I Vow

I just noticed that I am four blog followers away from 900. In order to entice a few potential blog followers to click that follow button, I make the following promise.

Image result for wizard studying witchcraft and wizardry

I Vow

Each word is dipped
in the sugar that courses
through a maple’s heart,
as sticky as candy,

as thick as meditation.
This ink is siphoned
from the shadows
that dim a painter’s craft,

the darkness brushed
between tulip stems
painted in a cracked pottery
beside an apple

that harbors its artist’s fears.
Butterflies whisper me their stories.
Mice sing their quiet songs.
All this I weave, or tangle,

into a yarn, a simple rhyme,
gifting you its magic,
a charming spell,
that, if cast with skill,

the proper care,
will, for a breath or two,
bid you sweeter air,



Those of you who frequent this blog know my poetry is born from my desire to and for adventure, adventures that involve all that is magical: dragons, trolls, fairies, swords, shadows, and light.

Time, or a lack of it, has bound me and I’ve been unable to visit here with the frequency I’m accustomed to visiting; therefore, here’s an adventure.

Image result for walking staff still life


Little is needed for a proper romp.
Perhaps a stretch of wood
where shadows cluster as spirits
whispering stories,

asking butterflies to heft each tale
to the thickets where roses bloom,
the bloated logs where bullfrogs pray.
Or, within an attic’s keep

where memories are left to fester,
sprouting, as ivy, from old books,
tainting the air with age and enchantment;
yet one must be faithful,

expecting to hear a dragon’s snore,
its fleshy wing beating
against an afternoon’s heat.
One must be certain discovery is imminent:

a crooked staff resting in a corner
behind a rocking’s chairs slow lilt,
a tool employed to navigate a path’s rocky skin
or to swirl a morning’s breath

with a fairy’s flight and a sparrow’s industry.
Really, adventures are simple things.


This poem leaps from the shoulders of my last post.

Generally, I use a computer to craft my thoughts; however, yesterday, I adhered to tradition. I used a pen and paper. Is it a good poem? I’ll leave that to you.

Image result for wolf in the dark


The wolf fathoms starlight’s sorrow,
dusted as magic
upon the pines’ dark peaks,

In empathy, she’ll
allow this cold,
this silence to seep

beneath her gray coat,
chilling skin and heart,
her slow breath

the only warmth
night will tolerate.

Forest Night

It’s Sunday morning, but my thoughts slip through the dark. Beauty thrives in the shadows as well as the sun’s light. See it?

Related image

Forest Night

Wolf song
drapes the wood
as a cold rain.
Then this silence.

Life descends,
deep in a burrow
of shadow.

Even the dragon shivers,
buries her audacity
beneath the sanctuary
of a wing.

Again, the wolf
smooths its elegy
against the sky.
All is bleaker still.