Wednesday, August 31, 2005

In the Pines

This is a new 'Limora Gate' story --
# 16 of a required 24 for completion.
Written on our Honeymoon while Em
practiced her harp.

The heroin is 12 years old and has two views of life;
Sally and Limora



Sally knew that to walk alone in the woods was not wise, for many people had told her so. Yet she did, once again. Limora knew that it was essential to walk in the woods, and she would not choose to walk alone, if there were another who would listen. Sometimes she was lonely, but never when she was alone. Crowds of endless chatter -- people talking at each other, never hearing. Strangers calling to others by familiar names; afraid to touch, afraid to be alone -- and therefore often lonely. “If only persons were more like trees,” she mused. “Spread your branches in the sun -- shake them in the breeze -- just because you can. Drop seeds with faith that some will sprout and grow -- never seen, but never lost. Stay connected with the earth, and ...”

Sally interrupted, “They are only interested in tending weeds and stealing nuts.” She was willing to play the ‘people game’, mixing and mingling; idle chatter in phrases without subjects. Some thought her reserved and shy, but only because she bit her tongue and swallowed laughter. She listened more than spoke. Unfortunately, this attracted pesky flies of ‘good advice’, never practiced, but always with ‘good intention’. She liked those from sage authorities best. “Everyone knows.” “I once heard.” “Common knowledge.” Next on her list of hidden mirth were quotes from great authority, but never correct, and scripture citations with chanted numbers which never related to the topic of conversation at all. People were funny -- individuals were lonely. But they feared to be alone.

Limora took her turn, “They might have to talk to themselves -- what then? Worse, they might have to listen! She cringed as Aunt Beth turned up the radio so that everyone could hear, “You’ll love this song.” That is why she drew Sally to the woods. The noise there was not meant to mask or hide -- or pretend. Others spoke of the silence of the forest, and were afraid. Limora heard the songs and whispers of ferns and leaves and was never afraid of anything. Time for a walk. She would not be missed for a while.

Sally traced the main trail only until out of sight of the camp, just in case someone noticed her escape. Though it was a small kindness to think of other’s possible distress, it came naturally to her, she was little concerned that they might speak amongst themselves of the dangers lurking in the woods. She might even meet a stranger! Limora chuckled in anticipation -- an influx of a new view of the world, one that she could never know without the help of travelers. “Yes,” she cried. “Let us look for dangers here!”

There is a faint deer trail sneaking between the Dogwoods. Not much used -- it must be unimportant, of little value -- leading no where. I might get lost! Yet Limora knew that all paths cross in the forest. Sally was still less confident and whistled a bird call to linger for an hour or two to mark her passage.

Steep! Too steep for safety -- go around. Golden carpets of pine needles can slip or cover depressions and roots. Graying lichen make granite boulders perilous and might stain your cloths. A walking stick -- find a stick. Beware! It might be a snake. Limora had Sally close her eyes and reach out with her focused need. She paced to the right behind a rock protrusion and found her gift -- a perfect length of ‘strangle wood’ -- a branch broken off by a falling rock from the cliff above. Its twisted, gnarled shaft gave proof of another life -- a vine long gone that had also fought for sunlight. Sally rubbed the ends against an offered boulder to remove splinters and surrendering bark. With a new balance, Sally continued up the trail; drawing up energy from the earth. “Good job, Lord!” she sang.

The lake was no surprise. Memories of ancient Baba Yaga tales told of a troll that would drag her in. Sally laughed but stood well back from the muddy edge. The mark of beaver was everywhere. It saddened her a bit to see a whole stand of saplings chewed off at their knees. Yet, she sensed no lingering cries from the destruction -- as if the trees new they would serve a useful purpose. Partially gnawed trees whimpered in dismay, though Limora was no adept enough to know if this was from being chosen and rejected, or not being chosen at all! “The beavers are becoming too human,” she thought. “Any job worth doing is worth doing well!” She drug some stumps and rocks to the low side of some trees in faith that the beavers could continue their work. For other trees no too badly scared, she sang wordless songs -- nurturing, healing. Several animals gather about to join in the praying. An egret lifted gently from a cane break, giant wings but a sky ripple to match the echoing wave pulse tickled by dragging feet. She knew the beavers would return.

