poetry is always a lie ~ but this is a very good lie

under a moon the size of the sky
he said

never trust to poets
for poetic justice is neither just nor poetic
poets lie with liquid lips
their farewells are never fair
and their good-byes are seldom good

overlooking a sea the size of love
he raised his hand
and lifted the oceans from their bed
revealing all the secret treasures hidden in the seas

he said
i have cried a million tears
and all my tears have not made one inch of difference in the seas
he lowered the waters and set them to moving again

he pulled stars into his hands and twisted them into a diamond chip sparkled flower
an ever-opening flower
convoluting and growing from the center

he said
the flower can not sing
it can only be beautiful to us in this place
i would not have it so

and he set the stars free like lightning bugs
on a warm West Virginia night

she said
teach me

he said
if you could turn the sky backward
rewriting those moments when you were hurt
do you think you would be the victor?

she said
because there can be no victory
only pain and death

he said
if you could bind you wounds and grow tens arm
becoming a goddess
do you think you would be happy?

she said
because happiness is not a thing that can be wrestled
or bound
or even properly talked about

he said
if you could change the weather?
if you could grow gold in the palm of your hand?
if you could forget all your suffering
would you?

she said nothing

he returned the sky to exactly the way the sky is
he returned the earth and sea to exactly what the earth and sea are
as he twisted something in his hands
he said
this is a poem
this is a lie

she said
it looks like an arrow

he said
and it is only beautiful in flight
make a bow

she said
i can’t

he said nothing

she said
this isn’t fair
you ask me to change the weather
to grow gold in the palm of my hand
forget all my suffering

how can i do these things?

he said
you have always had the power
but you have chosen to hide it from yourself
until you were ready to transition

she said
teach me to transition

he said
i can’t
you must figure this out for yourself

she said
you are a bad teacher

he said

she said
you promised. . .

he said
i never promised anything

she said
why won’t you help me?

he said
i am helping you
if i were to be your armor
i would keep you from experiences you need
if i were to protect you from the rain
you’d become a desert
if i were to sing you sweet songs
you’d lose your place in the dance

he turned and the wind played with his clothing
the way a playful dog might
with a gesture he made a bow the shape of the night sky

he said
i can not give you love
nor children
nor courage
nor reasons for the way of things

she said
then what good are you?

he notched the poem that is an arrow
pulled it back on the bow let let it fly screaming into the belly of Nux

he let the bow slip form his hands
he laughed a snort then
held his hand out palm down
turned it over
in his hand is a piece of paper
this poem is written on it

he says
poetry is always a lie
but this is a very good lie

and quickly closed my hand again

The day passed
through the crack in the sky
and was gone

I opened my hand
but could not see it in the darkness
I felt what I knew was there
and quickly closed my hand again

Children of the Dark Wind, Rise

Depart for the far places
Spread your anodized wings
catch the currents unseen
Trek as vapor seeds
The ever widening ways
between the stars

Seek ye the lost ones
for it has been long
And so very deep
must be their longing
We can hear them
we can hear . . .

Find them as they sleep
Taste them
By their proteins
you shall know them

Music Box Gypsy

A tiny gypsy turning under a sky
of many colors, a sky of mind
filled with a bronze sun, gleaming.

Above and beyond all music
all silence, in a place, azure and white
moving in a dance of light on water.

Trailing streamers, silver and wisps of white,
turning in, around, over and through
undulating like reeds in the current.

At the center of her movement,
an allusion, a horizon,
a vector she points to but never touches

a place, a shadow realm
that she can see with her hands and feet
A place I can only touch on the edge of sleep,

the room I pass through
before I fall soundlessly into the sky
where, perchance, I dream her delicately turning

above a mother of pearl box,
quietly singing the music the stars
alive in the ebon velvet of a midnight sky.

the Return of Rynn Jyuck, Master of the Vortex


The old man crawls out of the shallow cave
‘How long have I slept under this rock?’
he asks himself

The younger voice dreadfully cheerful

‘How the hell did I get this way?’
The old man’s voice is dry and sandy

Stand and come forth’


‘The Orb of Hope transcends to the Apex
It has slipped into the World
through the Crack in the sky
the Horizon. . .’
the young man is annoyingly articulate

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The Sister of the Orb
has relinquished her. . .’

‘Hold it!’
the old man interupts

but the younng man charges right on
‘And the flecks of diamond. . .’

‘I said HOLD IT!’


‘Who are you and what do you want?

The young man bows
‘I am but a simple scribe
sent to call you back from the Earth
As per your request long past.’

‘When? I remember no such thing.’

‘Master, you have been here a very long time.’

the old man stretches
‘I feel it
You got any water?’

‘Yes, Master
and some toast with orange marmalade.’



I dreamed I held Dawn’s Left Hand

She opened across a dismal grey horizon
bleeding light and color back into the world

The Darkness receded but did not yield
The roots of dark had grown into my flesh
such that a part of the ever night clung to me

The only way it could hold to me
and avert the ripening young sun
was to hide on me
to become a shadow

I dreamed I beheld Dawn’s golden hair
drifting, nimbus like, around her visage
and I knew if I did not look away
her increasing glory
would surely blind me

I turned to the West
and she caressed my shoulders
my back
my hair. . .

