Life’s canyon narrows
Its walls grow steep
Age walks slowly
A date to keep
Old shadows waver
On ancient winds
O’er paths that neither
Begin nor end
For here is here
And now is won
A future calls
A past is done
A greying moon’s
Soft light dims dreams
A sigh is heard
‘mid unseen streams
A twisting breeze
Hums an eerie tune
For time is not
A silent rune
Repugnant Pugilist,
A Lummox dim with a rubble fist.
Rock to Roc’s Feather.
A Stalwart Rook to blotted weather.
An over armored Savant slain by adhoc ether.
Hands empty without effort.
That sweet and Sable Rune.
Opening the Gates of Nether.
Nearly forgot to mention
A very important issue
About the rune I got
It is called Nauthiz -
What a strange sounding name.
To tell you in short, it means
That I’ve reached the bottom
And from the low of this point
I'd better move up facing hardships
And whatever trials to come.
But I don’t believe it’s all true
Cause I keep believing in chances
Only a chance can make changes
The most long-awaited ones.
A NOVEMBER RUNE
The deer lives
within the rhythms
of the forest, its clandestine
movements an elegant testament
to the unfathomable complexity
of the cauldron of life
The wolf is a student
of silence and shadow, and mysterious
patterns of camouflage, misdirection,
deception and stealth
With the frigid indifference
of an air traffic controller about to be
fired, Nature keeps track of the intricate
movements of predator and prey and
when she is generous, the wolves eat
well and the deer multiply, the days are
bright green and the moonlit nights are
beautiful and short, and when she is
not there is misery and pain, hopeless
uncertainty, a question of why,
a timeless emptiness of
gray sky and snow!
I sing the gentle villanelle,
A villenesque so slightly said,
Howbeit the nighttide casts her spell.
And now the rune I know so well
Remains, remembered, in my head;
I sing the gentle villanelle.
As evening leaves and shadows dwell
The golden brightness all but fled,
Howbeit the nighttide casts her spell.
The flowing verse, her tale to tell,
Inhibitions adrift and shed,
I sing the gentle villanelle.
And owls resound about the fell,
The day replaced with night's instead,
Howbeit the nighttide casts her spell.
Yet me, contented, in my shell
Warmly, snugged and safe a-bed;
I sing the gentle villanelle
Howbeit the nighttide casts her spell.
Her melody floats in evanescence,
as the child in me hushes beneath
needles of rain… yet we sashay
in an evening drenched with a quiver,
as Mom listens to harsh tap- tapping
on the attic. She observes the gentle crack
through my voice noticing a slight fear
while the gale rouses into louder howls…
Calmly,a tinder box of notes spills on Mama's piano,
as she perceives keenly and waits for
the explosion of stars opening up—to bounce
unto the window… finally reddening, drying the night.
And her instinct feels the pull to soothe
my breath: this aural rune gently spun as we tuck
ourselves headlong within a quilt
of our dwelling, where the maternal language
from her own innate sound
need not—through rain— be as told in words.
.............
Craig Cornish's A Mother's Ears
5/11/2015
"Legend has it that the Gods of Asgard
opened up the heavens, and brought Rune
Stones with them; stones that had Man's secrets,
and his connection to the divine realm" the old sage
assured them, his long, white beard gently being swayed
by the sea breeze.
....little did they know that the old man was actually Odin,
who foresaw their victory in recovering Thor's Hammer,
deep in the Ice Kingdom, hidden by Locke!.....
Date: 14/07/14
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