Up early this morning, I witnessed the following.

Image result for sun in the valley


Sunlight fills the valley,
thick and white,
as cream poured
into a saucer
left for a stray cat
to lap, to live.


The Air Disturbed

Yesterday, I wrote about an ogre, dark and brooding. Today deserves something softer.

Related image

The Air Disturbed

The air disturbed
by a butterfly’s flight,
that swirls behind

each fragile wing,
is graced, for a moment,
by magic so profound,

if touched,
sorrow slips,
tragedy softens its sting.

Ogres, Breath, and Beauty

This post is written in response to a writing prompt on a wonderful blog, Impromptu Promptlings. The prompt challenges all to consider what commands our attention.

“Animal, vegetable, mineral? Seen or unseen? Something common? Something weird? Whatever it is that grabs your attention, please share it with us!”

What does my attention seek? The fantastic…

Image result for sleeping troll

Ogres, Breath, and Beauty

There’s a beast about.
Smell it?
That breath.
Foul. Hot. Tainted.
The stench of old meat.
Slabs of food wedged
between its teeth.

Look, the treetops.
Silhouettes against this starlit sky.
They’ll suddenly shiver,
sway, as if troubled by storm.
That’s where the brute stalks,
but stay your bow,
let your arrows rest.

Instead, whistle.
Offer this chill your music.
The chill will offer it to the night
and the ogre will filch it from the darkness,
swaddle his frenzy in that calm and sleep.
The world’s ugliness is ugly
because it craves beauty more than breath.


Here’s some good advice, if you’re about the business of brandishing steel, as I do most every day.

Image result for forgotten realms sword


She must be wooed, boy.
Her hilt is a hand,
a woman’s hand.
She’s not to be grasped

as you might clutch
a mace or an axe.
She’s to be held
just as you hold a lass’ hand.

Prove your worth, boy,
for that steel will judge you
as woman judges man.
And even if you’re as delicate

as a dove’s coo
or as soft as a lilly’s silk
she still might reject you,
and if she does,

then you lay her down, boy.
Let her choose another.
There ain’t no science to it, no logic.
And no pining over that lost steel.

You find yourself another.
Better yet, let a sword find you.
And then be even softer
than you were before.

It’s the only way
you’ll ever slay a dragon.

Old Trolls

Riffing on my last post, here’s a piece on old trolls.

Image result for hero realms troll card

Old Trolls

Most no longer find happiness in pillaging.
Pilfering pork from muddy pens
fails to offer the same joy and fruit

and villagers’ shrieks grow wearisome,
but these aged brutes will rummage
a tobacco field, uproot fistfuls of leaf

to stuff  pipe, fashioned from old buckets
and hollow logs. Then, to find a quiet place,
where shadows recline as thick as mud,

the air reeks of bog and mire,
and each deep puff fills a savage’s hollow heart.