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SeashellsI found a matched pair
Of broken seashells.
They were halved, but not from the same whole.
Each orange half-moon had been trampled
By a careless tourist with eyes only for the waves;
Each had been bored through and gnawed at from the inside
By some seafaring worm;
Each had been beaten by water and stone,
Battered by wind, tossed by the gulls.
Their tips had been worn down to points like wings.
It was as thought hey flew together and met in my path.
I threaded wire through them to make earrings,
So that the pair would never be apart.
Ella Violo - Chapter 2Ella liked autumn. The sun didn't rise too early or too late, and the air was still warm while gaining an air of crispness. She rose on the morning of the thirteenth with an enormous yawn. A mouse in the corner echoed her sentiment.
"Good morning," she said to the little creature. The mouse skittered back into its home in an old holey chest against the wall. "Gotta get a cat," muttered Ella as she threw off her blankets and poked Tomas and Alejandro awake.
Maria was already up and about, frying eggs in the kitchen. She was only two years older than Ella, but she already looked like a mother. Her brown hair was tied up in a messy knot at the base of her head, and smile lines were appearing around her red lips. The smallest thief, a four-year-old boy with quick fingers, clung to Maria's apron as she swept around the room, stirring bubbling pots of porridge and soup.
"Up already, Ella? Must
SistersWe are the worriers, the wishers
on low-flying Boeings, willing them up and
away from our homes and businesses.
We found ourselves in old England in
New England, winters with no heat and
summers of more weight.
We see love in white and wrinkled faces,
in cupcakes and pencil boxes, in train schedules
and in ordinary time, cut time, and thyme patches.
We may sit quietly but we will never be
silenced save by shouts and each other's
We were the perfect girls, and we are the working
women of east and west, the white North,
wit and will and worship.
Panick 3Do you ever worry about going mad, Mother?
I do. It started one day
when my mind stopped sounding like poetry
or conversation. The transitions rambled.
I found that my head was off-kilter, or my eyes
wanted blue and red more than usual. Did you
ever feel that, Mother?
I had hoped it would go away, but internal
monologues don't stop when the script does.
The crazy, I mean. Why does
it linger? I would think that better minds
than mine need the twisting. But what if
we all went out of our heads for a while?
Could that fix things? If we could forget,
maybe problems would vanish like the ponies on the highway.
Wouldn't they? Like the posies? I've never
seen a posy, Mother.
Ella Violo - Chapter 1Chapter 1
So, you want a story? How about The girl who grew up too fast? Its one of my favorites. I know, youve heard it before, but theres so much you can learn from it. Especially if you want to grow up to be like me. Dont give me that look, Tomas, I saw you watching my hands on that job earlier. Good thieves dont come from nowhere.
Here goes. But you only get part of it tonight. Weve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow and you lads need your sleep.
Once upon a time, I had a little family. Just me, my Papa, and my Mami. We lived in a modest house in Caligari territory. Papa was a merchant, and Mami sewed and cooked. She and her friend Amelia made the most beautiful things with linen and lace, and Papa sold them to traders from Castille. I went to the market with him one day, when I was about four,
to the powers of secrecythe silhouette suggests
a whiff of
chloroform or dior;
could still be black;
taste of power
is in the wound
still fresh but-hidden;
this wellspring is eternal,
deepening the curves
& shadowing the sheets;
you into undressing;
there isn’t much; a fine mixture of
fly high sharpie flagthis was supposed to be a filling-out
-the-tax-form kind of poem.
the end of travelling and the beginning of commuting.
gluing wings back onto dead gadflies,
a backwards rendition of childhood.
now you will stick beak to broomstick,
carve ships out of plastic bottles,
catalogue your little deaths.
but you won’t get there.
how, oversized &
wrapped in plastic bags? first it’s
“mother when i’m separatist
mother when i’m lobachevsky,” then
vsop, still no wisdom (hopeso,)
and let it scream.
and leave it on a tombstone like a scarecrow christ in rio:
"how could anyone be
What if GodWhat if God…
…cares about what you care about?
…was proud of your every achievement?
…actually wanted to thank you?
…is excited for you?
…believes in you?
...keeps His end of the deal even when you don’t?
…sympathizes with you?
…is on your side every time, whether you’re right or wrong?
…encourages your crazy goals that others say are stupid?
…is your biggest fan?
…is still rooting for you?
…won’t forget you, even long after you die?
…understands you better than your own parents?
…loves you more than your own partner does?
…loves you more than you love yourself?
What if God was everything we are looking for in other people, and ten times that?
Would we approach Him then?
Prayer to Wodenwisdom, guile and ecstasy
these things I pray You give to me
poet’s share – sweet Mead from Heaven
another drink of inspiration
Runes are cut from ancient trees
sigils, signs now come with ease
flowing blood and gushing soul
we move along in Frija’s web
the God will teach
as the Goddess shapes us
a union born of polarity
blessed hearthfire’s duality
Wōden, Wotan; Father God
I seek craft and witching words
teach me gifts of sweet seduction
and so catharsis of noble Will
Lord of Gallows, wandering bard
countless dead and so reborn
bring me now to wit’s sweet end
and teach me how to walk again
ending, ending, never-ending
it has no start to take away
born in Aegis, shaped by Aeons
given wit by Odin’s brethren
oh my soul, my life, my mind
I pledge them all to wisdom’s God
to seek and eke, to strive and conquer
and so to rise above the mindful now
I will seek the Overman
the promise of sweet Wisdom throned
a life beyond the bold horizon
Island BluesBarren rocks embraced by blue
Towering in salty storm
Take me home with ocean winds
Make me one with you
Vacate! And disentangle
from the old familiar shadow-works,
from slim Siamese deflecting light,
from facets miring in our clock-face
from the tribal hum of sheetrock,
recurrent trumpets maddening
our corners of the cosmic cog.
Separation is the rite of birth,
discovery and flight!
Head north and west, for higher sky
and find a porthole, red summer stone
where winds will rush through the fleshmaker’s mouth
slowing our feral, atomic brume
to the comfortable gait of gravitons
dangling just beneath our soles
in the Garden of the Gods.
Holy TrinityThe solidness of beginning
An eternity of summers
A sweet delicious immortality
A sparkling rivulet entering a meadow brook
Life giving rushing river to oceans of jumping fish and cresting giants
Flashing wet in the sun
Sunlight warm on us all
The molecules of time drifting apart
Gently seeing through those things that were solid
Spaces big enough to walk through
Ending in mist, asking: Why?
Prayer to OstaraOstara rising in yonder field
She hearkens to our Mother Sun
tearing back the veil of Night now
to bring the Year up to Her peak
She turns the Wheel and sets the harvest
to bring in bounty and community
do not despise my deep petition
to bring us back to hearth again.
The BeginningHe told them, of course. He told those idiots everything, the whole damn story, including the blunder he'd made, and its consequences. Looking back on it later, he realized he had probably been in shock the whole time. It made sense, anyone would have been.
Soph was about twenty years old, and he'd been that way for a couple of years already, ever since the Hoarde had started attacking humanity from the past. Every day that passed, they ate at another day in the past. It sickened him. Those creatures had absolutely no regard for proper time and causality protocols.
It didn't seem to affect anyone else that way, though.
The Hoarde was the result of a human creation, of course, like everything bad in the world, though no one else knew about them. Then again, no one else had undiluted access to the power of creation. Even he didn't know much about the Hoarde, only that they appeared through some tear in The Fabric of The World and started killing people off. They appeared at some point in
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