wyrdwind

The Ever After

Exclusion Zone

Summer solstice marks

the season of unrest, a lament

you’ve not heard. Once

we could count on storms, now

it just burns.

The last who remember before.

Flip phones or no phones,

no names on the net,

the computer’s place is a desk,

mistakes stay in the past.

From the window,

you wouldn’t know.

Sky blue and glare ghosts,

1950s and 70s cheerful,

streets empty of people.

Vultures wheeling a house

if the power blinks out.

Never knew someone lived there.

We scurry by in the small hours,

stirred up like hopping mice, burrowing owls,

and geckos. Little brown bats swoop

in the moonglow. An approachable furrow.

Leave my scratchings and readings, balmy

as a gymrat’s armpit. Bearable.

Not for long though.

Time enough to greet her,

sing some songs by the river,

scry her face for clues, ask

to know who I dream of,

where I belong.

Invasive Species

To be clear,

when it’s a tree spine snapping

-40 degrees, my order remains

iced black coffee.

I rock up with more vigor

than a fat flying squirrel.

Wool, boots, hat and go.

Black widows asleep in my bra—

when it’s on—bees bustle between

my thighs. Egg sack on my handlebars,

I leave well enough alone.

Skunks don’t trouble me none.

Called a kit from the dump

just because. Universal,

that scared baby trill. Where mama,

wee people hands grasping your skirt

adds years to your life.

Carrying all my groceries uphill over ice

without choice. Guttered in dirt slush,

well it be like that sometimes. Gravelly voice,

so slow to thaw, but it’s alright. It’s worth it

to mother what others miss.

Antihero Landing

Nobody squares up like a goose,

twenty four flapping pounds of fuck you,

these birds aren’t afraid to choose—

violence, yes—but partners too.

Oh they hit altitude,

go the distance, up and over Everest.

You read that right.

Seal Team Six shit—

sans imperialist trash. Silly

my ass. Never leave the fallen

behind. Be it your best friend

or your mate. Pity the lamed

fool whose dance card reads

my name.

Black Magic

When I had nothin’

but a place to sleep, a nest

of discarded things. Push pin mural

of gig posters off telephone poles,

pretty wrappers, and feathers.

Fallen branches strung with beads

and fairy lights. Traded heat

to smile inside. It’s not childish

if it’s how you survive.

Known a few ate guns for less,

got a brain throws fay gang signs

but I count myself blessed.

Sparkly depressed. Back then.

Bit like Tarzan. Bit like Tangled.

Come at this bitch sideways

and you’re best case scenario mangled.

Peace is when I can see myself

in my surroundings. This always seems

like absolute destruction

to those around me.

Chthonic Singles in Your Area

Women’s voices evolved

for range and specificity.

Language birthing.

But men,

theirs were selected for beauty.

Pleasing texture. I think,

I wonder, if First Woman walked

today, would the Goddess know

him by his timbre?

A worthy man

could only be broken

in this world. His signature, however,

intact. The most important piece.

The oldest stories speak

to her loss, to the betrayal.

A dragon, a serpent, denied

the sustenance of her consort.

Without him, only monsters born.

Not on her end of course, nah,

she can do what she wants,

ain’t no wrong.

But Jin, that spells apocalypse!

That’s just a woman’s prerogative.

If it’s not at her pleasure it ain’t fit

to exist. You get what you get.

Consider this your litmus test.

Bootstraps

Anyways, it’s not glass slippers,

it’s snake print Doc Martens.

Helluva time tracing these tracks,

closest I ever came to a prince

this funny dream I had way back,

running him down in the woods

at night. Some freezing, tar feathered

disaster boy. He was terrified.

Good times.

Can’t imagine what I look like

on the other side.

If you can’t get farther, you can just

be more. Full eldritch horror.

Gods said I’m bound to the earth.

Been a fuckin’ grind, for sure,

and the best bargain for youth

is body. Baby, one sip

of me and it’s the forever

kind of sleep.

Rule of Thumb

I pour the fucks I give

from a silver thimble, spiderwebs

off this spindle. Even so,

if I think well I say so, if there’s love

at all I’ll let you know. I am unsubtle.

