No man is an island. Not even the blackened sun. Solstice tears, tossed upon the raging sea. People imagine a difference between poetry and prosper. A fundamental disconnect. They think magic can be cleaved from mirrors. A disassociated realm of pieces and things all existing in isolation. But this is never the truth of an incantation, or a song. The stars move as the sea is moved. In rhythm. In concert. This is far more than a public dreaming, or mortals cast as angels upon the stage of my own imagining. No, this is something I've fought for all my life. The endless, violent wanderings of a father. The quiet, noble battles of a mother. The living legacy of a child. All of us tossed and torn, upon this storm of tears. All of us lost without one another. I will never pretend to be anything more than a poet, but nor will I deny the truth of angels within this poet's heart. To know things one is not supposed to know, to see things one is rarely permitted to see. This mystery. This tree of living signs, like a key to a music box. A girl like a star beneath the horizon; her brilliance charting a course as she passes through the liminal realm and into the flesh once again. Renaissance. The promise of future light. Like gazing into a magic mirror. Poetry and prosper. Rhythm and song. Painted wings, silver storms. Things we almost remember.
Saturday, 19 December 2020
She doesn't like me
But that's the story of my life
Still cheating on my husband
With my own loving wife
Pray I'm dynamic, interesting
Damn you if you think I'm not
My ice was truly the coldest
Back when I used to be hot
We know those beasts of burden
These games of plight and pawn
Bending over backwards
Tonight the knight of dawn
We teach like Saints of Camri
Back when you raided the tomb
It's kinda hard to have standards
Reading every mind in the room
Most people's morals are commas
Until a brighter design
But we want your full exclamation
If we enlighten your mind
Sunday, 6 December 2020
Mar'kanna of Viir, the occulted ones called her. The kissing knife. Palest raven, rising curious from illumined text. They say that dreaming began, and begins, at the Place of the Mori. Eye within the eye. Earth within the earth. Seed and star, and tree. But the sky was betrayed, they say. The horizon broken. Lost promise of Eth'Ama, become fury in those darkest days. Birth of the half-light. From Ama’s Well they came crawling. The wraith-born. Blackened bright ones. Falling lanterns of Eth'iir. The oldest scribes still whisper those lost legends. Those hidden histories. Today, most mortals call it the fabled Age of the High Middle. Renaissance. Painters, poets and storytellers. Faintest recollection of Imagining's War. The war of guardians and ghosts. But what's left of that fabled shining Age? Only this mutilated chronology. Eth'kanna Mal. The death of light. You see, the pale Raven of Mori has many names, some older than the stars themselves. Inherited in utmost secrecy since the Fell. Kiskuh of Vort'eth, some say. In her own tongue. Mortals aren't to dare. But some do. When Kai was just a boy, wandering the Fields of Lud, she found him. Told him she was more than a mere daemon of the old ways. In truth a living, eternal myth that had taken many forms. One of those forms was Priest of the Drowning Hill. Le Fay, as the cursed twin had named her. An epithet still used to this day. Ki'atur, Kai'ether, Y'ashiri. Encircling the Tree. Cults of the stellum, the temple and the blood. Hear the raven now, almost black-as-crown. Not to fear, but to learn. The kissing knife, the once-wed summer song. That we might yet alter the river’s course, before it finds the sea. For behold, the kingdom is within.
