Morning sun enshrouded;
Misty fog's halo blots her warmth and light,
clouds obscuring all in wispy flight.
Precariously symbiotic,
crisply, cold-gray fingers cling
on buildings glittering
in fragmented rays.

AMAT

all poetry copyright, AMAT

FREY

Calling winds speak your name,
under trees where calm remains.
Never-ending potent power,
earth, air, water and fire.
Dancing sun in the bower
defines each and every hour;
Your electric energy,
is the eternal flame.

January 31, 2004 AMAT


HE

Still silhouette against the moonlit sky,
outlined in the green of summer,
Branches spread in silver splendour
turn with movement of a noble head.

Heart throbs echo in the voice
of a steady drum,
so sweetly sings the hum.
The whoosh of wings fills the air;
the owl speaks her mind there
beneath the sparkling stars.

Still silhouette against the moonlit sky,
outlined in the green of summer.
Branches spread in silver splendour
turn with movement of a noble head.

Signals of the heart are given.
Eye to eye and hand to hand.
Our dance began;
The essence of your mystery,
evolving from earth’s history,
fill my rainbow-self.

Still silhouette against the moonlit sky,
outlined in the green of summer.
Branches spread in silver splendour
turn with movement of a noble head.

Moments confident this sacred gift,
Entrusting my heart to your intent,
with each word, new meaning leant.
Sweet lips that breathe this air,
bring moments without care,
insistent with our desire.

Still silhouette against the moonlit sky,
outlined in the green of summer.
Branches spread in silver splendour
turning with movement of a noble head.

Dawn awakens yet another day,
to landscape green and gold,
where lovers within arms hold
in warmth of tender care.
Tenuous fingers lingering there,
slip silently apart.

Still, He is against the morning sky,
outlined in the green of summer.
Antlers branch in bony crown
turning with the noble head.

Upon summer flowers his feet pass.
Softly, He turns and walks away,
with squirrel, wily fox,and fae.
Twinkling lights of magick lingers now
As all nature seems to bow
in awestruck time suspended.

Still, He is against the morning sky,
outlined in the green of summer.
Antlers branch in bony crown
turning with the noble head.

Original Draft January 2001
September 15, 2007
Third re-write October 16, 2007



ADDICTION

Is there an antidote
to this intoxication?

Addiction...
Drums pound within me
vibrating the strings
of my soul.
Addiction...
Sweet, golden mead,
honey scented
through my nostrils,
fire-flamed, speads
through my veins.
Addiction ...
Is there no antidote?
Is there no antidote
for this intoxication?
Feel the vibrations
of the harp strings...
How your thoughts and spirit
spin rainbow threads,
of history and Lore.
Of history and Lore...
Sweet, golden mead,
fiery-tongued softness spreads
within me. Runes blinking
in and out, in and out,
of the coils of eternity,
to each given a
unique meaning.
Addiction...
The drums pound within me
vibrating the strings of my soul.
Sticks and stones,
cannot speak for my bones
in Hel's dark realm.
Is there an antidote
for this addiction?
Is there an antidote
for this intoxication?

AMAT January 8, 2008
January 9, 2008 draft 2

PSALTERY I

I will not tell you, yet again,
if you cannot hear my voice,
how my heart feels.
How my heart feels,
dancing like spiraling
incense upon the air.
You and I speak
different languages;
The love is there,
whether you take it
or leave it,
this is up to you
Deare Friend.

Time is spinning out;
too old for games
too old for games
of thoughtlessness.
Sharing is the gift;
a joyous moment
like the warmth
of sun on the skin.
Acceptance is a choice
and denial a cold wind.

The warp and weft
weaves life energy,
shimmering as strands
of the psaltery.
Each string
resonates with sound,
echoing, echoing all around.

Do I need you?

No.........

To cherish is not of need,
not like 'fast-food'
stuffed into the mouth,
un-chewed.
To please, Deare Muse,
harmony and song
unite the strands of time.
The love is there,
whether you take it
or leave it
is up to you.

AMAT January 7, 2008
1st draft

Fickle Spring

Another spring has come.
Long awaited through the bitter, freezing wind.
My toes seem always to be cold
from October to May. I must remember
to wear socks, but I long to be barefoot.
March.... Dark, swiftly moving clouds
have often blotted warming light
whilst playing peek-a-boo with the sun.
This fickle spring brought hail pellets
and an Arctic wind, with bits of warmth,
as the Ice Queen struggled to remain in control.
My garden has seemed to be as chilled
as I have been, and slow to trust this new year.

Green haze of the coming bluebells
has slowly spread across the edge
of the tilting cinderblock fence.
As I wash the dishes,
white, green and pale blue vegetation
are my Monet, framed by the kitchen window.
The grapevines, seeming to be dead,
bud tiny groups of fuzzy leaves,
pale pink and celadon green
against the browned vine. There is hope.
Yesterday, I plunged my fingers into the earth.
The seeds are sown.
Can summer come soon enough?

April 6, 2004