And the pearly moon
one sliver of glee as the shell tones
dissolved to a smudge
on a fading
horizon of ink.
Then she pulsed to the
words of –
“So mote it be.”
When they thought us wicked, we were really wise
In the Burning Times of world despise,
They named us as tricksters, blamed things dark and worse,
Called cunning and wile a demon’s curse.
Heaven and the Underworld, summoned at will,
Crept on cat-paws to nurture or thrill,
Reading vain futures – balancing humors –
Attending births and healing tumors.
Folklore has always survived the Dark Ages . . .
They’ll never destroy the timeless Sages.
A few wires –
a leap from reality –
and Peter Pan took flight
through fairy dust
in front of us
on an ordinary weekday night.
shone in the eyes of the child
sat there all evening
stock still – grinning –
finger in mouth –
catching his breath and believing
of the crocodile’s tock-clock,
and each brave sword blow,
walking the plank –
taking the plunge –
without ever needing to slow.
And I ask
myself why the magic is
sham and corrupt,
in failing to
ward off those
pirates of old – our growing up?
(Degrassi Wiki Gif in Public Domain)
I slid through the gap and into a spiraling whirlpool,
landed inside the gray with a nauseous splash.
Trees stood stripped of dignity, shuddering in the twilight
of winter, naked but broiling with torturous stakes.
As branches drowned in the wake of death their fingers pointed
through ripples pungent with sulfur and blue, bruised blood.
Shock took captive my slipping heart, which spluttered against the
ominous fog creeping in to steal my good eye.
On this page I recreate history
from the remnants of childhood –
This keyboard grows smooth with jabbering fingers
tapping the fear and wonder –
My screen glows white from the heat of knowledge
lighting the hidden shadows –
And free from the net that strangled my spirit
I resurrect Her wild past.