She would not have known of the stream bed beneath her feet save for the tactile crunch of hidden gravel. Only in early summer did a trickle eke its way down this shallow course, now buried in leaves and windfall branches. She followed. Down to a crack in the shale wall where it was swallowed up again to appear as if by magic in a spring below somewhere. Up between patches of dried up ferns. Up through hints of velvet moss. Up to an elfin cave behind a thorny bush. She lay on her chest to breath in the cool, most air. There was water still! And music! Tiny chimes as crystal drops rained on a hidden pool inside. Limora cupped her ears to shield out the rustle of the pines.

Ping-g-ggg. Ploink. Pledupe.

Now stream appeared at the lip -- a special balance of birth and death having been achieved in this crack -- womb and tomb the same. She reached carefully in -- barely large enough -- an adult never could. Her fingers dipped as in a font of holy water to touch three stones -- three alone, no bigger than pearls. Dare she? One by one she extracted them to lie on a leaf by her chin. She thought to take one -- but which. They seemed the same, yet cannot be, formed as there were by antiquity. She closed her eyes and listened to the thunder from the tiny cave -- a storm raging within -- her soul that is. She sensed a movement. Open! The tiniest frog imaginable had emerged from the pool’s protection. It could have been a fly had she not have been so close -- irony. Its skin slowly changed to match the color of the leaf -- then gone; only to appear again on the farthest stone.

The shadows were longer on the journey back -- the better to reveal the texture of root and stone and cones. Birds echoed back her earlier whistled markers -- the twisted staff tapping a secret rhythm. Sally and Limora were one with the absorbing silence calling out from between notes allowed most little girls. Tree bark chattered in its growth -- then paused and breathed. Cascading needles crackled whispers of fulfillment as they piled on the waiting loam -- then waited patiently in stillness. Chiding squirrels distracted from hidden seeds, then prayed over their cache in silent dreams.

“What an incredible stick -- just perfect for my collection,” shouted cousin Chad. Her special friend was snatched from her hand. “My reward for having to waste time looking for you!” No adult said a word, having worn themselves out telling Sally’s mother what they thought.

“I saved you a piece of watermelon. I knew you were all right. The others had some fun games in the meadow -- it would have been fun.”

Gradually the other kids and parents drifted back to their own camps for supper -- leaving Limora by herself -- alone; except for a tiny pebble in the pocket over her heart, and an endless symphony in her soul.

© Sakin’el 2005

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Magnificent Pine

shadow, shadow

about a friend. She's more like me than I ever could have thought.
~Anonymous Princess

lines are nothing but lines
strung together words dripping
from aching fingertips
they break easily and clean like dawn
break down into words
little charms to hang on your
a little reminder
something from the past
that you take
into bleached hospital rooms
and rooms empty of all but
the moth-eaten, ancient lace of curtains
and dusty sunshine

you break down
throwing rocks into a pond
screaming something about the
monster in the night
shadow, shadow
you whisper
words fading
shadow, shadow
maybe it's not your choice to make
you say as you step into the
thirsty water
maybe it's not your choice
maybe it chose you

From Honeymoon


and being
by simply
listening to
three breezes
of evergreens...
One pulse is deep
and draws from earth
and cycled seeds of birth.
One rustles with green breath
and vibrant heart and branching,
reaching out to embrace my soul.
The last, or first perhaps, is way up
and beyond the reach of human ken ...
the whisper of spirit rain on yearning leaf,
to a song,
a praying
I can but

Sakin'el Wedding Cake

Friday, August 26, 2005

Walk me away where the world turns dark
Wrap me bright in the singing of birds
Sift for me silent the spell of the lark
Tell me the meaning of words

Walk me in circles, weave me in rhyme
Wrap me still and half woken at dawn
Sift me the silver shiver of time
Tell me the meaning of gone

Walk me around the heart of the earth
Wrap me in seas that you never will cross
Sift me a dying song, backwards toward birth
Tell me the meaning of loss

Walk me and wrap me, sift me the sky
Tell me, at last, the meaning of why

~ Edwina Peterson Cross ~

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Something for faucon & Emrys

Something from one of my favourite poets on your wedding day.
Best Wishes

On Marriage
Then Almitra spoke again and said, "And what of Marriage, master?"
And he answered saying:
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Kahlil Gibran - The Prophet

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Try Anything

In an effort to keep you abreast of the ever-changing world of musicalterminology, we provide you with some terms with which you should befamiliar:

Adagio Fromaggio: To play in a slow and cheesy manner.

