Category: Mystical poetry

#ShortWrytz : three things

Sometimes there is a kind of poetry in the arrangement of objects in a landscape, not seen, fully, before the finger presses them into personal history. The symmetry, the visual song, is seen later, as here with ancient rocks, weathered and waiting; the out at sea lighthouse; and the distant volcanic dome, worn down into a bullet by millennia. The arrangement is not created, … Read More #ShortWrytz : three things

Wine with Crows

We sat, in end of day repose To speak of evenings drawing cold And grass with moisture in its folds And share our wine with crows ➰ One, bolder than the rest Climbed high, as if to rise and reach A silver phantom, caught in sun’s Descending rays out of the west ➰ Within the moment’s crest and hiss What thoughts, I wondered, passed … Read More Wine with Crows

Crow on a Summer Breeze

I am crow, on summer’s breeze Glimpsed in love with beating wings Within the bright sun’s leaving. ➰ My feathers’ strong and hollow shafts Are filled with air you breathe And softly lit in our reflected passion. ➰ Remember this when dark and sodden bird Looks out, short day’d from tree of Ash Asking nothing of your walk of logs to fire. ➰ Raise … Read More Crow on a Summer Breeze

+

Summer Solstice 2020

They placed a test within the breast Of humans, who go round and round To gaze on fullness, once, and then Descend, with scent and sigh From gold on face to black And back… ➰ So little held, this joy of June’s Delight and softest night with dawn A moment’s slumber distant Long grass between the fingers Petals’ kiss, a fleeting bliss A setting … Read More Summer Solstice 2020

The Mouth in Red

There are colours so deep, so pure They drop beneath the colour word Into a hue of inner meaning —- There are some reds That are not red, but blood Not spilled, not end of life But beginnings —- When the red that is not blood Speaks through the blood that is not red And spills our life upon the opened palms Then it … Read More The Mouth in Red

End of the Line

Take me out in darkness Where the only light is black Like a railway platform leading To the forms that end the track ⦿ Let endless trains of thinking Pass, ghostly, through the night And cease their whistling thunder In a silence turning bright ⦿ Let what I am-not die there On the empty, singing rails As sleepers are run over As tickets blown … Read More End of the Line

Heartfire 4 am

I sometimes wonder if the fire is kin to what I am within Is skin to what I am within – when darkness lures A hiss of icy night and eyes too tired to find delight The swishing of the white tail, paws on icy grass ⦿ The tiny crunch – dark whisper, pulls me there The velvet black surrounds – foolish! My skin … Read More Heartfire 4 am

The Opening

I know the words The long-learned words With which this view is framed These slats of wood I crafted round The Opening… ➰ Yet there it lies, unshut before me The rawness of the world Behind my words I kneel, now Afraid to stop their flow’s intent In widening my wood ➰ One day the words will be unspeakable The splinters brushed aside By … Read More The Opening

Big Bubbles

Once there was an ocean A bright blue ocean That shone shimmering gold As its waves crested and fell And the bubbles danced with joy ➰ Then a bubble grew bigger And gathered other big bubbles We’re not bubbles they cried We’re a cluster of bubbles And they rose to the top of the waves And flew off into the bright sky ➰ Higher … Read More Big Bubbles

Somber not Sad

A second on an icy breeze A chill that fears no coat A fading colour unafraid Of its own transition floats ➰ From the order of formed green To the falling of bronze The collecting whisper Is the voice of the colder wind ➰ North of the east and south of the west Nothing turns bad Culling life-magic, living no death Is somber not … Read More Somber not Sad

Half day, half night, half nothing

Along the edge of darkness lives delight A silver, shining, running stream A place of soul’s respite Where questions rise unbidden And answers tease and tide from hidden A flow so all-embracing that the third: Not day, not night, is briefly seen. ➰ ©Stephen Tanham

The Blissed Hand

Like a flower the truth is swiftly hurt Perfection is the gentlest thing Touched only by inside seeing Fingers’ secret is caress Engaging deeper self A sacrifice to one alone Blissed hand holds essence of rose Its fading leaving room for another Its silence an invitation to a third ➰ ©Stephen Tanham

%d bloggers like this: