Blog Archives

[Poem] Cascadia

If you set foot here,
even briefly,
she knows your name.
If you give her a piece of your heart,
bury it in the woods between the firs,
it will not pine for you when you leave.
It will rest, growing in your absence.
When you return,
as occasionally or often as you might,
dig it up.
You will find it not rotted nor diminished.
Emerald green sprouts will be growing from it:
choose one or two.
Transplant them wherever they long to be.
If that place happens to lay far away,
perhaps another traveler will see it,
ask it of Home, then go plant
a piece of their own
next to yours.

Inspired by Bekah Kelso, SJ Tucker, Seanan McGuire, and all the others who have found themselves returning home with a bit of themselves left behind in the Emerald City.

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[Poem] Emotion

Sometimes, I feel like crying.

There is no particular reason, except that it feels as if someone somewhere must be cried for, whether they be happy tears, sad tears, angry tears, or tears unknown.

Sometimes, I feel like laughing.

There is no particular reason, except that it feels as if someone somewhere must be laughed for, whether it is happy laughter, nervous laughter, derisive laughter, or laughter unknown.

Sometimes, I feel like singing.

There is no particular reason, except that it feels as if someone somewhere must be sung for, whether it is joyful songs, tragic songs, defiant songs, or songs unknown.

We are all connected, in ways dark, mysterious, and strange, in manners strong, deep, and enduring, in fashions electric and liquid and brightly burning, and in patterns known and unknown. Isolation does not become us. We, like many other, are pack animals.

Cry for your sisters,
Laugh for your brothers,
Sing for your lovers,
And for yourselves.

You are kin and kind with one another.

See.
Touch.
Know.
Remember.

(originally written 5 years ago today, posted in my Livejournal)

Poem: Why? Why? Why?

You keep asking
“Why? Why? Why?”,
operating under assumptions of
reasonable behavior.
Your pain is valid,
as feelings always are.
Emotions do not objective fact make,
and base assumptions being wrong,
your hypotheses
proved
wrong,
yet still you cling and cleave to them.

I’d explain, but I truly think that you wouldn’t understand,

not as you are,
not as you believe yourself to be right now.

May you find the light
and see the monsters for what they really are:
ordinary objects casting fantastic shadows.

Poem: Monday Morning

Written on 01-30-2012

It’s Thursday afternoon, I am leaving work,
I busily make my lists
I’m writing down all I need to pack
Because soon I’ll be going to the
filk con!

It’s Friday evening, I’m at the hotel,
Convention’s about to start
I’m hugging those that I’ve been missing
And then I find my fav’rite seat in

the ballroom at the filk con!

It’s Saturday late afternoon, I’m at Interfilk
I’ve come armed with a budget
I’m not resisting the wenches’ charms
Easy to persuade while seated in

the chair in the ballroom at the filk con.

It’s Sunday after dinner, I’m at the Dead Dog
Convention’s nearly over
I’d pour my heart out but my heart’s here
Somewhere that I belong, singing in

the circle with the chair in the ballroom at the filk con.

It’s Monday morning and I’m at work,
I blearily blink and yawn
Searching for the wrong set of faces,
I’m at the office, yet I’m still in

with my friends in the circle with the chair in the ballroom at the filk con.

And I promise I’ll be back next year.

Poem: To Be and Not To Do

Lest I a cockalorum be,
I’ll rub elbows with Humility,
for those who must declare their worth
indubitably take up too much earth.
It’s better to “be” rather than “do”;
an adage, follow: “To thine own self BE true!” 

Poem: Do I But Dream

As the world fern droops its fronds and
the red musk wax tree gently burns,
three clouden oak grow thick and strong;
old woodstide rolls and seasons turn.
White skyfish soft and sweetly sing,
a seacrow croaks his wat’ry call,
last sandwhale moans and stirs her wings,
swampleopard lurks, baleful, sees all.
Steadfast and seeking (sought) to no avail,
teaching and taught how to deceive, disguise.
Do I but dream this land fragile, pale,
or, rock solid awaking, lift my eyes?

Poem: The Ocean

(I wrote this poem when I was 13 years old and in the 7th grade. All punctuation and capitalization is as-written.)

The Ocean

Rippling, singing
Dancing in the wind.
The water.
Smooth, silky
Whispering softly
The sea.
Shimmering, sparkling
In the bright sun,
The ocean.

