Tag Archives: forest

The Bright Unicorn

The young woman softly treads over damp, soft earth.
The holy stars shine through the branches of the trees.
In a thin coat for a local college, her favorite soccer team.
Burgundy and dark wine red, logo of a people lost, memory.
Her old sneakers let in the water, as if earth was washing her feet.
Her jeans to thin against the dark and the cool, the sighing morning.
She hugs herself tight, thinks of her friend Engalina, on that team.
She is graduating in the spring, and she’ll be on her way, as she is whole.
By a wide and silver river the young woman sits, to see the bright unicorn.
Is it the whisper of madness, or the need of something pure, or is it really real?
Beneath the holy stars, in the cold late winter air, the unicorn bright, gently white,
comes out of the forest, and looks her in the eye, whinnies, drinks from the river.
Once, when she as a girl, playing her own little game at recess, by the chain link fence,
she looked into the forest, on that glorious April day, when the world warmed up again,
and she saw the bright unicorn there, like in the stories she read, the dreams in her head.
She smiled at the unicorn, and it lowered it’s head to her, as if she were a queen of nature.
The bright unicorn drinks it’s water, and the drug of the light soothes the young woman.
The radiation of fear and curdled hate slip away, and she has a feel of that lost magic,
of the innocence and infatuation she wasted on black death and trying to burn the world.
The bright unicorn loves her, and they’re connected by the holy stars, and what she could still be.
The young woman sits by the river and the bright unicorn bows it’s head, turns into the forest.
Silent tears roll down her cheeks, and the holy stars seems as if they will come into her heart.
Engalina will be gone by June, and again a friend will say goodbye, and another star withheld.
One day, the young woman hopes, she will be something more, a holy star herself, finally healed.
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Whispers and Murmurs

At the first of morning, before work begins,

me and Emily Jane walk in the dim, damp mist.

The second growth forest, the call of singing birds,

the dark, dark ink of the cross on her pale wrist.

We say nothing, their is only the cool and quiet.

A little creek runs beneath us, reminds me of childhood.

A still, quiet voices whispers in the air, and I can almost

feel close to The Spirit in her, that I’ve scarcely ever understood.

She turns to me, takes me hands into her own, and bows her head

and in murmurs and whispers she prays over us, this new day.

I bow my head, and feel at peace, before the war begins again,

I wish I was always with her in these moments, that innocence could stay.

October

Oh it’s cold, it must be the end of October.

The leaves are red, the plants have wilted,

and I shiver with you, my precious retriever,

to keep me company, keep me warm, sane.

The men are maggots, feeding on the corpse

of the world and all we ever managed to build.

You, buddy, and my daddy’s AR-15, to keep them

back, and my legs to get away. I run like the wind.

Men take anything they can, anyway they can.

You, buddy, the only male I trust, hiding with me.

These forests that were Eden when I was young.

Will they keep me safe now, hide me away now?

You and me, buddy, hiding in this barn tonight.

Still hay inside, soft and sheltering, better than the ground.

I know the sun and the stars and how to follow.

The angels in the sky, to lead me somewhere better.

Where men aren’t beasts. Where I can sleep innocent.

Breath and Blood

The old and ruined church in the woods,

open to the sun and the stars, and overgrown

and verdant with ivy, kudzu and flowers.

A place of worship forgotten, used by people

long gone, it is taken by nature, and nature is God,

and God is awesome and always wiping us away.

Solitude, the cool, moist and misty morning,

the babble of the little clear brook, and silence,

allowing a small, still voice to speak.

In the wind, I feel something, in this left behind

and more righteous cathedral, that is more than

breath and blood.

A moment, and then the world comes in, and

breath and blood is all I am, simply human,

still longing to touch something behind the air.

And I think of a long past lover, and a November

evening, in youth and freedom and a gaudy city,

and if in those soft kisses, did our souls really touch?