AnDante: A musical composition that is infernally slow.

Angus Dei: To play with a divine, beefy tone.

Anti-phonal: Referring to the prohibition of cell phones in the concerthall.

A Patella: Unaccompanied knee-slapping.

Appologgiatura: A composition, solo or instrument, you regret playing.

Approximatura: A series of notes played by a performer, not intended by the composer.

Approximento: A musical entrance that is somewhere in the vicinity of the correct pitch.

Bar Line: What musicians form after a concert.

Concerto Grossissimo: A really bad performance.

Coral Symphony: (see Beethoven-Caribbean period).

Cornetti Trombosis Disastrous: The entanglement of brass instruments that can occur when musicians exit hastily down the stage stairs

Dill Piccolino: A wind instrument that plays only sour notes.

Fermantra: A note that is held over and over and over and ...

Fermoota: A rest of indefinite length and dubious value.

Fog Hornoso: A sound that is heard when the conductor's intentions are not clear.

Frugalhorn: A sensible, inexpensive brass instrument.

Gaul Blatter: A French horn player.

Good Conductor: A person who can give an electrifying performance. or,alternative use, one who obeys the orchestra and/or chorus

Gregorian Champ: Monk who can hold a note the longest.

Kvetchendo: Gradually getting annoyingly louder.

Mallade: A romantic song that's pretty awful.

Molto bolto: Head straight for the ending.

Opera buffa: Musical stage production by nudists.

Poochini Musical: performance, accompanied by a dog.

Pre-Classical Conservatism: School of thought which fostered the idea,"if it ain't baroque, don't fix it."

Spritzicato: Plucking of a stringed instrument to produce a bright,bubbly sound, usually accompanied by sparkling water with lemon(wine optional).

Tempo Tantrumo: When a young band refuses to keep time with the conductor.

Tincanabulation: The annoying or irritating sounds made by extremely cheap bells.

Vesuvioso: A gradual buildup to a fiery conclusion.

ZZZfortzando: Playing REALLY loud in order to wake up the audience.


Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Wedding Thoughts

In the midst of preparation for my wedding
I have scanned my archives for pieces written about weddings.
Most are about an 'invitation to a wedding'
related to the concept of community joining
rather than individuals. Em writes songs to play at weddings;
so I have not been drawn to this before.

I do have one story about a wedding, though --
and quite different too,



Blood Quest

He was her father’s age and that would never change; and they had been brothers in arms and comrades of drink and sword and song. It was he who carried back the bloodied armor while the falcon circled overhead. It was he who took the grieving Aldaisa and the swaddled Braides back to the castle of his Lord, and rode his charging steed no more. He was Chandar, Knight of the Duuran and called to field and valor – but he stayed with the child, as would you by right.

His lance became a walking staff and his helm a cooking pot; his shield a fur lines cradle and his sword a guiding cross. His cloak draped long to mask a limp and the hood shadowed vicious scars; and haunting eyes of golden fleck and a dimple when he smiled. Then the mother’s tears crashed to the rocks beneath the parapets and they carried on alone – the guardian in black and the girl in white, both with a mem’ry’s scarlet sash. With a legacy secure in future years as heir to land and sky, she had much need for courage and arm to protect from feckless greed. But she never knew that he was but a friend – a playmate at her side; the strangest pairing you’d ever see of strength and innocence.

She ringed his neck with flower chains and they tumbled in the grass, and pranced ‘cross rocks in laughing streams and caught moonbeams in wooden cups. She grew wise with ancient stories told round pulsing twilight fires, and gentle of heart and spirit ‘neath his ever watching calm. He held her high on his shoulders to claim apples from the clouds, and watched her blossom to womanhood, an Aldaisa yet reborn. He became known as the Knight of Butterflies and the Champion of Thistledown, but he took their jibes in silence and she never knew of pain. And legend held strong, backed by ready staff, for all knew he was forever, of the dread Duuran. “Too bad he knows no love,” they said, “as a girl needs a woman’s hand.” Yet he defied both Bishop and Prince and walked this road alone, though some sensed tears within the songs he sang at every dawn – tiny hand in gnarled fist.

