A superluminal orb, like frightful ghosts interred, have met this bead halfway and lighting struck the hearth, for another better dance, keening deerish prance, the mute mother said strung about them were dolls which pearls know are afowl and created another cart of food pulled by oxen run-to-mill that pulled the bead to start.
I put my arms around you, your heart melts into mine;
the borders of your anguish I can easily define.
There is no need for language explaining agony,
I perceive a griever’s heartache in black telepathy.
Your landscape is familiar, I know one similar
in the trackless barren places, in the lonely city spaces
where people neither know nor care.
I gleaned shriveled fruit from withered vines,
crushed, distilled, and drank the acrid wine.
I climbed the treeless summit, trekked the tundra of despair,
heard the mountain winds dark harmony
to a mourning mother’s keening prayer.
I know because my heart has heard
within its depths your soundless words.
Copyright, July 11, 2026
Keening witches in the dunes
raven tresses gemmed with salt
crystal droplets twined in crowns.
Haunted chants ice the air
Boats sway on fragrant surf.
Ancient calling as dead stir
Bare shores greet ash flakes
Imprints etched of hidden souls
to engrave a memory shorn.
Mommy! Daddy! MOMMY! DADDY!
The wailing was turning into desperate keening
the parents did rock paper scissors to see who had to go
Jake is four, and he has an intense imagination
No more horror shows, Mommy said
Daddy was thrilled he covered her rock with his paper
They both knew going in there meant another story
glass of water, maybe a cookie
Jake’s eyes were wild.
There is a creepster under the bed! He wailed.
His mother pretended to look.
Assured him there was nothing there.
Told him not to call out again.
And returned to her bed.
The last thing they heard was one piercing scream.
Jake was never seen or heard from again.
Give me, oh give me that darkness from above:
let me drink just once from the river of your love.
Night never ran so strong through the trees,
waters never flowed so dark to the seas.
Music never stirred so deep in the earth,
winds never swept away Springtime’s rebirth.
Give me, oh precious, your life's saddest song
running in deep tides every night long.
Let me know, yes, tell me with your eyes,
what I think I hear shadowed in your cries,
spoken softly in your most questioning gaze.
Tell me what you said with such keening dismay
where whispers never uttered a syllable of sound
and moonlight kissed the sun-crusted ground.
Give me, oh give me that darkness from above:
let me drown forever in the river of your love.
Christopher M. Swan 2008
Grand Greenery.
Frontenack kneeling.
Keening upon the front line.
You will moan me into my
own kind of oblivion,
A particular B graded death,
cornered in my own upheld dim fantasy,
ever much so fancy free in this prison.
my dogs are howling loudly enough to scare wolves
long enough to frighten grizzly bears
I stare into the woods, seeing nothing
my super senses should be on high alert
they are not
the dogs do not let up
their howling sounds like keening
I release them
they yelp and yip into the woods
they sound like coyotes on speed
I never see what stirred them up
they return empty handed a few minutes later
Isn't it weird?
Everyone has their own web of lies
or a web of ties
knitted so tight
You can't help choking
and swayed as people want you to move
Until you want to yell that you are not a toy
instead of the strings break,
soaked by the sealt in your keening
-Manu
ghostly bones lie in wait in the swamp of New Orleans
the plantation home understands their keening and wailing
who else hears? is there anyone left to mourn for them?
the wind rustles the cattails, mosquitos are rallying
murder city, some call this place; especially the sign readers
occasionally visitors will pay the price by being inquisitive
some leave; others are condemned to stay with the others
the house gloats at the demonic powers of her land
girl in white sits in the reeds, watching the visitors
making decisions as to whether she will release them or not
she was the first victim of the killer who lived here in 1903
today’s visitor has lovely blonde hair, she always was jealous of this.
From shadowed glens, where legends sleep,
Three figures rise, secrets to keep.
The Morrigan, a raven's wing,
Drawn to the clash, the death-song sang.
Of war, of fate, a chilling hand,
To claim the fallen, rule the land.
She shifts and weaves, a queen of might,
Her sovereignty in the darkest night.
The Banshee wails, a mournful cry,
A prophecy beneath the sky.
For family's blood, a thread undone,
Her keening echoes, day is done.
A spirit bound to mortal ties,
Her sorrow paints the weeping skies.
The Pooka runs, a shifting shade,
A trickster's jest, a game is played.
A horse of ebony, swift and bold,
He leads astray, tales to be told.
A playful spirit, wild and free,
He dances on the edge of glee.
From ancient roots, their power springs,
The Morrigan, the Banshee, Pooka brings,
A touch of magic, old and deep,
Where shadows stir and secrets sleep.
Guardians of lore, through misty air,
Whispers of Ireland.
She has no friends
Tells me this via text at 1:43 a.m.
I barely know her
A sliver of barely
She says her father has recently passed
Confides that she has no friends, no support group
She had spent her life helping her father
I find out later that her father has been gone twelve years
That is enough blubbering, wailing and keening for most.
She is not most.
I could not stop crying
No idea why
Sobbing and shaking
Horrified at myself
I am usually manic
I am great at manic
Manic is my go-to-place
I LOVE being manic
I had been going strong for three days
No sleep needed.
Writing poems, painting pictures,
Playing with my dogs
I never put it together
Because I had never been sobbing, keening, wailing me before
I am on Lithium now
It is working
I hope that it always works
I never want to go to the dark place again
A place I never understood,
A place from which I might not return
Tombs begin to bloom like raw, bloodless wounds.
Tomes are written with truths of her dead moon’s
tones. A keening lunacy keeps the dirges alive, while
bones rise out of repose. A degloved hand on the dial
hones into a night rainbow's radio, she runs on solar,
hopes for the rhythm to wrench free from her toller—
copes with the captivity of being bodiless hands. Twilight
comes to chance escape—open palms toward birthright.
Coves burst into flame; a hungry fire wants holier water.
Coven circles, recovers the skinless limbs of their daughter.
Woven like song, sirens' balm to restore coats of missing arms,
women are spells read correctly, using words as our alarms,
woken to language, resurrecting ancient pairs of sacred charms.
hawk
catching, tearing,
soaring, swooping, fishing
howling, braying, keening
stealthy, loyal
wolf
Weep with me
I hold my breath in
I won't let this free
There's no stilling this ache
That's inside of me
The grief and the pain
Rip away and break out
To flow like a stream
From my eyes and my mouth
A high, keening sob,
A deep, throaty sigh,
Escape with great force
And I finally Cry.
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