Every day, every which way, because any day

could be your last. More than Covid

taught me that.

Always take an extra beat

for who shuffles their feet,

leave an extra seat, push back.

We’re tagged on a feed lot

headed for slaughter.

Sold a plan for life when we’re older.

Wage slave, stripper, or soldier.

I won’t roll over. I’m tired

but I’m still my Mother’s daughter.

The last text my coworker

ever received was me miles from her

asking if she needed anything

at the hospital.

May 19, 2025

climate change, mental-health, motherhood, mythology, poetry, romance, storytelling
Maternity Ward

You Belong to a Woman

Forgiveness is irrelevant,

every day do better than.

Closure, the fuck is that?

Ain’t beatin’ breast on a casket.

I’ll take any storm,

Gatling staccato over when,

you’re older then, below ground.

While we’re both around, let’s go out

where there’s no atlas, flood cracks

where the road was, mirrored sky,

what are you afraid of? Look

into my eyes.

Did you try?

It’s all just busted boxes

you call civilization. No power

to define. Boy,

I built you right the first time.

Black Madonna

Every curl or wave is where I lingered,

every stubble or peach fuzz. Every note

or color, you were born

enough.

You’re here for me to touch.

Pretty pebbles in a stream of song,

no competition if you’re all mine,

there’s no hurry beauty, my baby,

I have nothing but time.

When you were very small,

jostled and shadowed, loud, I paid

special attention. Littles

do latch on. You went on

and on and on. Every dream

you ever had until present,

until you fell asleep talking

in my lap.

Or when you saw my eyes open

and with a grubby hand

fed me from your snack bag

at five in the morning.

No words necessary.

Like when you left with me

every razor in your house.

Symbolic gestures help.

Or when my phone lights up late

and you’re looking for a reason,

it’s old boots now, walk

my love, you know

it’s not my first rodeo.

Toil and Trouble

We’ll settle it in the kitchen,

ain’t fuck all but an open mouth,

can’t wail around peanut butter sandwich,

here taste this, it’s missing

something.

Stir that sauce

while I make coffee,

do you take cream? Remind me

what she used to say, how

this dish is made.

But double on the spice babe,

only white is my surname,

it’ll be okay. Just okay,

I still consider this tame.

Tongue like cartoon flames.

Rings of fire are my safe space.

Not a fan of the electric range.

It’s best to see a thing, go analog.

If it’s too hands off you get lost.

Blistered palm, fire is hot. Adjust.

May 9, 2025

Brigid, mental-health, Mother’s Day, motherhood, poetry
Necromantic

Lavender Latte

I wear florals to funerals—

some unwritten rule I suppose—

and gods spare me hours of wake.

An ancient lady kissed my face,

that part’s okay. Who’s to say

which of those present were hers.

See something you like, lips first.

And I wasn’t settin’ foot in that church

without caffeine.

Kept the whole procession waiting

apparently. The Firstborn Son

certainly didn’t say anything.

Up, down, up, down, the whole

ordeal. Some kid picked his nose

in the front row and squealed.

Purple lights in a bird bath,

because Catholic. Intermittent Latin.

When I listened,

birdsong and children

at play. What goes on,

it’s my way.

Daddy did say

when I got a little older

I’d notice men do whatever

I ask. To be careful with that.

I don’t often task

them with things. It’s true,

they don’t say no to me.

Ran an asshole off the road for me.

Threw desks and came to blows

because someone had the audacity

to sit in my seat.

Native Tongue

Everyone knows these lines:

your name I cry aloud in the night,

first cut of my meat and sip

of my wine. All that is mine

to give. Oh I live

for my first language.

It’s not so much English.

It’s any instrument, rhythm

and remnant, rhapsody revenant,

syllabic supplicant.

Not the what of it, the how.

Art of the ember, breathing fire

wherever sparks be found.

Spirits need a house.

There’s no home without,

no child lost, it’s not bricks

or mortar, it’s warmth.

Sooner or later, sooner or later,

you return to the earth, herself

a molten heart, a mighty hearth.

