#Seed in Snow: Poems

[majestativa]

Enfold me in a blizzard. […] Let me sleep a white sleep inside a fairy tale.

— KNUTS SKUJENIEKS ⚜️ Seed in Snow: Poems, transl. by Bitite Vinklers, (1990)

[corvianbard]

#7303

My heart belongs to the wintry queen of snow Who goes wherever winds may blow, For only she can freeze any memory of throe, Which has been bringing grief since a long time ago. Now, I am a seed with a dream that is able to grow.

[serpentface]

DOES the pilgrimage end the drought?

Well the actual rites occur at the end of the season Inyamache and beginning of the season Anaemache (winter-spring period in which most rainfall typically occurs). Two weeks after the fact, a big storm blows in from the sea to the southwest, and dumps a good deal of rain over about a third of the region. One single rainstorm doesn't mean the end of the drought, there have been other isolated events of major rainfall these past few years that ultimately did not change overall conditions. People vary between finding it hard to get their hopes up, and hard Not to.

There's a few more overcast but dry weeks after that, and then periodic rainstorms start to hit for the rest of the season. It's actually a colder winter than usual and they get a rare blizzard, but it doesn't stay below freezing long enough to be considered a tlat piladne (literally 'snow catastrophe', referring to unusual prolonged freezing temperatures causing most precipitation to come and accumulate as snow, resulting in mass livestock deaths and sometimes crop failure). Overall, the precipitation is a little sparse but DRAMATICALLY more consistent than anything since before the drought. Any other year, it would be considered a kinda middling, tough winter, but this year it's miraculous.

The temperature warms up a bit later than ideal for the first planting seasons, but in the meantime conditions have been right for mass spring blooms to occur in several parts of the region (unusually dry conditions killing off grass, followed by heavy early rain and then adequate but not Too much rainfall for dormant flower seeds to grow). It's hard not to ascribe significance to land that has been near-dead for several years exploding into miles upon miles of blossoming flowers, which gets a lot of people into a pretty damn good mood about things. Some of the flowers are even edible.

That spring, the rivers have recovered somewhat and water insecurity issues have been substantially eased. But water levels are still much lower than what much of the agricultural system depends upon. That summer's harvest would be considered poor by typical standards, and people are still starving and dying at high rates. But it's LEAGUES better than the previous several harvests. The general consensus is that the state of affairs is positive, the rains came back for real, and the drought has ended. Things might still be tough, but they're better, and it's going to be okay in the end.

Droughts are part of life, but one this long and devastating has not happened within living memory, only spoken of in old historical accounts and poems. The timing and nature of events is SIGNIFICANT. Its very easy to ascribe its onset to major events in the human world, and its alleviation to the success of the annual rites at the Sons of Creation. The rites happened every year during the drought, but things were performed differently this time. The Usoma Amanti Stawis, who had been broadly disliked and considered a bit shit, redeemed himself in willingly giving his life to restore his land. The meteor-iron statue of God that had previously received God's living spirit in human sacrifice and was damaged in the temple's sacking 14 years ago (and perhaps has never been the same since) was replaced in the rites with a living white wild calf. He is now a beautiful young bull and already has many offspring being carried in the womb, his progeny will one day be abundant. The drought began a little under a year after the last Odomache was defiled and killed, it ended after a new one was finally incarnated and took a new, (opinions vary but general public consensus leans on the side of) appropriate place above the incumbent Usoma as the head of state. Grain taxes stayed high as fuuuuuck but this year we all got MUCH bigger shares distributed in the famine relief so it was, like, whatever.

Conclusion: Sure

[adventuresofalgy]

The weather birds had said that a big storm was on the way at the end of the week – in fact they were calling it a "weather bomb", which Algy thought sounded most undesirable and unpleasant.

Concerned lest his favourite patch of snowdrops might fall victim to this bombing by the weather, Algy decided to inspect and encourage them while it was still calm. It was another dark grey day, but as he perched on the bare ground among the hardy flowers, a wee gleam of low light made them sparkle and shine in a most delightful way, and he was thrilled to see that in addition to the clumps that were flowering, there were many self-seeded baby snowdrop leaves pushing up through the soil beneath the bushes, to bring even more flowers in future years.