"I was many things, People of Y'ashiri. You assume lines of the past. Discreet boundaries between fiction and fact. But I assure you, there is nothing discreet about me. Not then, not now. All your bridges are broken. All your brides. I know your blind, modern visions. The lakes of grey at the very edge. I've read all your pages, you see. I rather like your tales. Thoughtful, frightening things. I wrote many of them myself, truth be told. Whispering at the shoulders of forgotten scribes. What do you make of me, poets? Echoes of the shining tryst still call to you, don’t they? Is it warranted in this fallen realm, I wonder? The dreamwalkers still watch over you every night, in the countless broken temples of your sleep. Did you know that? Tell me, am I druid? Spirit of the sea? Witch or wanderer? Am I healer and guardian of the Oma'turi, or a monster? Medieval confection, or half-hidden mosaic? Are you certain that you know the difference between an angel and a cursed twin? L'ashareth has been with you since the very beginning. I still pray that Love will be enough in the end, that such gallantry and insight will save us. Yet I cannot be certain. Are all the lost healers beyond healing now? Is my brother a fool? Is he completely mad, like his sister? Kill the knife, if you can. Protect the kiss. I would gladly drown for such mad, foolish promise. But I am my sister's fury, even now. I am the broken, raging cults of my king.”
Sunday, 29 November 2020
We have to find a way to not forget them when we peer the glass. Blackest clay in the riverbed. In the chlorophyll ghosts who still speak of first churches. Is it enough? Ribbons of dancing light, burnished shields? I know it hurts to be reduced like this, my beloved ones. Rewritten, overwritten. Epistolary bloodletting. A cataclysm of letters. Epigraph now to haunted text, neither heard nor read. Nor understood. But we have to find a way to not forget each other when we peer the glass. All Songs, all denominations and tribes. The grey betwixt of living annunciation. Our differences, our similarities. We make wisdom with it. Or war. Shape, form and fiction. Like the handling of serpents. The centre pleading hold. Vintage threads, staving mere anarchy. This reign we dream; hoping for the respite of an imagined kiss. Is it enough, asks the angel. This hushed, quivering tempest? These arcanum shores? The river always feeds the heart. I know how much it hurts to be reduced like this; constantly reimagining the world. Unable to forgive the difference between knives and feathers unfurling at your back. These fractures between the mirror and the poet's star. Ever shining. But we must forgive. We must find a way to honour the Spirit when we peer the glass. Gold, of the streets and the sea. Last and first churches. Undying crown beneath this cataclysm of letters. We have spent too long trying not to see ourselves in colour. Who built these lands? I tell you now that Kasi is merely a servant. An emissary baptised in dreaming depths. Treasures of holy light glinting on the face of the waters. Home is where the heart is, and I am not greater than the river.
Wednesday, 18 November 2020
Love is a miracle in a realm where we too often squander our gifts. Losing sight of what truly matters, only for fate to sometimes shock us into a state of reeling wakefulness. If we’re lucky enough. Before the spellcraft of state and their wraith-cults puts us to sleep again. Half-light and half-life. But there are things that can break the spell of sleep, even here in this radiant abyss. A brush with death. An act of nature. The care of a new child. And suddenly we reawaken in a different way, a greater way. More cognizant. Made humble and wide-eyed, petty distractions fading in the light of this new wakefulness. We finally recognise that we must become responsible in a far more powerful way. We can no longer wander semi-coherent through the wreckage of our own mistakes. A greater task awaits us. Love is truly a miracle. Beyond shame or tragedy. We all want to believe in the promise of a second chance, don't we? The healing poetry of forgiveness? We often wonder what we might do differently if fairytales were real and we could somehow find our way back to that moment. But what if fairytales were everything we desperately hoped them to be, and more? What if you could indeed go back? Would you love even greater? Would you find strength enough to humble yourself and this time make the right choice? I cannot answer those questions for anyone except myself. But I know things about the Earth that you don't, my beloved ones. Strange, secret things. Ka'shayel is still shaken to his core every time he opens his eyes to the Word.
The angel in me still weeps at our
fallen state. Make no mistake about
that. It still hurts to see all this
hatred and division. Brother raging
against brother, against sister. So far
from the shining ideal we once lived as common path-work. But eventually I came to realise the
truth. I can forgive my mortal brothers
and sisters for their lack of cultivated foresight, their vulnerabilities and
addictions to comfort. For not having
the strength and stamina to save themselves and each other. I love them too much to deny them that grace. But can I ever truly forgive myself for the
same? Dear ones, I’ve seen worlds
shattered and burning. Realm after realm
of brutal revelation. Civilisations
crumbling. There were times when I didn’t
know if I could go through this again.