Grip Strength

I’ve pulled thrice my mass

in a deadlift. Held an opponent

twice as big in simple guard

until he spent. Men

are a bit like horses in that

you can’t force them. A man

needs to know you understand

when you mount him. His nature

and what you’re askin’.

He’ll let you

put him through his paces,

move forward places no horse

can see, well the gods gave that gift

to me. I promise you’ll feel my weight,

it’s eternity, what’s unseen and pervades.

I’ve infinite flair for whimsy but baby,

I can swing. Low and deep,

they’ve never directly observed its waves,

perhaps a wider stance, open hands,

an anchor out to sea. It was always

my gravity set you free.

May 3, 2025

beltane, gothic romance, poetry, storytelling
Whole Milk

Roses

That doctor asked if I had a priest

to address what ailed me, beyond

his scope. As if my namesake stood

so I could go back to crawlin’.

Darlin’ ain’t no Son with rites to this,

I’ll bloom in perfect darkness

if I must. Went outside, spun,

and looked up.

When life gives you cortisol,

best to build muscles. Fuck it,

why not. Every night I walk,

sometimes until dawn, enough,

it’s enough to wear me down.

And now, miles and miles of muster,

of tears, a pungent bouquet

of desolate years. Hard won

in desert. Here, everything bites,

what lives does so in spite of the light.

Oh how I long for a wintry place,

cuddly bees and frost flocked eyes,

woolen embrace and fresh snow bright

in my window. Woke one morn,

and who did see me, wood neighbors’

tracks where they’d gone.

Big Cow Energy

There’s a funny man with funny hats,

used to wear a suit. Top floor city boy,

then one day he just quit. Said this ain’t it.

Remembrance of happiness, wrapped up

and split. Money can’t buy this, but

money can buy cows. The cutest,

Highlands, and land. He’s no rancher,

out there in Alaska. Got them

just to love them and left alone.

It’s very cold. You can imagine.

When his best girl grew old,

still had all her teeth. Such care.

Daily massages up to his shoulders,

her hips did crack brittle as branches.

He summoned the vet, gray in the eye,

asked her so softly, is it time? Is it Time?

Not yet, she assured. She has a good life.

You’ve given her a good life.

Only then did he cry.

Solar Punkalypse

Won’t be no Mad Max, firstly:

scurvy. Disease, generally. Rabies.

Can’t shoot gangrene. Horsemen, indeed.

How quaint. Who made all your saints?

Cooked the last supper? The red tent.

Your four riders are these: Death

with a shovel, muck boots, and black

Carhartt overalls.

Mycelium with a barrow, seedlings,

and patchwork threads. Off in the head.

Grandma with wizened hands, knitted

shawl like a cottage garden, hardest

and owed respect.

Bard with tooth and humor, puts a beat

and adds flavor. Power in words.

Pulled by oxen. They don’t move fast.

In process of proving what lasts.

Take a tumble who strays from their path.

Someday you’ll understand.

May 1, 2025

beltane, folk, poetry, post-apocalyptic
New Persephone

Pomegranate Kisses

Honey don’t be embarrassed,

I’ve not so much thumbs

as two green fists

and all them topside did need

to learn respect. I came

all the way down here just

to put Spring fingers all up in it,

this grave dirt,

and I’ll invent winter

to touch where that flower

keeps roots.

The most beautiful I’ve ever seen—

something coming from me—

sweetness it sure seems

like you’ve been waiting.

My journey was long,

you don’t make it easy,

and maybe this flusters your plans,

but I’ve never met a dog

wouldn’t be lapping my hand,

wouldn’t lie down for the night

or forever, suffer faithful

by my door. In the grand

scheme of things, one mouth

or three, there’s fruit

on this tree, skulls beneath.

Sometimes I’ll leave, lest

I love you to death.

Burst sudden forbidden color

when I put you to bed.

May Day

Full throttle V cylinder, hundreds

fold. Superbloom furious rushes

sand blasted roads. The ride way,

rumbles your legs, won’t hit the chorus

if you don’t bring the rain.

Discordant bellows, harmony not,

when she’s in season it’s all you’ve got,

don’t stop, don’t stop,

hell’s gate promises only drought.