At her wedding she graced her mother, or so the crones did say; and pined that her father was not near to give her hand away. And Chandar just stood in the shadows, his quest fulfilled and done; then he kissed her once and walked away, into the setting sun. For it was mem’ries honor he forbear that day and on –

that she would never know …
from whence were gifts of dimples
and gold flecked loving eyes.

Monday, August 08, 2005

The Desert is...

Dome and pillared rocks
thrusting from Earth's naked belly.
Scrubby shrubs asking nothing
but a piece of stony ground.
Life that requires precious little,
gives nothing,
shares less,
except to give us pause to wonder
about a place
where survival is little more than risk.
Tiny drops of precious water
'neath seamless sky burning hot,
except when thunder heads
raise their glorious anvil towers.
Saguaros tall and battered,
ugly, but resilient.
Utilitarian life that asks no quarter
but survives in hostile places.
Melodious wrens at home midst
spiny cacti, yucca, and mesquite.
Canyons cutting deep,
revealing what has gone before.
Arches so impressive that we stand in awe.

Traces of people long since gone,
proving that man has not domain
in arid places where life is sparse.
Ruins high above the desert floor.
Black holes in walls of stone,
windows to the past.
Ghostly eyes watching
as we disturb what's left,
as we move without respect
bones that were once hidden
'neath muscle, blood, and skin.
Bones that once supported
a beating heart with lungs
that breathed fresh desert air--
a frame that once contained a soul.
Shards and kivas, alone, left to bake
in the unrelenting sun.

Dark winds, Sons of light.
Daughters of the desert.
Despite its hardships
this arid place tugs the soul
as it shares the basics
like a skeleton revealed.
Is there a place
closer to the Gods than this?
I think not.

©August 2005

Just Fun


Every path, beyond distinction,
of enlightenment or growth of spirit,
touches on simplicity of thought,
and often action –
and communication --
with the Divine.

A ‘return to innocence’
has a universal call of heart
that caresses the soul --
and breaths peace o’re troubled minds.

A Christian view most certainly
would enjoin we be as children
within the embrace of Lord and all;
and any sense of Covenant with Nature
must hold rebirth as essential.

We may ask then of the children –
what gives them special providence
and claim on oneness with the Source?
I will propose the essence and key
is that of ‘fun’ and nothing more.

We tell our children early on,
“Don’t pester me – go have fun,”
then later convince them
that simple joys are wasteful,
sinful and unworthy of those
planning on ‘getting ahead’.

By the time we get serious
about being less serious –
realizing what is important –
we have forgotten how to have fun,
and even how to laugh at sunrise,
and dance with butterflies,
and sing with thistledown.

It really is a choice, you know –
about having fun, I mean;
and I will grant you three wishes,
or options at any rate:

As you approach adulthood (abandon innocence) –

Only pursue work and hobbies pre-defined as ‘fun’.
Find ways to make your work and life ‘fun’,

including laughing at yourself and adversity.
Define everything that you do as ‘fun’;
worthy of laughter
bound in awe and wonder
a chance for sharing joy and love.

In any case, embrace a simple rule –

Anything done alone is never fun,
while everything shared with another
is profoundly fun,
if done in selflessness.
The tools are your open hands,
the song is laughter,
the game is life itself.

Sunday, August 07, 2005

The Strangers Head

Part I

The night was dark and dreary
I was feeling kind of weary
The light of the moon
Lit up the room
Like a spot light
In the dark of night
I abandoned my loom
Sensing impending doom
I moved to the window
Brushing the hair from my brow
I looked out into the night
What I saw gave me quite a fright
Standing on the ground below
Staring up at my window
Was a headless man
His head in his hand
I tried to hide my face
Behind the curtain lace
It was then he spoke to me
“Don’t be afraid lady
I come for your help
To reattach my scalp
You see it was said
That you go late to bed
And you were my best bet
To reattach my head.”

Part II

I pondered the strangers request
All the town can attest
I am the woman most prepared
To reattach the strangers head
I went and met him at the door
He looked like he belonged in folklore
I invited him in
I led him to my sewing room
And lit some candles against the gloom
I got some water
And suggested a doctor
Might yield a greater effect
He said “I must protect
the secrets of my people.”
This caused my mind to boggle
What had I let myself into
Looking at the sinew
That protruded from his neck
First I had to check
That I had the correct tools
I gathered some spools
Of thread and my needles
And prayed to my angels
That my stitching tonight
Would be more than alright.