Of course snowdrops always reminded Algy of a famous poem by Wordsworth, but he could hardly agree that they were like an unbidden guest, for he waited eagerly for their appearance every year…

Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay The rising sun, and on the plains descend; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May Shall soon behold this border thickly set With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers; Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!

[Algy is quoting the poem To a Snowdrop by the 19th century English poet William Wordsworth.]

[humansofnewyork]

(3/54) “It’s been forty-three years since I’ve seen my home. All I have left is a jar of soil. It’s good soil. Nahavand is a city of gardens. A guidebook once called it ‘a piece of heaven, fallen to earth.’ The peaks are so high that they’re capped with snow. A spring gushes from the mountain, and flows into a river. It spreads through the valley like veins. We lived in the deepest part of the valley, the most fertile part. Our father owned thousands of acres of farmland. When we were children he gave us each a small plot of land to plant a garden. None of the other children had the discipline. They’d rather play games. But I planted my seeds in careful rows. I hauled water from a nearby well. I pulled every weed the moment it appeared. As the poets say: ‘If you cannot tend a garden, you cannot tend a country.’ My garden was the best; it was plain for all to see. The discipline came from my mother. She was very devout. She prayed five times a day. Never spoke a bad word, never told a lie. My father was a Muslim too, but he drank liquor and played cards. He’d wash his mouth with water before he prayed. The Koran was in his library. But so were the books of The Persian Mystics: the poets who spent one thousand years softening Islam, painting it with colors, making it Iranian. Back then it was a big deal to own even a single book, but my father had a deal with a local bookseller. Whenever a new book arrived in our province, it came straight to our house. I’ll never forget the morning I heard the knock on the door. It was the bookseller, and in his hands was a brand-new copy of Shahnameh. The Book of Kings. It’s one of the longest poems ever written: 50,000 verses. The entire story of our people. And it’s all the work of a single man: Abolqasem Ferdowsi. Shahnameh is a book of battles. It’s a book of kings and queens and dragons and demons. It’s a book of champions called to save Iran from the armies of darkness. Many of the stories I knew by heart. Everyone in Iran knew a few. But I’d never seen them all in one place before, and in a beautiful, leather-bound edition. The book never made it to my father’s library. I brought it straight to my room.” 

چهل‌وسه سال از هنگامی که از میهنم دور افتاده‌ام می‌گذرد. آنچه برای من باقی‌ مانده، شیشه‌ای‌ست پر از خاک. خاک خوبی‌ست. خاک نهاوند، خاک ایران. نهاوند شهر باغ‌هاست. زمانی کتاب ایران‌گ��دی را خواندم که آن را "تکه‌ای از بهشت بر زمین افتاده" نامیده بود. بر قله‌های بلندش برف همیشگی پیداست. چشمه‌ای که از دل کوه می‌جوشد، رودی می‌شود. چون رگ‌های تن در سراسر دره ‌پخش می‌شود. ما در ژرف‌ترین بخش دره زندگی می‌کردیم. حاصل‌خیزترین بخش آن. پدرم از زمین‌داران بود. او در کودکی من، به هر یک از فرزندانش پاره زمینی در باغ خانه داد تا باغچه‌ای درست کنیم. بچه‌های دیگر چندان علاقه‌ای به این کار نداشتند. آنها بازی را بیشتر دوست داشتند. ولی من دانه‌هایم را به هنگام با دقت می‌کاشتم. آب را از حوض یا چاه نزدیک می‌آوردم. گیاهان هرزه را بی‌درنگ وجین می‌کردم. همانگونه که می‌گویند: «اگر نتوانید از باغچه‌تان نگهداری کنید، از میهن‌تان نیز نمی‌توانید.» باغچه‌ی من بهترین بود؛ زیبایی‌اش بر همگان آشکار. این نظم را از مادرم آموخته بودم. مادرم بسیار پرهیزکار بود. روزی چند بار نماز می‌خواند، هرگز واژه‌ی بدی بر زبان نمی‌راند، هیچگاه دروغ نمی‌گفت. پدرم نیز مسلمان بود، ولی در جوانی گاهی نوشابه‌ی الکلی هم می‌نوشید و ورق‌بازی هم می‌کرد. پیش از نماز دهانش را آب می‌کشید. در کتابخانه‌اش قرآن و کتاب‌هایی از عارفان ایرانی داشت. شاعرانی که در درازای هزار سال اسلام را نرم و ملایم کرده بودند، به آن رنگ و بو بخشیده بودند، ایرانی کرده بودند. در آن زمان که داشتن کتاب کار آسان و عادی نبود، پدرم با کتاب‌فروش محلی قراردادی داشت. او هر بار کتاب جدیدی به دستش می‌رسید، باید یکراست نسخه‌ای به خانه‌ی ما بفرستد. هیچ‌گاه آن بامدادی را که صدای کوبیدن در را شنیدم، فراموش نخواهم کرد. کتاب‌فروش آمده بود و در دستانش کتاب شاهنامه‌ی جدیدی بود. نامه‌ی شاهان. یکی از بلندترین شعرهایی که تا کنون سروده شده است، بیش از پنجاه‌ هزار بیت شعر. همه‌ی داستان‌های مردمان‌مان. همه‌ی ایران در شعری یگانه. و همه‌شان سروده‌ی یک شاعر: ابوالقاسم فردوسی. شاهنامه کتاب نبردهاست. کتاب شاهان و شهبانوان، اژدهایان و اهریمن‌هاست. کتاب پهلوانانی‌ست که ایران را در برابر نیروهای اهریمنی پاس می‌دارند. بیشتر داستان‌ها را از بر بودم. هر ایرانی داستانی از شاهنامه می‌‌دانست. ولی من هیچگاه همه‌ی داستان‌های شاهنامه را یکجا در جلدی چرمی و زیبا ندیده بودم. آن کتاب هرگز به کتابخانه‌ی پدرم راه نیافت. آن را یکراست به اتاقم بردم

