Story time

They howl and sing under the moon,

cursing when dawn comes calling

all too soon.

But each evening out they sneak

and dance among the fireflies

atop the mountain’s peak.

Telling tales from ancient times,

passed down the family lines,

so none will forget

the history of all fairy kind.

 

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Petals

Lichen covered tree,

blossom thawing into flakes.

Spring’s joyous veil.

Shore song

Dance with the water,

draw its salt up to your heart:

calm, well-balanced mind.

Sweep

The blackness that settles over roofs and fields

And rivers and lakes,

The edges of moors and pebbled beaches.

It is not a leach of colour,

It is a giver of substance.

Night Lights

Snap! Go the fingers,

summoning a swirling, curving, whirling

mass of colour

around the feet well travelled.

 

Calloused hands link together

as the dance begins,

a lively jig of forest sprites, glow-worm bright

against the night.

 

The crickets sing, violin strokes,

The sighing breath of sparkling eyes

soars up towards the turning skies,

heart a thump, dervish motion,

drinking deep a blissful laugh.

Match

We meet each other, synchronized steps,

turning into flares of words that are like fire on the tongue,

glowing and ready to light

the waiting path ahead.

 

A chorus of whispers, soft as a first kiss,

fills the air and fuels the determination

powering our muscles as we run

to the portal

that will cast off the personas we present to the world

so we can dance together,

as ourselves,

until the concept of time is meaningless.

Leech

So you think you can dance and summon the winds

of every direction, weaving them into a web

that captures every episode of life?

 

You think you can harness it and grow fat

without ever living yourself?

 

You think you can feel every emotion just as intensely

as those it was birthed from;

 

those grieving for fathers and mothers and children

and grandparents and cousins and lovers

all torn from them in needless conflict;

 

those making vows to be together for their entire lives

because parting would cause them to lose part of themselves;

 

those suffering inside their own heads knowing that those who truly understand them

are so few that they’ll never be able to connect fully with anyone;

 

those so distraught over the sheer scale of pollution and destruction

occurring in the world that it brings not only tears but a knife

to their hearts, buried up to the hilt?

 

 

You can dance and summon the winds

and weave them as you please,

but you’ll never feel what they feel.

 

How can you when your own heart and mind are empty?

Fairy dance

Do you remember the dancing fairies

from Fantasia? 

The ice skating ones, who carve all those lacy designs

on the pond with their toes?

Yes, those ones. Think we could ever

do something like that? Map out our life

on frozen water?

Maybe not on frozen water.

Why not?

Because it’s so still, but life never is.

Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.

Well, now you have.

 

Orange tongues

Fire. A blaze in my hands that I can craft into any shape I wish. It is my passion, my flame to share. You may call me arrogant. You may call me rash. I don’t care. Of course I don’t. I can wrap my fiery rope around you and change your opinion with little more than an ember of my will. Just give me the fuel.

Hooping

I step inside the circle,

raise it above my head

feeling the muscles of my shoulders and upper

arms. I can turn

clockwise

or anticlockwise,

connect it with my hips,

my back, my legs, my chest.

My heart. And

my mind.

It stops a moment after I stop,

lingering for just that fraction longer

as if posing the question ‘Shall I

go on?’