I dreamed the Night had left me
to learn all the things this Day
had to teach me


The Naming of the Gryflix

“So son, they call you Beetle Shaug?”

“We can stop here to rest, if you like.
I have more vittles. . .
Some nice fowl.”

“Is your name Beetle Shaug?”

“Yes, though I prefer to go by the moniker ‘Aryan’.”

“Master at Arms?”

“Well. . . yes.”

“It would seem there is more to you
than meets the eye young Tyro.
I knew Aryan, a very long time ago.”

What was that like?”

“Why did they send you. . .?
I must name you.
Close your eyes son.
Yes, like that
Without looking
tell me the name of the creature
the one peeking at us from the wood-line?”


“Close your eyes.”

“There is nothing out there.”

“You better tell me before it nips your nose.”

There comes a crashing sound
could have been a stone thrown by the old man
or it could have been. . .

“A Gryflix.
A Gryflix comes.”

Open your eyes
I shall call you Gryf.”

“Not certain I like that name.”

“You like it better than Beetle?”

“Well, yes
But. . .”

“Gryf it shall be.
Why did they send you?”

“Tyros of Institute
have treked to the Cavern for hundreds of years.”

“But, why you?”

“It was my turn.”

“We’re gonna get along just fine Gryf.”


On the Bluff Overlooking Institute

The boy
He seems reluctant to walk down
now that we are overlooking Institute

He will not meet my eye
seems not to hear my questions
and is otherwise distracted

What does such a suffering face tell me of New Man?
My thoughtful soul
freshly returned from silent solitude troubles me on his behalf

“Breath deep son
Suspire the Wonder of this World. . .”

“Master. . .”

“Yes, Tyro?”

“They have no idea you are coming
and not everyone will be pleased. . .
with me.”

And I laugh for the first time in ages
“Hell, son
Same as it was
Same as it ever shall be.”

“Dewlar and Frdii
They said
the reason I got picked for checking your Cavern
is because no one wants me around.”

“Non sense
A fine young apprentice like you?”


I step to him
Take hold of his head and hold his eye
“Yes son
I take you as my Tyro.”
He is shaking

Hold it together son
hold it together
We have to get thorough this

Do you swear to obey me in all things?”
Don’t shake your head
Say it son.”

“You don’t want me. . .”

You will not tell me what I want and don’t
You will tell me if you chose to obey me as your master”

Oh yes Master Rynn Jyuck.”

“Then let it be known hence that this young man is now
Gryflix Tyro Jyuck
This man is my acknowledged apprentice in accord with the Old Ways”

I can feel the Sky, Earth and Water watching
This is a right thing and well done
I clap my hands and rain clouds form in the distance

a right thing and well done




this is the beginning of an epic

more to come




this is the beginning of an epic


The Angel Aspect is a faerie genus, much like a milkweed vapor seeds in appearance. Individuals measure about a hand’s breadth across (plus or minus a finger). Native to the Wabes of Isydora, these creatures tolerate a wide range of temperatures and can survive long droughts as well as seasons of deluge.
Elylyn is an Angel Aspect and she is lost, far from her home.

It is cold here
cold and dark
everything is the color of rust

the trees are not friendly
they are jagged and look like lightning forks
born of the earth
arching for the sky

everything is wet and cold and dirty
and I don’t know how I got here
I have no memory of falling to this place
no memory of travel
only of awaking this morning
and cold
unbearably cold

Elylyn finds a cave mouth but doesn’t go in. She looks for food and finds a small cache of berries and meetle blooms. She waits and after a time a small Gizzerd peeks out to see if she has stolen any of its horde. Instead she trades some of the quills of her abalone comb for a ration of the berries and blossoms. The Gizzerd shows her a place where the water is pure and she drinks her fill.

she floats to the gaping mouth of the cavern
she peers through the tangled twisty vines and shivering leaves
but can’t see far into its depths

Small shiny fish undulate the tiny rivulet
issuing from the cave
they do not seem to fear her
the gravel is peppered with tiny flecks of silver and gold

The wind for the cave ebbs and flows
it is moist but warm
it smells somewhere between patchouli and pepper
a strangely pleasant scent

Elylyn allows an inrush of air to pull her into the mouth of the cave. She floats above the wet and gritty floor but occasionally gets hit by droplets from the roof. The light dims as she drifts deeper in. Before long she can navigate by the wane light of her natural luminescence (Angel Aspects are phosphorescent). The cavern opens both vertically and from side to side. There are occasional chasms in the floor and the walls. Through sensitive breeze whiskers, she hears the hiss-whisper of the winds meandering the underearth mazes.
Sometime before the onset of night she returns to the open world.
She bears witness to the passing of the day, as is her custom.
She tries to sleep in the forest but fear and foreign scents only let her achieve dream filled, restless sleep.