[serene-faerie]

Canon Mortal/Elf couples as aesthetics:

Andreth/Aegnor— a pale sunrise over the mountains, reading a well-loved book beneath a maple tree, long braided hair, autumn leaves, beaded jewelry, the golden hour, a tranquil lake, kissing the freckles of one's face, silver courtly robes, earth-coloured dresses, morning horse rides, shy smiles, the ache of nostalgia, herbal tea, writing love poems, campfire stories, forget-me-nots, flickering candles, red robins, the smell of cinnamon, a bowl of mushroom soup, amber gemstones, the taste of lingonberries, bittersweet memories, tears of regret, parting ways but never letting go.

Beren/Lúthien— hot summer nights, dancing barefoot in a glade, daisies, gentle warrior hands, sweet blackberries, fiery sunsets, flower petals caught in strands of hair, stubble tickling smooth cheeks, fireflies lighting up the night, stars that glitter like diamonds, crystal clear waters, shimmering skin, dark-green capes, flowing blue gowns, kisses upon fingertips, nightingales, blue butterflies, strolls through the forest, the sound of rushing rivers, the smell of lilacs, undying loyalty and love, the pale blue dawn, a crackling campfire, silver jewelry, emeralds, always keeping promises, a life of peace and bliss together.

Tuor/Idril— baroque architecture, eyes as blue as the ocean, braided golden hair, white doves, grandiose fountains, sparkling white towers, the smell of rosewater, grand baths with petals in the water, citrus trees, stolen kisses in flower gardens, an instant connection, rich silks, gold jewelry, blue summer skies, a shining city, snow-capped mountains, chandeliers of crystal and gold, sunlight filtering through stained glass, high ceilings, marble floors, the warmth of falling in love, romantic paintings, pink roses, rebuilding a broken home together, staying strong for others.

Aragorn/Arwen— elegant wooden archways, pale pink evening skies, all-knowing smiles, quiet moments in a library, holding hands, flowing velvet gowns, jewel tones, whispered reassurances, undying faith, a crystal pendant on a silver chain, the smell of lavender, twinkling stars above, cups of fruit wine, the taste of dark chocolate, sweet nothings, words of love, juicy pomegranate seeds, impressionist landscape paintings, romantic architecture, love sonnets, cursive handwriting, marble towers, thrushes, accepting the impermanence of life, bittersweet grief, bare trees, a cold winter.

[dk-thrive]

You may choose Summer. For my part I quicken to the lean, uncloyed and celibate Winter. Then the cold bodies the breath before the eye; platinum twilights, drained of gold, lie wide and clean in the freezing sky; safe in the seed is Spring, packed little; beech leaves flicker like fire gone low; and cricket corpses, scattered and brittle, are ruined fiddles under the snow.

