The Stone Field

 

The Stone Field

Broken stones

are still stones.

I have become something else

with the wind and storms and rain

broken and not reborn, here.

Still, you seek me out through our

thousand lifetimes of separation and

the resultant scarring.

But only here are we together

on the starlit stones

and just as icy on our skin.

This realm is one of feathers and flight and all things impossible

through magic

through wishes and coins and the sacrifice of flames

that would have warmed us

called us into being through all realms

and time

and thought

if only we knew

how to heal a stone.

–Willow Croft

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ghost Stories?

 

So, as if I don’t have enough to do, I’ve been hit by the inspiration muse for my next book of poetry. At least for the overarching theme of it (like how galaxies/alternate dimensions/astrophysics/time travel was for the last book). I was thinking maybe the paranormal/unexplained/ghosts, but have the poems revolve around lost people/opportunities, especially since I have been pretty chimerical throughout my life, and a lot got jettisoned and left behind in the wake.

“I liked you the way you were. I liked your walls. I liked being the one to bring them down.” Hook, Once Upon a Time

Here’s a sample one:

The Secret Life of a Chimera

I admit,

you were one of the ones

I had little regret about

and didn’t count you

among my secrets-to-the-grave.

There was zero nostalgia there

except maybe that time

we went to another dimension

with the help of…synthpop, was it?

Whatever it was, it was a beautiful step

out of time, on that Vermont road

clean and pure and transcendental as ice

that, luckily, wasn’t also on the road.

That’s how I remember you.

I will never admit that I think about

the play you wrote that saw the

me no-one else did.

But last night, out of nowhere,

out of years bygone,

I dreamed of you,

pineapple bright,

with a unicorn heart

full of rainbow love, just for me.

And I let you hold me, prickly pineapples

and prickly me and all.

I don’t know what was more confusing

that I let you in, or that I let you go.

And I wished another impossible wish

(they’re the only kind I’m allowed)

that you were the one to break down my walls.

 

–Willow Croft

 

Thieves of Totality

 

Thieves of Totality

All I have are thieves.

Thieves of time.

Of space.

And captured in the nostalgia

for past selves

or selves I never was.

artist

dreamer

world-changer

lover and

loved.

Those things,

lost among the ruins,

even those are fading to black,

yet

they still whisper to me,

crazy,

worthless,

and so many more judgments.

All the things I was not, yet

they have convinced me it’s

too late to do anything

except wait for the totality of silence.

 

–Willow Croft

 

 

 

 

The Alchemy of Time

 

The Alchemy of Time

The hourglass feeds on ghosts

it slows but never sleeps

the selfsame cycle of sand

still ticking away into eternity.

I should be able to

break free

but nothing ever changes

except in dreams.

Which is real?

this static reality

or endless worlds

born from chimera and

fire.

Every night, I escape to

a new unknown

Which would you choose?

I ask, while knowing the answer,

yet, still, entrust my last wish to you,

mystic warrior,

walker of worlds,

and my never-ending ghost.

Please, fracture time

and bring me home.

–Willow Croft

 

Friday Wordlings…

 

I lost quite a few things during my last journey, so I’ve been retracing my steps in hopes of collecting them.

Things have just been…things.

Also, I’m afraid I’ve neglected my muse(s) as of late, but I took them on a blissfully simple summer picnic at the beach.*

I’ve been losing everything. It’s all sliding through cracks in the universe. Momentum. Focus. Dates. Stuff somebody just told me the day before. Or five minutes ago. Time goblins at work, maybe. Or I’ve gotten old in the space of a week.

In addition to the goblins that are taking up most of my brain space, I’ve had little wordlings floating around in my head. They seem significant, but that’s the curse of the creative sort. It seems wonderfully magical, or horribly prosaic. Still, I’ll put them away for safekeeping. Just in case the goblins get hungry.

a forest of ferns

endless, seething thunderstorms

ancient worlds with no humans

essence of summer

second chance to be a kid

Jurassic plants

friendly demons

scientific magic

horse guardians

a rainbow’d unkindness of ravens

*Disclaimer: This is complete fiction. I’m nowhere near a beach. Except in dreamworlds. But I’ll send you a map if you bring the picnic. Or surprise me with a new When.†

†also fiction‡

‡But also possibly real in some other dimension.

 

 

 

 

…ships and sealing wax…

 

http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/walrus.html

I dreamt of my muse last night. That’s not unusual, but the nature of their entrance was not typical. Usually, it’s pretty dream-like…like I know it’s not really happening. That they are a fictionalized construct of that person, and the whole experience will end up in a poem.

Viola De Lesseps: I love you, Will, beyond poetry. —Shakespeare in Love

Last night, though? I didn’t even go looking for my muse, or build a dream around them before I went to sleep.

Bam.

With all the force of a shock wave, they were there. Like lightning went all through me. My dreaming mind didn’t quite know what to do…and I’m used to having really vivid, lucid dreams. Imagine if somehow a flesh-and-blood person showed up in your dream, with no dream filters like magic and wishful-thinking scenarios or even surreal situations. And yet there was still magic surrounding my muse in their black-and-white (?) t-shirt and black jeans and looking a bit annoyed with having to punch their way into my dream. Sort of like a psychedelic swirling of rainbow colours behind them.

It was definitely one of the more interesting dream voyages I’ve had. So far, I haven’t found a poem to put that experience in, yet. Because it felt too real. And, yet, still wonderful.

So I wasted time channeled that perplexing dream into creating a new Pinterest board to display some of my sources of inspiration for my poems. Poetic Muse-ings

What sort of things serve as muses in your worlds?

William Shakespeare: My muse, as always, is Aphrodite.
Philip Henslowe: Aphrodite Baggett, who does it behind the Dog and Crumpet?
Shakespeare in Love