Harder don’t mean faster, beware,

if you can’t take direction

she’ll take you there: crosses

and candles in ditches, snared.

Gremlin Bell

One street donkey town,

fuzzy baby boom, driftwood janky

and an old timey saloon. Arizona

about sums it up. Santa Muerte

for un-Catholics, criminals, deviants,

or drunks. Suicide gamblers

exsanguinated of luck.

Our Lady of the Dead,

a real heavy lifter, do everything

you can before you meet her. All

she asks for. And me, I’m a helper,

I won’t coddle your ass, but lover,

stay on these hips and I’ll make it

make sense.

Give it time, give it distance,

light some pillars and incense,

whatever goes bump in your nights,

throw hands enough it’s alright.

Told you once before, I can ride.

Till the end or die trying, it goes.

Don’t need prayers if I’m yours.

April 27, 2025

beltane, gothic romance, persephone, poetry, southwest
Savage Daughter 3/3

Empty Grave

Take me to the deeper woods,

I’ve brought all that we need, not much

to be happy. I’m not fussy, I’ll dig

a latrine. Our tent’s not huge, just room

for two. Fire banked and coffee brewed.

It’s no secret, I’ll stay out here

as long as you, if you just

stay too.

I prefer this view.

I like it cold because I radiate,

I like it far because I wander,

I like you simple on a rainy day,

I like you close. My hands work wonders.

If forever did exist, I’d spend it all

just like this.

Songs and stories and mountain mist.

Soft silence. Juniper and spruce.

Gone so long they think we’ve died,

giving townsfolk a deathly fright,

until every tree be kissed with ice,

then, I suppose,

we’ll go back inside.

White Hair

At the tip of my cervical spine,

there’s a birthmark. No color.

Wouldn’t realize now, it just looks

bright. Purity isn’t about the white,

the clean. Winter came early for me,

when you move like a grim reaper, things

separate, what is weak

from what will last, know

what is real,

you cannot mask

true nature.

The purpose

of the nursery rhyme.

It helps you remember,

cradle toys from the end of life.

If you can’t teach it to a child,

you don’t understand it

yourself.

These waters.

There’s no barrier

between young and old,

fool and grown.

Every story I’ve ever told—

there’s only one ending.

Where shall we begin?

Mitochondrial

All her bones were showing

but she kept trying, heard

the promise of me. Backwards

uterus or not she would conceive.

The first thing I did was force

her to eat. I was warm,

she felt no pain in any place,

healthy weight and blossom faced.

I grew at a ferocious pace, weeks early

and I wouldn’t wait.

Didn’t feel the pushing, either.

Trouble is, we separate.

Overgrowth, gnawing cells abound,

what flew high came crashing down. Bleeds.

Now you know what expensive means.

Call it depression or withdrawals,

I was something outside of herself.

A stranger.

It’s personal. I the Other and she

a woman no longer. What passed

from mother to daughter. Bones.

Been told and told all over

at random I’m a healer,

but mirror mirror all I ever see

is Her.

April 13, 2025

poetry, storytelling
Savage Daughter 2/3

Apocalypse Jelly

Saying goes you are what you eat

and grandpa who taught me a very busy

bee. Seven babies of his own plus one,

the number of instruments he played

and sung. I do default to soldier foods:

shit on a shingle, biscuits and gravy, sardines.

Keep half my meal in a bag, uncertainty between.

In the mean time, I sing.

Well grandpa had burning passion

for Irish verse—Shakespeare who?

A basic hoe. I crushed his work

at nine years old. Give me English

with a soul. I’ll have my songs

with meat on their bones.

The blackest rose.

Silver spoons puff their chests

over plays written for the poor

and grandpa, he carried a book

of filthy limericks all through the war.

World War. A curious inheritance,

himself bein’ Norse Dutch, if askin’

why it sounds like that at first. My verse.

Death Roll

It’s clear that He’s a fucking idiot,

the same clown shit it’s ever been,

that’s the thing about Emperors—

they’re always naked. People forget,

they’re just men. They’re not narcissists,

they’re just men. They’re not special,

they’re just men. Money don’t shield his skull,

nor God, papers and prisons the illusion of principles,

oops, those are spicy words. Can’t stand

for those. You can only claim to hold

what you’ll sacrifice for. Your innocence for.