— Dilys Laing, from "Song for December," Another England (1941), The Collected Poems of Dilys Laing (The Press of Case Western Reserve University, 1967)

[ss-shitstorm]

To you my friend, I wish to lend; Some effort through this poem, In return, for what I've learned Your wisdom sown as seeds in loam;

Because of you, I think it's true; That humans aren't all so bad, In fact I think, I've made some friends, Ones I trust who don't pretend; I feel your hurt, You think you're curt, Which can't be farther from the truth, For Quality, Not Quantity, Means all the more to me; I hope someday, Your heart will play, Freely unbound once more; And that you'll know, Through rain or snow, You're loved through highs and lows.

cryin @ 11:38 AM on a tuesday was not in my bingo book but. hey. it's a happy cry. gimme dem endorphins bitch.

anon thank you so, so *fucking* much for this. I am the most unwell person I know so I will probably continue to have periods of saddrunkcrisisbeeposting for the rest of my life, but knowin there's fellas out there like you waving your compassionate arms and screaming your compassionate poems into my inbox makes the next couple rounds of rock bottom not look so scary

blessed be my friend <3

[thevoiceofthebard]

Uthgerd VII: The Way of The Voice

Morndas 28th of Last Seed 4E201 Early Evening

Uthgerd

"Why, exactly, am I holding the supplies again?"

I'm going to kill him. "Because you're the one who agreed to help that fisher. And because that ice wraith almost bit my ear off when I was fumbling for my sword. And because I'm much larger than you."

"Exactly! You'd be able to carry it much more easily."

I am going to kill him. "Do you want to hold the big sword and fight off the wolves?"

A pause. "I suppose not."

"Then shut it, and let's keep moving."

I feel a bit guilty for being so curt with him, but the thin air is getting to my head. Thinking alone is difficult, let alone fighting. Thankfully, the road has been blessedly empty for the most part, only a few wolves roaming about. Any sane creature had already taken shelter; only the wraiths caught me off guard about halfway up the Steps. The cold was bitter, and the winds could gust terribly. And the snows were beginning to pile up. Wonderful. As if the path wasn't difficult enough to find and follow. Gods forbid if we don't make it to the top before the skies darken; the sun's nearly at the horizon.

Suddenly, the winds abate. We've entered some sort of small valley, rocky walls shielding us from the elements. Blessed relief. Neither of us have the strength to spare, even with the break in conditions, so we spend the next few minutes in silence, making our way through the gorge.

"Can we...? We need... to rest... please... Uthgerd."

I almost snap at him; I can see the end of the valley ahead. But when I look at him, propped against a wall, already sliding to the ground, I can't bring myself to berate him. He wasn't built for this kind of journey in a single day. "Five minutes?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank Y'ffre."

That name again. He'd sworn by it more than once in my presence, but I'd never asked before. "Who is that?"

"Y'ffre? He is the Storyteller, patron of bards. Or at least, most bards."

I frown, sitting beside Talao. "Never heard that name before."

"Not terribly surprising, as a Nord. He's not present in your creation tales. Nor does he have a parallel like Akatosh has in the Altmer's Auri-El."

"Stories. You bards with your stories and tales."

He nods vigorously. "Yes, tales! Y'ffre spun tales to bring order to the inconstancy of the world the Aedra created. He... but pardon, you didn't accompany me to hear orthodoxy."

He looked so wretched; as though he was used to people shutting him down about his beliefs. "No, no, it's fine. It just seems odd for a god of 'order' to also be the creative type."

"Well... it isn't order of the kind the Daedra Jygallag might desire, imposition of order to the detriment of individuality. Rather, it means he gave things meaning and substance. His works are his 'tales,' and his first tale was creating the forests and life of Valenwood. His second was to create the Bosmer, back when the life of the world was a shifting, ever-changing mass of chaos. Nothing had any stable form, a spirit would be a bird one moment, a walrus the next, then a flower, all things constantly in flux - an Ooze, the Bosmer say. Y'ffre took it all and ensured that what was always would be the same."

"And this makes him 'The Storyteller'?" I found myself more interested by the story. If his god existed, it had certainly blessed Talao with a gift.

"Well, consider: Stories and poems are order as well, whether by meter, or rhyme, or style. Without that order, it would be no different than regular speech. Speech itself for that matter. But more importantly, a story ensure that what happened will always be."