Part III

I bathed the wound
Which made him swoon
I threaded the needle
And with a bit of fiddle
His head upon his neck was placed
There we stood face to face
Starting to stitch
Using a topstitch
Trying to keep my stitches quite small
I tried to recall
A time
That stitching of mine
Held so much importance
I wondered what instance
Had befallen this man
From which unknown clan
Did he belong
Whose song
Did he sing
What secret did he bring
The stranger dressed in capes of black
I pulled the slack
From the thread
As I attempted to reattach his head.

Part IV

The night was growing long
The stitching only half done
It was then the stranger spoke
He was a most mysterious bloke
He spoke in riddle
Of which I understood little
I kept on with my stitching
I looked forward to finishing
It was then he told a tale of woe
That sounded rather like Poe
The wind outside was howling
I could hear a cat meowing
Suddenly the window blew open
And in from the dark blew a raven
Landing on the loom
In the corner of the room
I felt quite frightened
Wondering when this nightmare might end

Part V

I continued stitch by stitch
Trying not to twitch
With the raven watching over
My shoulder
It was nearing dawn
When the stitching was done
Little had been said
While I reattached the strangers head
The stranger reached into his pocket
And pulled out a velvet
While I settled on the couch
He handed me the bag of gold
Saying it was very old
Thanking me for my kindness
And my stitching quite painless
Then he was gone
Into the rising dawn
The raven on his shoulder

Part VI

I woke at noon
In my sewing room
I thought it but a dream
So it might seem
Upon the loom a ravens feather
And a bag of gold from the stranger.

© Megan Warren August 2005

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Earth, Sky and Space

I called you Agni, god of fire
Agni Devta, clear and just
I lay my heart upon your altar
With simple, artless

I called you Agni, god of fire
As lightflash through the storm is thrust
I lay my heart upon your altar
Where the stars told me I

I called you Agni, god of fire
A smoldering, sky flaming lust
I lay my heart upon your altar
Ashes, ashes

Agni was one of three great gods in the Rig Veda and was also worshiped by the Persians until the time of Zoroaster. His personification of fire made him the center of the ancient Vedic worship. Agni took three forms: celestial as the sun, atmospheric as lightening, and terrestrial as fire. He is all that burns: sun, heat, stomach, lust, and passion. His three spheres are the Earth, Sky, and Space, the worlds respective of men, spirits, and deities. He is priest of the gods and the god of priests, and serves as liaison between gods and men. His fire altar was oriented toward the East, the direction of the sunrise, the ever-new beginning.

The last stanza of this poem was written when I was in college; actually, it was written on the fly leaf of my Lit to 1650 text book, where it is still. I added the first two stanzas in 2003 upon studying more about the three incarnations of Agni.

Friday, August 05, 2005

Yellow Wave

Something from Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whose works can be explored through Google search (there are many complete writings available for thought...):

"Green Leaves, and blossoms,
And warm sunny weather,
And singing and loving -
All come back together."
Samuel Taylor Coleridge. (18th Century Poet.)


I wonder at times
About the blessing or curse
Of memory
Selectively piercing, it gifts me
Vastly varied strings of jewels
Which glisten from absolute emptiness
To something vague, shimmering and hollow
Behind which I know there is content, but cannot see or feel it
Through bits of beautiful, broken mosaic that won’t form a picture
All the way to the bright, incisive bite of recalling and reliving
Every word, every expression
And the entire, enveloping veracity of every feeling
That coated my throat, quickened my blood, sang beneath my ears

I remember
Holding a daisy in the tips of my fingers
Pulling the petals with a soft, satisfying tug
“He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.”
Warmth, a bright yellow fire, surged
Through my chest, down the insides my arms
Curving my backbone, all the way to my bare toes in the cool grass
Behind my forehead a huge, smooth expanse of quiet joy
The color of candle-lit alabaster
If they had turned me inside out
I would have bled light

I remember

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Missing the Pacific


I do not know much of the sea,
except for crashing exuberance
on the Oregon silent coast,
and walks on the gentle waters
where the stream meets foaming surf.

There is a draw to the dangerous,
roiling, churning, hungry waves,
but I do not full understand.
I stand and say. No! Please hear my stand.
Is there naught to my singing voice?

