, many moons to come. Its finely shaped contours easily outstripped any mortal beauty; who could match the curves of the sculpted Luna? She was finer than all the others in that visible sky. Many years from now, in a house similar to this one, the girls would discuss the moon and her properties, and their husbands would wonder just how they could talk about something so alien as easily as if they had met the moon in person. They would never understand that their wives had spent many sunsets watching the world turn just to try and understand that they, too, would someday turn with the world – and in a more intimate way. For their views on life were that of the here and now; the men of the world in that time had to worry about the present, what was visible to their eye there and then. The rare women that could hear the universe spinning were often left to their own devices, alone when they finally went back to the stars they had called family their whole Earth lives. And even then, on the seldom occasion that their men would sit back on the porch they had built with their wives, they still wouldn’t understand that their women were those stars, always there to turn with them until they, too, turned.

A 25 minute sprint I loosely based off this image

My Doctor

You are bone melting –
       Cell reviving, courage inspiring.
   You are time;                endless
         Adventure,      continuous
              Trouble ensnared,
Mischief?       Managed.
   You are the weathered traveler –
S c o r c h i n g worn
     Icy knowledge,
                         Wars delivered.
 You are perfunctory happiness –
          Inverted sadness.
    You are light in our dark,
                          Love in spite;
        Carry hope over death.
              Planet shattering eyes
          Star snaring hearts
     Nebula fingertips
 With a black hole sinking smirk.
You came when we needed you
      When my galaxy was afloat
          Savior of my f a t e
   Gifting spontaneity to me
When the world was making me
      Doctor, my Doctor –
            You will never be alone.
        Not even when
The sun is old and grown.
       I want you safe, from those false Gods.
                You will be thought of,
     And when it comes time –

Bad Wolf Bay

Like fire and ice. I feel every heartbeat that pulses through that galaxy in your veins, the super novas and red dwarfs and asteroid fields and diamond planets that crisscross the expanse of stars that have formed your person. Ground shattering revelations make me quake in delight, lighting up the night sky in my eyes. The shade of blue that flashes through my memory, and all those times you didn’t say what I wanted you to say but I told myself that you said it through your body, every time you took my hand.

And there we stood, a lifetime stretching between us, but a brush of fingertips away on a lonesome splash of crumbled sand, the waves rolling in like a sigh from the beginning of time. I felt my heart aching and burning up like the sun, my whole being longing to fly to you, but you were just energy – a moment in between two worlds that let me tell you I love you. I never wanted you to be alone. I wanted to live out my short life beside your everlasting self, consumed by nothing but my one desire to be your companion for as long as I lived. I never told you, throughout the dangers and perils, the tears and the travel, the laughter and the memories. I had wanted so badly to hear you, the man who traveled far and wide, the god who lived through time itself, the only person to have seen what I had saw every time I stepped outside those doors with your hand in mine – I wanted to hear you say that I was too right to love you, that I’d be daft if I didn’t, and most of all I wanted to hear you tell me you loved me back. All those lifetimes, all those people, all those adventures – and you loved me.

And now here I am, light years away, and your name on my lips. And I still love you, ’til time takes me back for itself.

the destiny of fate and time

soul to soul;
      red ribbon of fate
            why couldn’t you have thrown her
  in the irish wind
           back then
     instead of so late —
heart to heart;
        silver string of time
              why wouldn’t you bring them together
    when they called out
             looking for their soulmates
        and the one they could call ‘mine’ —
eye to eye;
        golden weave of destiny
                   why would you wait so long
              to have them now
       be loved by the other when
                they have known, for so long, with such clarity –

canadian autumn magic

   Welcome home, the Earth says
              as the equinox draws closer
         the autumn is bountiful;
                   like sliding into a hot spring
         after the hectic summer.
                                     There is always magic in the air
   when September brings its colors forth,
         waving its flag proudly, cheers erupting joyously.
           We change over to hold the trees closer
          together, waters cold and sparkling like mercury
     bursts of fragrance lingering every day;
                                    oh what wonders await us,
                                 hidden in the soil, succulent in history.
       The autumn is meant for tender mystery,
                                   rapturous renewal and empowered passion.
                               Nothing but good can come from the
                                         richness that fills your lungs
                   when the leaves turn and the skies glow
                            like jack-o’-lanterns and church candles.
                   How does one describe the lush sensation
                            of starting anew, with the mountains soaring
                    the trees crooning, the rivers gamboling,
                                              and our hearts braving?
               The fall often reminds me that my home
                         is wherever the mountains are
                      when the harvest moon paints its peaks
          with the succulent strokes, reminiscent
                                         of van Gogh’s brilliant mind.

red ribbon overseas

loving you is like breaking storms,
following the ghosts of us,
sea to raging sea;
the ringing in my heart left behind
when you were carried off to war
that fateful day.

we ran like the ocean,
red ribbon wrapped around our wrists
we flew together, larger than life
nothing would stop us,
all fell before us,
and then it all crumbled behind us.

the stars shine bright above
and now I wait patiently;
waiting for your loving arms
to return from overseas
to come back to me,
wrapped in our red ribbon
forever, meant to be.