"What do you mean?"

"Hmm... Let's take Helgen. It was destroyed by a dragon, right? Right. But say no one had lived to witness the destruction firsthand, and someone came to trade the next day, and found the town wiped from the map."

He paused, expecting an answer, I suppose. "Well, he would be confused, to say the least."

"Aye. With none to tell what had occurred, he could only speculate. Maybe a group of giants had gone on a rampage. Or vengeful mages with a hatred for the Empire. Perhaps even the wrath of Shor himself razed the town from existence."

"He'd still be wrong."

"Would he?"

He gave me a knowing look. "Ah. I think I see your point. If not for the actual knowledge of what happened, the history could be anything at all."

"A historical Ooze, if I may. It is that 'tale' which informs the truth and order of the events of that day. The trader still remembers all his friends that lived there, and so they still exist in some way. His receipts, a story shared over a mug of ale. Words have such power to shape history, and to influence the hearts of man, mer, and beast. And not always for good. Y'ffre was said to have taught the birds to sing, the waves to lap and crash. He gave names to everything in the newly created world. His song was so beautiful, the very stars in Aetherius danced and swayed in that first night sky, and even to this day do they continue to blink from the memory of that time. That is the power I strive to channel with mine own tales. I would consider my life well-spent if I could embody even the smallest bit of the gift with which he imbued this world."

As though he didn't already. "Perhaps I need to spend more time around you and less with that spoony bard Mikael. He has not half the talent you do."

He smiles, a hint of shyness. "You flatter me."

"No, I don't." He doesn't answer for moment, searching my face for... something. I do hope he took my words sincerely. Then he turns his gaze out of the passage. "What if your tale is different from the one you envisioned, though? If you truly are Dragonborn, then Akatosh himself is influencing the world."

"That's still a large if."

"Don't patronize me, Talao, we both know better," I scoff. "I may not be as well-read or knowing as you, but I know that Dragonborn change the world around them. Things are going to happen. Have happened. And Akatosh looked down at us mortals, saw something important was going to happen soon, and decided that you would be the instrument of his will. Why yo-"

Pain suddenly, blinding pain. I'm flying through the air past Talao and my back is on fire, rolling across stone and snow. Talao yells my name, even as something else yells even louder over him. I can barely think, fumbling for my sword, knowing only that we're under attack, my vision swimming. Through the stars, I can see it. A troll. A godsdamned frost troll. Slow, but powerful, claws larger and sharper than daggers, standing twice my size. And it got the drop on us somehow. Just standing is painful, must have broken some ribs. Shit. No time to think, it's coming right for me.

I dodge a swipe of its claws, only to almost lose my footing. Every movement is agony, as though the claws had raked me anyway. I slice the troll's side quickly, distracting and infuriating it. It thrashes, missing me only by sheer luck. A fireball staggers it, knocking it off balance, and I see Talao holding out his staff, the head steaming from snowflakes touching the still hot wood. Thank Kyne for that old miser Farengar. We might have a chance after all. But then the troll turs to Talao, bellowing at him as a new threat. Its charge is slowed by a few more fireballs, but it is unstoppable, upon Talao in seconds. He raises the staff to defend himself, but the troll breaks it in half with a single blow.

Thankfully, it buys me enough time to reach them both. I deflect another gigantic arm from disemboweling Talao and cut across the troll's head, mangling its sensitive third eye. It screeches terribly, the other two eyes glaring at me with as much hate as the simple beast could possess. I manage to keep it at bay for a few more blows, but I can't damage it faster than it heals; already its eye is regrowing, and there's no sign of the first wound I made except for a tinge of blood on its fur. I'll need to kill it outright, or else -

I try to block another swipe, but too late. Pain, indescribable pain blooms from my right arm and side. But I can't stop now. I let my battle fever blot out the pain and swing to behead the beast. But I only meet empty air. What?

The troll grabs me in its sinewy hands, lifts me over its head, throws me. I almost careen straight off the cliff, as the troll beats its chest in victory. A bit early to celebrate, I think. I can't feel my sword in my hand. Where is it? There, by the troll. But it's in someone else's hand. Wait, no, that is my hand. What?

I look down.

What?

My arm is gone.

What?

No.

I can't think.

I can't

I...

The troll. Focus on the troll. It's stalking toward me. I try to get up, but I put my weight on an arm that isn't there anymore. More pain.