You may shriek with the dread awesome
power of the Tengri nature's force.
Attack with loneliness and despair.
Call on my trembling empty loins.
Is my plea only to the suffering?

Yet, I will stand against my ground
and defend my chance worthless life,
for it is mine -- yes mine alone,
and God and I will measure its worth,
and I will sing in the morning sun.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Double Haiku - My Scarf Made By Megan

Birds must have dreamed it
For it seemed not made by hands
Swirling, soft, scarlet

Delicate feathers
Song of ruby ‘round my throat
I am clothed in wings

Wednesday, August 03, 2005


Moments . . .
Happenings plucked from the swirl of time
Circumstance suspended
Like blown glass on fine filament wire
Caught by the sun
Spilling rainbows of reality
Flash of forever

In the window of a Parisian hotel
Sipping bottled water
Amy watches the morning . . .
The green streetcleaner
The man in his matching uniform
Cleaning the already neat streets
People walking hand in hand,
Two friends meeting
Exchanging a kiss on both cheeks
In the window of a Parisian hotel
Sipping bottled water
Amy for eternity

Caught in crystal
Blood and bone
Of being

Is made of

©Edwina Peterson Cross
~ For Amy Caroline Velho ~

Tuesday, August 02, 2005


I wrote this in response to a news report this evening, about a whale and her newborn calf. The calf became entangled in a shark net and died before rescuers could free it.

Grieving mother
watching over
her newborn
gone from
this world
tangled in a
shark net

Medusa Challenged

I give you Tegsh
the mistress of our home,
who entices all who come here
that they ask, "what is her name?"
Coming here, they do not turn to stone,
but extend an open hand ...


Sakin’el Hush

And the Bard sang by the fire bright …

“If you will do this in trust and love
then Sakin'el will live anew,
and at each splendid sunset kiss
you will hear the faint 'Silent Breeze'
of ever profound inner peace.”

“but what will I hear,” asked the maiden faire,
with teasing eyes and coquettish aire?

“draw close to the flowers with petaled dew
and look at the reflection there,
while gentle bees caress the wind
and hum of sweet nectared dreams
soon lost to age and vanity.”

“how loud is the sound,” mused the withered crone,
with vacant eyes who slept alone?

“the trees will thunder and the stones will shout
if you stand as one ‘pon the path;
while holding hands can mute the din
and change the music to quiet song
best heard from the lips of a friend.”

“do they tell stories,” requested the youth
with wand’ring spirit searching truth?

“brave soldiers on horseback beat steady drums
and dragons breathe through piercing flutes
and Viking ships sound a longing horn,
calling to arms companions true
to follow a quest most daring.”

“are they ever hushed,” sighed the tonsured priest
whose fervant prayers never ceased.

“if one can be silent they sing the same
and echo spirit’s harmony
to a song of Light and knowing,
where heart strings are plucked
by an angelic choir in love.”

“can I sing along,” laughed the little elf
with innocent mirth beside himself.

“if you sing ‘belong’ and soon join right in
and dance a lick and whistle now,
then birds chirp in and clouds applaud
the music of humanity,
gifted by the morning dawn.”

“can I then just sit and watch,” cried the child
with remembered touch beguiled.”

“to live life is to surly embrace life
and conduct an orchestra grand,
where you will coax your soul to sing
and blend with whispers of Tegsh
as she accomp’nies even me.”




Oh priestess
hiding behind
the mask
of the
mortal woman
Athena transformed
into a
golden winged
with lizard scales
and hair
of vipers
blood spilt
sends forth
to every
corner of
the earth
one look
upon your
face turns
a man
to stone.

© Megan Warren 2/08/2005


Understanding forever
is the wonder of endless constellations,
the quiet moon
chilly and alone
in the darkness
watching small stars
while incredible and amazing
cross my mind.

(c)--Christina Cowling

Monday, August 01, 2005

Fragile Things

"Don't step on the glass," mother said
Like the rusted sky was falling
Or papa was dying again.
Things are always breaking

Like waves on a rocky shore. We never get a break from the tears.
Mother's always crying
And even though I've gathered sandbags for years
I still feel the water rising.

Papa said there was a god,
He said I should believe. "Mercy on us," he whispered.
Then he was gone, to rot,
In the ground. Mother was left to wither,

Like a white flower on his grave. "Mercy on us," she said,
"The sky is crashing down again."

~Anonymous Princess