You ignorance for. Your hands.

When my line of colonized mothers

look to me from beyond, I don’t ignore

this slight to them. Their ancestral land

in rapists’ hands. Forests of plenty

turned to sand.

Laughing Matter

She said she knew it

when she saw me dancing

all alone among the trees.

We’d go down together, free

as Anne Bonny and Mary Read.

Nothing I could ever do, damn

the rumors. If all be true.

Call us sisters, like those two girls

from Wolfwalkers. Wild hearts

howling at the moon.

Hyenas, Ice Queen and Medusa,

bonding over Silent Hill songs in her room.

We won’t smile for you. That much

bleeds through. Pants down maybe

we’ll be amused. Made a family

of sorts—your church-nerd sons

call me father now, who disowned who?

All that trash you thought made men,

spooked the Holy Ghost right out of ’em.

You’re welcome.

April 11, 2025

poetry
Savage Daughter 1/3

Well Wishes

You smack my mouth

for speaking truth, I snap

back twice as hard. Evil

is such a careless word.

My very first word

on this dying earth

was bite.

A girl with an appetite,

that’s me raiding cupboards

in the middle of the night.

My hunger offends in the daytime,

I’ll just take what’s mine, too expensive,

expansive, I go on the offensive.

I’m a good girl, not a nice girl.

Didn’t feel the difference at your hands.

I knew it when I counted what I loved

into the darkness at every scathing reprimand.

A crumpled pillow list, wonder who heard it,

on the floor somewhere. Under the bed. Down

an empty street in the wind. My birth

a bitter dream come true, wonder

who wished for me too.

Wanted Woman

With child Isis hid

among crocodiles in a river cave.

Notorious single mothers, jaws

can crush car bumpers or

ferry hatchlings in their wicked

grins. Thick skin. Armor even.

Come mating season longest lived

has her pick. Survival depends

on this experience, haven’t

seen fit to change it in, oh,

85 million years. Ancient,

was it comfort, a natal dark,

like the Nut sky who raised her,

stretched over, making love to the earth,

too hot to touch each other, stolen

pleasure between punishing heat spells,

they’re about language. Not for no reason,

she the master magician, skill enough

to wield the Sun god’s own name.

She made her way. The way I wove

quail bush tunnels by the river as I couldn’t go

home.

Water Walking

If you’ve never had to carry

five gallon buckets full

or bathe with a hose outside,

you’re in luck. It sucks, obviously.

Not the outside. That’s alright.

Coulda been worse, don’t get me

wrong. I don’t shrink from the fight.

Sometimes, you know, it would just be

nice

not to wake up and cry like clockwork,

a pacemaker, I’m grateful for those times.

Concurrent streams. Then and now make we,

tense a meaningless technicality, she

is the girl I used to be. Always present

in times of great need. The seed,

for raindrops and teardrops as precious

as grain. In the desert if you hope

to feed.

April 10, 2025

environment, mythology, poetry
Gothic Electric 3/3

Scary Godmother

They say you become who

would have saved you as a child.

I don’t know if that’s true,

but there’s nowhere in this world

or the next I won’t find you.

Ignore my toothy teasing dear,

I’d kill God and the Devil both

just to keep you here.

For whatever it may be worth,

if allowed just one companion,

it’d be your chatter to which I work

Eden from ashes of kingdoms gone.

Please, don’t be frightened.

I’m the one who set the fire.

Basked pale beside embers delighted,

your fine eyes so much brighter.

Errant Domain

Plants signal others when damaged,

stress reeks on mammals by breath

and through sweat.

What gives off, I wonder,

when you haven’t met another yet?

Some silent extinction level event.

As a youth I had the strangest Thing

about the smell of gasoline, wafting

some crucial memory like reaching

for a sneeze. Sat at gas stations

focusing.

In old school DnD

when nearest to the end,

any player professed of faith

or not

may roll for God Call. Anyone,

anywhere listening. Probability,

ghost in the machine, witness

to a scream.