Is this... the end?

I hear more noise. Talao shouting. "Run," I say. But I can barely hear myself.

He's shouting "No! Uthgerd! Damnit, get away! Get away! FUS MUT DO MU!"

I feel something. More pain. Some energy. The troll flies past me. Into open air.

It falls.

...

Then it's quiet but for the winds.

Talao is there suddenly. "Uthgerd. By the Gods, Uthgerd." He frets, tearing off cloth, trying to stop the bleeding. "Gods, there's so much... Uthgerd, what do I do? Mara preserve, please."

"Talao." My vision is fading. I can see tears on his cheeks though. "Don't you... it's alright."

"To Oblivion with that! Here, I have potions, you have to-"

"Stop. You have to... go on. As do I." An old phrase my father told me comes to mind, for some reason. "A true Nord never fears death. It's the how and why of it that matters."

"Uthgerd..."

"Sovngarde awaits me, Talao." The pain is less now. I can't see, and I feel the cold for the first time. "Talao... I believe... in you... Dragonborn."

All is darkness... I...

...

...

...

Hu zran nu, kul do od, wah aan bok lingrah vod.

Aahrk fin tey, boziik fun, do fin gein.

Chapter 21 - Klimmek I: The Way of The Voice x Chapter 23 - Arngeir I: The Way of The Voice

[majestativa]

Within, […] memory is fragrant.

— KNUTS SKUJENIEKS ⚜️ Seed in Snow: Poems, transl. by Bitite Vinklers, (1990)

[april-is]

April 22, 2025: Meanwhile the Watermelon Seed, Idra Novey

Meanwhile the Watermelon Seed Idra Novey

On Tuesday, new prisoners arrive.

In late fall, when leaves clog the gutters and their last colors go out like stars, new prisoners arrive.

As another plane pitches upward and a red finch drops for landing.

As fleets of schoolchildren go forth in pursuit of green candy.

At three a.m., when dogs shift position on the bed and stir their owners who look out and find it’s snowing.

In the hour when I call my sister and she empties the dishwasher, new prisoners arrive.

In the hour when drivers click on their headlights and flowers close and fireflies get trapped in jars.

On the evening when I see no one, read nothing, and somehow the hours are gone.

In the sweltering city, where a friend brings a watermelon and we spit its seeds onto the roof of the museum next door and the world seems repairable and temporarily right, new prisoners line up outside a pair of doors, enter one at a time.

--

(Check it out: You can now browse a list of every poet ever featured here, linked to their poems. Find old favs and new! Ignore the rumors, I certainly didn't spend far too long in a satisfying state of hyperfocus making it.)

Today in: 

2024: Kinder Than Man, Althea Davis 2023: Dearest,, Jean Valentine 2022: Birth, Louise Erdrich 2021: Cicada, Hosho McCreesh 2020: Future Memories, Mario Meléndez 2019: Little Girl, My Stringbean, My Lovely Woman, Anne Sexton 2018: First Night, D. Nurkse 2017: Einstein’s Happiest Moment, Richard M. Berlin 2016: Yiddishland, Erika Meitner 2015: July, Kazim Ali 2014: This Morning in a Morning Voice, Todd Boss 2013: Paralysis, Peter Boyle 2012: from Mayakovsky, Frank O’Hara 2011: Northern Pike, James Wright 2010: Humpbacks, Mary Oliver 2009: Alone, Jack Gilbert 2008: From Blossoms, Li-Young Lee 2007: For Grace, After A Party, Frank O’Hara 2006: Wild Geese, Mary Oliver 2005: A Brief for the Defense, Jack Gilbert

[aurora1040]

Forest Fire (11/30/k24)

The flames have burned out,

Faint orange red embers glow,

Trees made of coal,

Clouds made of smoke.

The forest had burned down

White petals of ash like snow

When you look out, do you see gloom or hope?

Look a little closer,

Dig your finger into the ashes.

Your nail is tipped in pitch black soot.

When the rain starts coming down,

The soot infuses with the ground

The soil is now carbon rich.

And unseen to the naked eye,

The bright red flames that licked the sky

Opened pods, releasing seeds, scattered all around.

The unborn lay upon their nutritious bed

Taking it all in then reaching deep into the ground.

