Awakening Giants.

A rhythmic, rainy day
Live Oaks swaying;
of wind-blown,
dark-tarnished
antique cutlery,
spoons hung from forks
to a sun-porch –
by disintegrating
fishing string;
the fog clings
a smoldering fire’s
taunting smile;
a veil of mystery
suspending
everything for miles;
thunder rolls –
the molasses-slow
awakening
the Giants
from the Isles;
It’s a well-planned
last stand, tea party,
we priestesses sit,
card-tabled by
light mahogany –
a séance to the dead
and a curse for the living.

All Things Uncertain.

It’s happening again…
days that feel like,
they won’t ever end;
weeks without moonlight,
my spirit’s shaken,
hard cold truths,
screwed into,
all things uncertain…

Its familiarity to me,
is a tell-tale sign,
of my misery, indeed,
an old friend of mine,
all-consuming,
tried and true,
I default to,
what will comfort me.

Awakening Giants.

A rhythmic, rainy day
Live Oak tree chiming;
of wind-blown,
dark-tarnished
antique cutlery,
spoons hung from forks
to a sun-porch –
by disintegrating
fishing string;
the fog clings
a smoldering fire’s
taunting smile;
a veil of mystery
suspending
everything for miles;
thunder rolls –
the molasses-slow
awakening
the Giants
from the Isles;
It’s a well-planned
last stand, tea party,
we priestesses sit,
card-tabled by
light mahogany –
a séance to the dead
and a curse for the living.