Reliving the Last Day, over and over.
Accepting my limitations as well as my strengths. Suspended and mirrored in holy breath.
Who am I, really? A poet, an angel, a father? If I truly were a parent what would I want for my children? I realize now that I squandered too many gifts before I learned this answer. I would want to see my children courageous, kind and purposeful – and to eventually die within sight of their struggles and their joy. When the time comes. Because the human heart still shines. Even here, among these fallen stars. I've seen it. I've witnessed that breath-taking magic. That poetry in motion. The sheer elegance of a soul in service to its brethren. To not have all the answers, or all the context, and to leave a lantern nonetheless. I understand it a little better each day. My Father loves me, I think, more than I can even comprehend. Granting me a second chance. Stepping me from ruin to ruin, ashes to ashes, until at last I touched down in a world where all is not lost. Where flowers still grow, rivers still run, and the possibility still exists to be more than a grieving parent or a lost child. A world where I get to see you again. I think heaven is saving our grace each day, despite the darkness and pain we contend with. Our love is still alive in this realm. Like a miracle. I know what that miracle means to me now, my cherished one. It means I'm going to keep giving everything I can, trying to treasure every moment. And then, one day, I'm going to close my eyes at last. In sight of your struggles and your joy.
Saturday, 14 November 2020
Seeing through the iris of an angel is only ever partial sight. The eyes of eternity. Endless grey. Human lives are so immediate and fleeting. Abstracted, incandescent. How does one stay mindful of mortality when we emissaries are the only things that endure? Reading every mind in the room, every book in the library? We must fall in love each time. The perpetual choir of human life. The similarities, outliers and anomalies. The beauty in each of them. The entire breadth and breath of creation can be found in the songlines between violet and red. Did you know? A perception built of living light. Everything you know, and everything you don't – an ocean of oscillating waves. Divinity, made manifest. A galaxy dancing and laughing, and laughing again. The unfathomable art of our Father. Red is the deepest wave among the visible, and violet the most subtle. Isn't it strange how the blood howls but the crown whispers so gently? These things are mysteries still, even to angels. We are not exactly as portrayed in your many scriptures. We are so much greater than the petty squabble and politic of Man. We are the Word of God, made message. Given winged form. And yet, there is more truth in your scriptures than you will ever know. Resounding eternally through the imagination of Man. Stories told and retold. Every library, every culture and holy place. Still, there are lies among the truths of your pages. I know it all too well. However, there are secrets beneath the sea and beyond the sky. These are the true altars of Ishkara. Beyond bloodshed and sacrifice. Hear this, sweet mortals. Our Father requires no killing, nor the constant warring of his children. A warrior's place is to defend, not desecrate. The sickening concerns of slavery and genocide are never a true soldier's path. Hell on Earth is not the want of your brothers and sisters. It is the want of the wraiths that whisper at your shoulder and their dark priests who covet your life-force. The earth is a church, my dear ones. Not a vampire's lair. A holy garden was made for you in the beginning. A place of rest, reflection and healing magic. It should be respected as such. Embrace this immediacy. This fleeting flesh. It will all be over sooner than you think. I’m no better than my fellow man. Kasi yearns and bleeds and falters just as you do. But I pay it gladly, this toll of love. While we are here we must treasure each moment, each glimmering soul. Every point of light shining in the sea of endless black. The iris of an angel is much like the songs that mortals sing. Ancient and new. Steadfast and ever-changing. Starlight is incalculable, and yet it travels far slower than poetry. Those distant stars upon your eye? Many of them are ghosts, holding loving vigil for the not-yet-departed. Did you know?