When the sun begins to shine,

Those rooted seedlings sprout with time

Encompassing the blackened ground

With the green green life of hope and rebirth.

[More of my poems here]

[princessxlilac]

pomegranate

a poem inspired by my scorpio moon & rising:

vultures access the rape of sabine

hell has found its brand new queen

mother demeter wails in the streets,

“something precious has been taken from me!”

i am persephone

goddess of the spring and what’s buried deep underneath it

yes i ate the pomegranate

i was searching for something pure and romantic

i know now that my ignorance was taken for granted

it’s crimson seeds were not sweet,

they were bitter and poisonous

id fallen for someone soulless

when i stooped to a new low

you dragged me down into the basement

so i begged the gods in heaven for acknowledgment

red rubies look dirty on white snow

brandished to me a silver blade that whispers

seething hot words so dark and sinister

it tells me “he should wilt like my roses do in the winter!”

yet i try to remain my kindest through all the ice storms and violence

my tired heart grew violets

fertilized by the pain of my love’s departure

i know that i can flower regardless of your nurture.

[instruth]

PETALS, O PETALS

Petals, white as snow

They smile they glow

A display of beauty

Hugs of security

For you and me

When petals fall

Aloneness befalls

Vulnerability shows

And a new life flows

From seeds we sow

Forget what will not last

Let go of the sweet past

To hibernate and fast

Till the trumpets blast

A universe, oh so vast

©Johnny J P Lee

01 February 2025

A Gogyoshiren Poem 15

Photos Credit, J. P. Lee

[paganravennest]

Musings about Imbolc

I know it's the wrong time of year but writing in my new journal about the Sabbats has gotten me thinking on how they best link up to my local clime and life. Right now I'm hung up on Imbolc specifically and what always helps me is when I write out what I'm thinking. So here is a quasi-poem on Imbolc.

Imbolc is in the belly,

It's the completed cold stratification of seeds,

Who now await the Sun's warm kiss,

While being insulated by their blanket of snow.

Imbolc is in the belly,

And in the bears' dens,

Birthing vulnerable babes,

So that when nature's bounty returns,

They are ready to experience and explore.

Imbolc is in the belly,

And it's also in the seed catalogues,

It's starting mix and heat mats,

Plant lights and rows of dainty sprouts,

So that when nature's mildness returns,

They are hearty and hale, ready to soak it all in.

Imbolc is in the belly,

It's the time of waiting and nurturing,

It's the time of guarding the vulnerable,

Till they are ready to stand on their own in the sunshine.

[cupieces]

cupie

Green

My poem is about green.

That different kind of green with no need of an introduction

That green that sows and grows seeds of greed in fields stolen from our native families.

Fields ran by man with the plan for more.

More green.

More greed.

More feed for the slaughter house, for the foot by foot cage with mange clad lives, lives wasted.

More of telling us to be neat and act sweet and ignore what we can't see, because the truth is: that green is just the beginning.

Greenhouse gasses responsible for the fall of lives flitting past us, causing the ice and snow to melt and grow the oceans size until when?

Another disaster caused "naturally" but until then they sit in neutrality, not affected because the size of their pockets reflect their ethics.

Its that green we can feel, when at our heels the pain of lost meals reminds us o'our place THEY say we belong.

When we're shivering shaking under blankets cuddled up to family to make what little more heat we have last.

When on our last bit of luck we tuck away the tears and fears of today to think of a better tomorrow, to remind ourselves,

We forget

there is a better shade of green.

A shade already made by the trees, a shade that aids the healing of our hearts, brought by bees that nuzzle atop peonies.

This green has been here since before that green, since before you and before me, a green that heals and doesn't steal or make deals with the evils of humanity.

This green is right under our nose, under our feet, under your seat and only on our luck can we see it.

A community of love and harmony, friends and family locked hand in hand as the forgiving land of our home offers an end.

The end of that green. The end of a societal slaughter, of lives torn apart to be worn as art by those with no heart.

If they saw this green the way they saw that green then maybe they'd appreciate,

See the fiend in themselves, while the planet feeds itself with no help from us.

This green brings anew, heals the place gone askew from the ones that battered it down to drown out the sound of the birds.

This green provides an end to the end.

Its with this green that we can see the means of our futures together.

So when you find yourself wondering for answers or looking for truth in your phone screen, I hope you remember my poem about Green.