Don’t overlook me

   or underestimate my power –

I rock in the darkness of night

   on a misty bower.

The clouds troll my words

   and carry my message on air –

slashing the canvas of space with

   a shadowy tear.

There’s fascination

   veiled in many disguises –

but some seek only the darkling

   feral surprises.

I glow beyond time

   like an ancient wayward daughter

birthed of the moon  – You can simply

call me an author.

This is my novel

Grown from the seeds of history

Nurtured to beauty

You gave me a rose

in the bandaged wraps

of winter.  Plucked of

the heart.  Pulsating,

dripping with love and

valued more than blood

rubies.

Just a small

gesture.  Rich spiral

of life,  juxtaposed

on frosted snow sheets –

but oh! so poignant.

A wild woman born

has many flagons of magic

(and still other dungeons

remain in cobweb clasps)

She can drop her spells as stepping stones to glamor

turning each lock behind

in the black labyrinth.

The sky is crying rain drips

through the lashes of the tree

and in an instant splish-splash

summer’s gone

and we feel It coming.

How much more do you want of me, Mistress Moon

blinking your chimera’s eye, stirring my cells

in time to the moody lull of your barbarous beat,

intent on my submission, more white

than shark’s teeth, colder than icebergs, and broody –  endlessly throbbing?

Push sagacious eyes beyond

the tattooed patterned coating –

disregard the holy flesh

and seek within,

without . . .