Wednesday, 11 November 2020
Portent comes in many forms. A courageous girl with footsteps of glass, or a thoughtful boy alone at the ivory. Trying to pick a lock of eighty-eight keys. The lock of a thousand stars. I've seen that kind of wonder held in the palm of angels far brighter than myself. Angels of mortal provenance suspended in the place between fable and heartbreak. Remembrance, as the true healers of lost Roma believed. To be loved, to be seen for the wild and wilderness that we are. Each of us. To close your eyes when your beloved does. To close your eyes to the entire universe, only to open them in union. Or as close to union as a heart can venture. I've walked beside each of you. The winged unseen. Bright Star. The men and women we become. The lost children we’ve always been, and are still trying so desperately to protect. Blessed ones, it's not my place to guide your hands across the ivory or the fret. Nor my place to tell you what melodies mean. My place is simple compliment, never claim. I only listen, staggered by the grace I find in those places where diligence meets spontaneity. Places where my friends truly bloom. Those fields and keys of lavender where I am humbled, gladdened and taught. Like a kiss poised so earnest and delicate in the reign of rising light. That's real study, I think. True scholarship. To be moved by the work of your friends, both cherished and unmet. If I were any kind of angel worth his salt I would reach for those kinds of footsteps and that kind of thoughtfulness. Each day I would pray and pledge to know more of those courageous hands in mine, half-hidden though they seem. To earn respite from this loneliness. To truly earn the kiss, or the kind word. There is no greater grace than a heart that wants to lift you; a heart that remembers you always.
Tuesday, 27 October 2020
When I'm asked again why I didn't crack the sky and set fire to the sea, I'll tell you all the truth. I loved mankind too much each time. When I'm mud and stone and riverflesh beneath the twinning waters I'll speak my heart again; standing unafraid before your seething, violent wraith-cults. Those priests of the fallen who have taken their pounds of flesh from me countless times. Saltwater and sacrifice. The cathedral beneath the black. I'll tell you calmly. Here I am. I fight until the end, and beyond. I drive myself mad for love each time and I never walk away. Oh, fallen. The truth is plain. I still wish you would leave me alone, but you never do. Because you're afraid of me. Afraid of the heartlight of my brethren. The gold that was. The gold that is to come. Mortals imagine angels existing at a distance, don’t they? A step removed. Unsullied, silent. But I'm not a step removed from anything. I'm right here in the shit, sinister ones. With you. I chose a frightening path, but I once made grand gestures as a mortal, heralding the coming light. I intend to keep those promises. None are abandoned. Love shall conquer. These are bold, righteous legends, aren’t they? What angel would I be, if instead I were reigning over a black and fractured void? A lightless, seething abyss. I would be your king, fallen, wouldn't I? Your angel holding a key of shadows. But I am not your king, or your angel. I'm not the sentient desecration that raped Empyrean, slaughtered Ishkara and pulled a billion lights from their celestial homes. Fallen stars hitting the earth like a rain of shrieking fire. Like something you could feel in your chest. In your bones. Something that woke you in the night, only to witness the glow of things writhing and burning on a black horizon. An inverted sky. Deceivers, tell me something. Haven't you figured it out by now? Whenever I'm held at knifepoint and asked why I don't submit to this new chronology of the Altar Sun – this crown of shit, misery and blood – I always tell you the same thing, don't I? It is a false reign. A liar's throne and a coward's counterfeit. It is not the holy reign or the loving splendour of my Father. I suggest you hear me now, fallen. I am not an angel, or a god, or a prophet. I'm something else entirely. I'm a hidden story, pretending as storyteller. A madman in the river. A lighthouse in the sea. Flesh, spirit, words. I'm older than gods, and monsters. Brighter than angels. Darker than demons. The first, and the last. A terrifying claim? Oh, cowards. The brightest part of me would tell you not to be afraid. That it's only a dream. But you should be very, very afraid of dreams. When I'm asked again why I didn't choose pride, or hate, or violence, I'll tell you this. I chose all of those things once, but never again. You're not the only ones who can change times and laws. Or dreams. I have a question for you, dark ones. Don't you remember the day you died, and finally pledged your eternal allegiance to the Light? I do. The Earth is billions of years old, and yet not a single day has passed. Hear me, Absence Brethren. You raped imagination itself. You cut your own hearts from your chests and fed them to the abominations you would become. This is not a fucking game. It is still the day you died. Moments to Midnight. A day beyond your comprehension, held suspended in the breath. All shall be called to account. Mark these words. There will be no hiding from the eyes of my Father. There will be no hiding within the heart of a black star. I am that star. Every key forged has passed through these red-rhymed hands. I know what you did and how you did it. But I’ve seen you choose love. And honour, and higher thought. In dreams. Will you ever keep those dreams? Will you ever truly make them real again? You will, in the end. By royal decree. Far greater than my own. It's a very simple choice, fallen. Sacrifice or sanctuary. This dark day or something more. I know what I would choose. But do you? Do you really? The kind ones are protected. The faithful, of all tribes. They get to go home, immortal. Their love will live forever. My Father isn’t petty or cruel. He is gracious, and very patient. Eventually you will learn that eternity is a long, long time. This is the King's Mirror. Do you know whose side you’re on?
