A summer of Verse

Bird of Borgarnes – for Michelle
by Robin Horty

I climb down

down and through

crusts of old Earth

In the morning I awaken

breathing Diamonds 

This fire inside me

resembles all those flashes

I’d lost behind

in the shadows of whispers…

in the vines of my own good reasons

Tears have collected

a glacial tendency

to cease all fire

The breath I have chosen

has been forged on my own

even the boulders have consequences

unchained

may be their gifts

What I held on most to

In the end

I willingly let go

Rainbows fall from this island

Spheres of Oracles

Round and round

the Holiest must go

Promises, river like

melting

cascading downstream

Even Angelica has her prayers

asks for forgiveness

of cowards,

sages,

queens and queers

Corner yourself in no country

Breathe Fire...

Erupt like the volcano

you this morning

walked upon

Breathing in her magnificence

gazing into her womb…

All that bleeds is momentarily warm

We are running out

as we

run on.

We are running out of time

as we run on...

The caliber of your country

Is beyond all others

Where are your Guardians,

Chieftains,

Trolls

and Elves?

I knew I’d never trace my footsteps

Alone

the way in my imagination I live

I knew

Oh Holy, Holy

channel this Seer

with effervescence and good cheer

What I held on most to

In the end I willingly let go.

Corner yourself in no country,

breathe…Fire

Seamstress to the Fairies
Maine Garden Magic and Fairy Lore
www.homeplacefairies.com

The Mermaid at Borgarnes – for Michelle
by W. Jason Miller

She’s scared to breathe.
Her face is always veiled
or are those wisps her hair –
twin-ribboning the fjord?
She lives unseen
but lifts her hip when fish concentrate.
If you walked in
she’d trip your foot.

The  settlers followed her down
where she sang a siren’s song
but her saga has not been found.

Her skin is an emerald iridescence
and translucent bronze reminiscent of
the necks of swans.
Her breasts are mountain tipped
with nipples pink as tern beaks.
Some say she fills the nets
with lump fish – wait –
you thought men controlled their fates?

Perhaps she is our self
as we are always seeking that reflection
that transition where the reflection
in the window becomes the scene within.