They say paradise turned Sahara

in one generation

because God couldn’t hear himself think.

Better the best breed of noisy,

so I’m gonna turn it all green.

Witness me.

Real Estate

You don’t remember

how long you’ve been on this road,

where you came from or must go.

A journey you’ve taken alone.

All you know

is nowhere to call home,

keep moving, not home.

Indigo hills cast silver glow

between this wilderness

and another,

always another. One foot

in front the other.

Numb as a front line soldier

for whom never ends the war.

Once upon an exposed nerve

no more.

The way is clear, but this night

a door,

awkward as a teenager braving

the first dance floor.

It’s out of place.

But so are you.

Alas, it’s unlocked, too.

Curious cat and a twilight stoop.

Inside, a series of rooms,

and room to room it grows,

piles and trinkets somehow

familiar echoes.

Storied clutter crime scene outline

of where a human goes.

But when you reach the resting place,

so strong, you know.

You know.

Somehow you’ve lived here,

someone spent their life tracing

maybe one sketchy finger at a time

trying to feel the hands holding them

and didn’t get close enough

until just now.

You feel every step ever taken

all at once.

Just now. A human

body is so heavy.

When whoever built the only

house you’ve ever seen capable

of containing a spirit so restless

as yours returns, will they know you?

Or will you have to move on?

February 9, 2025

gothic, meditation, poetry, romance
Gothic Electric 2/3

Make Believe

I put my stuffed animals together

so they’d feel loved if I wasn’t there,

built houses and worlds and family to spare,

when my dead grandpa joined them

perhaps I should have been scared.

But this was a man held me and sang me,

fed me and read me every day of my life,

so what if he died?

Left a girlchild knows to be treated right,

besides, I see with more than my eyes.

I made do.

You’ve got Dreaming and dreaming and that

over there, music and noises and turbulent air.

If at three in the morning a semblance of peace,

some glow of affection wrapped around me

so for once unguarded I sleep,

that’s fine.

You have your words, and I have mine.

Were you better off inside those lines?

People pretend all the time, that this

is all there is. Opium den of acceptance.

I’ve got a golden eye in big furry darkness.

Don’t worry, I know the difference, I’m fluent.

It’s painfully obvious, you see.

Kuromaru

My organizational method

is Butterfly.

I keep everything out in the light,

what’s chaos to you is choir to me,

colors you can’t imagine sing, isn’t

obvious until I speak. Define

what an object means, the basis,

breakage, I still know

where the beginning and end is,

symmetry is how you maintain it.

Beauty is the story

of a court maiden who loved insects,

family hated how she dressed, no attempts

at a husband. Asked a dark sorcerer

to intervene. Society

resents this type of joy, you’d be pretty

if, so pretty if. To break her spirit

they planted kodoku beneath her bed.

For surely she wept for the blatant

disrespect of her peers, the open dismay

of her family. Once that foul insect emerged

surely his form so disgusting she’d

turn away.

Well this demon once born would bond

to his master. A disaster,

such was his power. By court order,

her pupal stage pet to be put down.

But she wouldn’t allow this.

Wounded by a gift’s retraction,

what should have been given with love

was merely a deception.

She’d never be enough.

She never gave up.

When he shook loose his cocoon,

something they’d never seen,

expected some vicious, torturous thing,

but no matter a sordid origin story,

nothing a demon can’t do or be, tamed

when his weird girl’s love gives him wings

and a name.

Bass Instincts

Now I like to have beasts,

little ones, or a man at my hips

at all times and anything less

ain’t no kinda life.

Not if he’s bland or annoyin’ though

and it’s pandemic grocery store pickin’,

inferior monocrop so borin’.

What’s a man

but hands, heart, and mouth open.

Tears aplenty no whinin’.

Wild, loyal, and grateful

whatever comes.

Needs ya more’n air in his lungs.

There should be blood between ’em,

Baby Boy throws down in arena—

don’t matter which one—

only cares you’ve seen him.

This is what a man does,

all else a snotty chihuahua

flashin’ teeth thinks he’s a big dog,

want ’em act right, huh?

Well you gotta be a woman.

February 7, 2025

gothic, romance