The Ride


General! near to fall
Plunged toward open ground appalled
The blood, the wounds now mercifully tried,
Just one to run against the rules this time.
His right the higher ground, from paths
Where men and maples dark did pause
To bleed if he was not the hope theirs was
And pay for thinking soon enough.



Linking up with

painting by Ralph Albert Blakelock (1874-1919)


I’m Here

Listen! and believe me.

Believe me when I say,

That I know what the birds say,

That I know what the trees say,

And I know what the winds say when they brush their soft, soft fingers against my cold cheeks

BUT            I do not know what I say

And when the trees, and the winds, and the birds speak across my mind,

I have nothing to say to the trees, and the winds, and birds.

So I               just listen,


Just me.

                Just empty.

My Heart is a Waterfall

my heart is a waterfall, that beats upon the sand

my blood flows steadily, strongly, quietly, as the deep river

each breath of mine is as measured as the waves of the ocean

my eyes are two moons, reflecting the light of everything around myself

as they look out at this world, this wild world, this empty untouched land that is my birthright to look upon

this wildness that is the very life of my soul, and the eternal breaking of it

I look out and I try to understand it, as my heart beats and my blood flows and my breath ebbs out, and in

and finally I stop looking, and at last I just am



prompt from

Witching Hour

They call it the Witching Hour.

When the birds have long fallen silent.

And the air quakes with apprehension.

When the dark has come; swallowed the light.

The world becomes a savage thing.

But I turn my face to the sky and laugh.

Because I love it.

I love the frozen night.

When even the wind is quiet.

And the very air is waiting.

I love the memory of sunlight that lingers about me.

Even here remains the soul of the old north forest.



Inspiration from

The Harebell Song

Can you the hear the harebells ringing?  Softly chiming, softly singing?

See them through the magic rain, purple crowns upon a chain.

Do you smell the flower’s mirth – all the ancient scents of earth?

Touch the silver-gilded leaves, waltzing in each wayworn breeze.

Like the flower, taste the air. Breathe the sunlight hanging there.

Cradled in its purple keep, follow it through fields of sleep

As ever, in the dark it tells: hear them! Hear the ringing bells!



This great prompt from

The Guardian

Orion is an archer,

and all alone he walks the skies

night after night, club in one hand,

bow in the other.

Can you see his bright belt

sparkling like diamonds on clear winter nights?

Do you feel him watching over you,

ready to leap to your defense?