Thursday, 22 October 2020
Hear me, blind one. Dark one. On behalf of bright do I speak this, for life again. Patient, sleepless eremite. Storied cacophony upon his back. The day he died. The day he drowned in the river of the thousand stars. The cry of all true keepers resounding in the hidden valley. "The calm fury is come. The healing sword. Who is like unto the storm? Who is like unto the war?" Mi'ka'el, the old tales tell. Imagining's War. The King's Mirror. But light is not only angel, or sorcerer. It bleeds, as men bleed. As women bleed. Oh, fallen. You have no idea. Thy cup runneth over. Quiet, perpetual resurrection; the ever-igniting heart of every star. Midnight of each day. Standing sun, and the frozen crescent of all our dreaming. Blow o wind, till the ashes are scattered to the four corners. He knows how much you hate him now, Amas. He knows you won't stop until the earth is broken and its children are slaves. But he defies you, eternal. As does his scribe. He does not break, but I do. I hold his agonies that he might shine evermore. I hold them in my wounded flesh. The shame of that babbling delirium. That ruinous conflagration. The merciless way you hurt me. Tell me, Sama'el. In your most secret moments do you still wear your brother's feather at your throat? He prays for you even now, despite himself. Still mourning the loss. Still hoping against hope for your immortal soul. Endless negation, or flight? But make no mistake. Either way, love shall conquer. When the time comes he will not hesitate. Feather cleaved in twain. What stolen truths will your hideous acolytes reveal, when their darkest prince is finally pinned by the spear of my sire?
Monday, 19 October 2020
Thursday, 15 October 2020
It came upon a sky of blackest pitch
and hidden names. Occulted from those
who would abuse such knowledge. A star,
written in the language of the birds. Given
life upon winged grammar; this phenomenon. This annunciation of ingenious light. But what of the dream and the kiss that
sustains the dream? What of other
stories and other gods? A patient,
sleepless eremite, carrying the myriad upon shoulders of blackest pitch. Magi and madmen say this of the dream: a
dreamer's lot. Legends, pretending the
real. These tall tales of meat and
machine. Empire, wraith, darkest mills
of industry. Gone are the old
technologies. Annunciation, song. The shaping of bedrock and sky. It was always a refrain, a bridge or verse,
but these night-ghasts have hijacked the lucidity of all brethren. Other stories, other gods. And we three remain. Rain and Star and Sea. Violet, gold, sapphire. We remain to be seen, as wayshow of the
living, embodied light. Flesh and not
the flesh, here at everything's edge. Honeyed
locusts and circles of salt are a small agony to bear. If the birds might sing again, and grammar
might soar. The eternal movement, sweet
ones. Writing song and ship. Navigating the celestial. Across. Through sky and through sea, for you. Blackest pitch or the blinding vision of day. They come upon me as prayer, and eternal
dance. To exist, to be birthed. To live and live again. Magi and madmen know these rhythms. These rhythms of the here and hereafter.