Poem: Dragonlady (A Tribute To Anne McCaffrey)

Once upon a time, a teacher taught her students well.
She taught their mathematics, and how to read and write and spell.
She taught them to like science, to play music, and to speak,
and taught a love of books and words, and then she said to them one week:

“Write a good long letter to an author you want to meet,
and who knows, maybe he or she will write back, as a treat!
Here’s the book of postal codes and addresses you’ll need,
and write what’s in your hearts, my dears, I know you will succeed!”

Once upon a time, a girl daydreamed the day away
in a classroom with no friends of hers to play with every day.
She devoured books on dragons, their riders and their care,
and when she got the chance she wrote to the author there:

“To the Dragonlady who writes the books that I devour,
how can I become like you, a writer? Will I need more than an hour?
I love the worlds and people that live inside your books,
so I ask you, Dragonlady, is it as easy as you make it look?”

Once upon a time, not so very long ago,
a Dragonlady wrote back to a child she didn’t know.
She’d asked the Lady why she wrote, she’d asked her why she dreamed,
and the Dragonlady smiled, and to the girl came clean:

“I was once a girl like you, and I wrote all the time,
most of what I penned at first was fluff and dust and grime.
And I knew I had to practice, and practice then did I,
for it’s not the point to publish stuff, what matters is you try!”

Once upon a later time, the world was bereft
of a Dragonlady Masterharper who for the next adventure left.
She left to us her words and worlds, of dragons, time and space,
and not a day goes by that girl without a smile on her face:

“Thank you, Dragonlady, for the tales that you shared.
It’s how I know you loved your work, it’s how I know you cared.
Your planets were the settings of the dreams that kept me sane,
and I wish you sweetly on, and your memory remains.”

Go softly, Ms. McCaffrey.

Poem: The Point of Return

One day, I met a wizard.
He requested help with his spells
and I, being a student of such a school,
volunteered with vigor.
The days passed,
and we spoke on most of them.
The weeks passed,
and I grew to know him.
The months passed,
and I grew to love him.
When I heard he’d begun to summon,
a chill froze the pit of my stomach.
Did he not know that these are dangerous?
He grew confident in his ways.
I and my fellow students watched in wary dread,
waited.
One day, the demons broke loose,
and they stole him away,
wounding the lady of trees
and badly frightening the rest of us.
We now seek he who we have lost,
he who was taken from us.
I, being well-studied in dreams,
seek him there.
I have now begun this many times.
I lay down, close my eyes,
and am there.
“Give me back my friend!”
I demand.
The demon shakes his head.
“No. He let us in. We are guests here.”
The dreamsky darkens,
clouds rolls in,
the derecho beginning.
I feel the power gathering,
in the ground,
in my hands,
in my soul, the wind.
“Leave.”
One strike, thunder that follows.
“Him.”
Two strikes, cacaphonous, drawing closer.
“Be.”
Three strikes, the last licking the demon’s lashing tail.
His eyes widen in shock and sudden comprehension.
“You cannot have him. Be gone, utterly and forever!
Nevermore shall your shadow slide over the earth
like a slug after a rich meal,
nevermore shall the lady of trees thrash in your claws,
nevermore your cruel touch beautiful things to mar.”
I am thrown to the ground,
the demon towers above me.
“You cannot banish me, because you cannot banish him!
He must fight, and he must win,
or he will never again see the light of day!”
I smile, a grin so feral and bright that it splits the dark and,
staff ablaze with my storm,
fire and lightning ,
stand in the doorway in the demon’s shadow.
I shriek with all that I was, am, and can be,
“The gate is here,
unlocked, open, flung wide!
I hold the light
that you may always find
a way back
through the darkness!”

Poem: Truth, Plain and Unadorned

This could be a poem about how I don’t understand.

I could say,
“I don’t understand why bad things happen to good people”

or

“I don’t understand how good people can still do terrible things”,
but it would be a lie.

This could be a poem about how I don’t care.

I could say,
“I don’t care that you are suffering. We all suffer”

or

“I am suffering. Why should I care when you suffer?”,
but it would be false.

This could be a poem about how faraway problems do not affect me.

I could say,
“That problem’s distance is great, and does not relate to my life”

or

“I haven’t known those people very long, their day-to-day means nothing to me”,
but it would be patently untrue

I understand.
I care.
You matter.

These things are my honesty,
waving a red flag in code
from my aching heart
to yours.

I love you.