fantasy

The Wizard of Sunspring Marches


Image result for fairy dell capel curig

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The Wizard of Sunspring Marches

At dawn every solstice day

Took a windcart over the Glassea

And tied on her Cloak of Fae

Her boots sharpened small and cloven

Pricking the lavender shore

And her eyebrows blossomed bluebells

Like the newborn nymphs of yore

She left her windcart, trailing

Unbound tresses of silver weeds

And she floated up the Hills of Fasting

To the Glade Above the Trees

(more…)

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The Crone of the Westward Hunch


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Image from Mickey Shannon Photography

The Crone of the Westward Hunch

For her Eastern twin went searching

And beneath her no road rushed

And none was long kept waiting

She took the lonely mountain paths

And the cowherd’s grassy trail

Towns and thoroughfares she passed

By day and starlight pale

 

Rare was the one who, pausing

Heard more than the branches sigh

In a wind down from the highlands

When the Westward Crone was nigh (more…)

Venus Shipwrecked


What pitch of entropy, what glassy trumpet call

The roar and rolling of a mindless sea

Drowning men of words and beasts of calm

No constant but constant mercury

Shatter there upon the rocks and rise again

To resound, a death knell for death’s rest

That peace which might have been our lot

Between cauldron’s boil and thorny crest

What fury roused and left unanswered!

What ardor, fear, and stark unknowing

Whether against the swell or drifting apart

She cradles – ever sinking, ever floating

 

CONDITIONAL HOLIDAYS ARE ALWAYS LESS THAN WHAT THEY SEEM (4/4)


Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

It felt like an age had passed while I was in the restroom. Yet it hadn’t been long enough. The older I get the less these conditional holidays seem like holidays at all, and more like work in disguise.

Lalantree?”

Reluctantly, I turned towards the voice and the mountains. Either it was my imagination or the twilight on that side of the plaza was deepening; shadows darkening the flowers among the scrub, and far above them, the pines and the crags. Someone had seen fit to leave a stone table on the grass not far from me, and its weathered scrollwork, and cracked surface, managed to convey forlornness amid the rest of this zytocoke1-fueled fantasy.

Mavind was sitting there, waiting for me with her cream self perched upon the faded grey, feet off the ground and legs swaying slightly. The table might as well have been placed for her. A creeper was growing up one leg. (more…)