Wort Moon

Poetry

July is alternatively known as the Buck Moon by indigenous people throughout much of North America. This is because male deer, bucks, tend to have their antlers (which fall off in late winter) begin to show prominently at this time of year as they regrow in preparation for the fall rut. 

It has also been referred to as the Hay Moon, an Anglo-Saxon reference to the dry time when hay was due to be cut for livestock. A torturous ordeal in and of itself, cutting hay.

This year’s full moon is expected to have a red-orange tint in North America due to the smoke from a multitude of wildfires currently burning. Let us all pray to our respective gods to protect lives and homes during this difficult time. So mote it be.

Blossom Moon

Poetry

This moon is traditionally also referred to as the Flower Moon. However I prefer Blossom Moon, as a number of North American indigenous tribes referred to it. Blossom Moon, to me, better encompasses all things that explode with life in the spring. Flowers are beautiful, I keep my share, but they are not everything.

I do apologize – I am a day late with my full moon ode this month, but alas life does happen at times, and I have not been in a good frame of mind to write until today. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy.

© Wayne Davids

Secret Place

Poetry

What is cheerfulness
is it glee
what are all these emotions
I feel
that motivate me

Do I speak of those not
acceptable
Share my pain, my lethargic ennui
its all
I sometimes feel I’ve got

I’ll carry them in the secret
place inside
They call it heart or soul
but I
find it’s just the place I hide


© Wayne Davids
Image by Sammy-Williams from Pixabay

the shape of your hands — finding serendiipitii

Friends of Dinlas

gripped around warmth and song, caressing sharp teethand kissing bloodied lips. no screaming, just silence set against the crashing waves on an unexplored shoreline, breaking and sliding back with contentment. reminders embodied in stainless steel and gemwork tossing and turning on the thought of filling your hands and emptying herself. a grasp that never slips, […]

the shape of your hands — finding serendiipitii


For more of Ashley’s work pick up her book What the Sea Has Wrought on Amazon

Unseen

Poetry

The Unseen
a deity of force
who mortals fear
and offer remorse
a priest spoke his word
Felt his call
Walked his hall

Trinity
a coven of envy
who demand worship
from the mortal frenzy
they control the Unseen
made their rules
stoked the fuel

So it went
Unseen gave Trinity
wealth and riches
The priest they did torment
threw him to the jackals
manipulations
insinuations

Deities
recognize faithful
while remembering
the brazenly hateful
Unseen withdrew blessings
cursed their name
squelched their fame

Now they weep
for the return of glory
A deified muse
to tap for a story
he remains elusive
out of sight
fueling blight

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

I am a gallery — finding serendiipitii

Friends of Dinlas

I am a gallery, long floored and wide brimmed      no footsteps from tourists have padded these halls,       signs suggesting an escape from my reality are nonexistent.these white-washed walls stand at attentionfor my eyes only; examining the lives I lived many moons before.                   The doors […]

I am a gallery — finding serendiipitii

just bliss. — finding serendiipitii

Friends of Dinlas

and you’ve never tasted the Universe until you count the stars that have settled in your irises, and match them to hers; there is harmony within their fingers, tracing black and white down their temples ancient symbols of becoming one whole and you would never have guessed, never seen it coming, if she had told […]

just bliss. — finding serendiipitii