For a Would-Be Spellslinger

First, you have to listen
for the under-rhythm pulsing
everywhere
from the stars to the earthworms.

This is where all true magic begins.
Pay attention,

to the ones that help you
not only to find the natural thrum
of your spirit, listen
for the ones that harmonize
with your softest chords.

Now you are ready to craft
music that shifts
possibilities to probabilities,
earning the title of spellslinger
with every newborn note.

Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for Magaly's prompt at Poets and Storytellers United Friday Writings prompt, Such Inspiring Titles. The first book I read in 2023 was Spellslinger by Sebastien De Castell. My poem has nothing at all to do with the book (which was a heck of a lot of fun and a great way to kick off 2023's reading list).

Fisher Queen

I told a story to the river

about a mutual friend of ours
and how she loved
the way its scent would carry the stories
of what happens
when the river meets the sea.

The river said seeing me
reminded it of a story,
the one about an old king
and a wound that would not heal.

"The Fisher King", I said, remembering
she loved stories of Camelot too.
It’s true. Some wounds never really go away.

But the thing about a heart
that will always bleed a little,

means that there’s plenty to use as ink
to craft into stories
about kings and queens,

that I can tell to the river
so it can carry them back to the sea.

Photo by Jared Subia on Unsplash

Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Friday Writings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Bleeding Heart.

Ordinary Is

Ordinary is
feeling like an animated five-year-old
when the rising sun makes patterns through my curtains
that feel like a secret message for me to decipher.

Ordinary is
tasting the alchemy between the elements
that created my morning tea.

Ordinary is
picking up a wriggling earthworm from a puddle
and wondering if it thinks of me as a mad eldritch horror
that had a sudden moment of benevolence.

Ordinary is
tucking in the bones of the flowers that I planted on a whim
under a bed of decomposing leaves
much to the dismay of my HOA.

Ordinary is
staring up at the stars to chat about my day
and the way we always decide

this still isn’t a bad life at all
by the end of our conversation.




Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Friday Writings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Ordinary.