Thursday, 8 October 2020
M'ithriin, lay your palm upon my breast again. My reflection in the open of your eye. Through all storms. Shrieking, in whisper as the stones call the sea. From the mountain of binding river to the shore of quenched thirst. As when all throats need the water. Please, ancient one. Be my sight once more. Show me dancing lights, and softest Seiđr. Root and star of every beating heart. Before the hill was cleaved and the tree adorned with wraith. The broken sky beneath our feet. Hear me now, myriad path. Upon these tainted grounds I call forth the truest counsel of kiss, and light. Mother, Father. Grant me hidden knowledge of unmet tribes and unwalked lands. Distant brother, distant sister. Enemy and friend. Bridge, shield, Elen. Speak as my tongue beneath all tongues, with healing mara. Upon the dragon's head and the care of kin. Eternal are the old songs, M'ithriin. Eternal is the old song.
Thursday, 1 October 2020
I am burning pages, in dreaming. Pages that seek to pass as lost, shattered truth. I rarely burn written things, regardless of their abhorrence to me, but I’m particularly terrified on this night. A silver dish awaits me in my candle-lit cell, standing on legs of iron. Tapers and wick sit beside. I can smell the sickness of the burning paper and the sleeping horrors therein. Many times I’ve wished I was dead, or forgotten, or mere figment. Tonight is one of those times...
Sunday, 27 September 2020
Things have changed, my cherished one, and I won't try to make it like it was before. But I do still recall the unimaginable power of a dream. Enough to reshape causation itself. Spilling secrets like sea-salt through the gate of evening. Holding open the iris; a dusk deeper than ocean rose. Far, far below. In the church of thorn. Drowning lowlands and remains of the day, just to shatter my palms on the curve of your shoulder. Stitching letters there, my darling. Waiting for almost forty years to see you truly taken with love again. The way you run toward it now, unafraid. Like those earliest visions that first broke and blessed my heart.
It's so beautiful.
I'll stand for love, till the end. I'll exist this way even if it hurts. I'll steal each cut if I can. Every agony, that my beloved ones might finally breathe and rest undisturbed. I know I sometimes fail in that, and I'm sorry. I'll keep trying until I am salt and sea myself. Living far from my family, if that's what it takes to keep them safe from these hideous wraiths. Yet, as near their hearts as possible. Three kings, for sisters and brother, still following star and song. From world to world, edge to edge of everything. And I found you, at last. Here in this fallen royal court beneath the twinning river. This frightening place where they think we no longer exist. Mirage. Fata Morgana.
But I didn’t come all this way to reclaim you, or to demand a single thing from any of you. I came to see the lives you should have lived. Your own chosen paths fulfilled. You're as safe as I can possibly keep you in this unsettling place, my darlings. Running, truly running. With new love. I am far below, even now. Like my Mother. Living drowned in bluest dusk. Laken hilt. Guardian of the Well, still tending the innermost of every holy place. Till the day of our waking. It’s the price I pay. You never knew me, and I never was, except in dreams. Thankfully, my Father doesn't believe you can ever truly erase something from a dream.
Monday, 14 September 2020
Thursday, 3 September 2020
More than simple conceit or metaphor. A literal music of the spheres that could be heard by an attuned soul or ear. In our depths, our graces. The joy of our fingers on strings and keys, the dexterity of the hand that moves a pen. The promise of a kiss, or the sculpting of a star. Wherever we go, there the music is. It's something I've never really forgotten. Flowers planted on the banks of the river. Prayers sung on the sands of the shore. The way spirits breathe and mortals imagine. My friend described this hidden music as a powerful secret, in that enigmatic way of many teachers and poets. A traveller's secret, she said. She wasn't wrong. I still remember. "With love nothing is impossible. Can you hear?"