wrenching light it was

wrenching light it was
beautiful
childish in its own way
and awkward
sweet
in the black skirt
the azure shirt
smelling of leather
and cigarettes
strumming demure hymns to me
    under her breath

c 2005 David Feld

I Cannot Count the Ravens by Sight

I cannot count the ravens by sight
but sense and hear the brood,
glimpsing them only as they pass beneath
a ghostly swatch of moon-struck cloud.
In another spot I see them pass
and know their sojourn is not outward:
seems they circle and meet their path,
swelling and collapsing their ranks above the waters.

In waves the winds do carry
carnival sounds from beyond the treeline,
delivering ripple noise in pale fingers,
broken rings,
laughter skipping over a nostalgic lake.
The whisps bite and slip against my bones,
grate against my good sensibilities,
which feel thin and narrow and wanting.
I am surrounded, sure, but cannot see.
Likely eyes are in the shadows
that reflect thick, heavy absence, insincerity
and the hungry ache in my gut.

Small waters lap greedily at my feet;
from these boards safely I watch the world,
liquid, full of motion but madly unchanging –
My searching glance is met with idle stare.
The world sprung free from isolation.

(c)1996 David R. Feld

Found Poetry 8

Ye have no redeemer

If the wanderer in a summer’s evening
lays himself to rest by an elf-mount,
he soon hears the tones of a harp with sweet singing.

If he then promises them redemption,
he will hear the most joyful notes resound
from numerous stringed instruments; but if he says,
“Ye have no redeemer,”
then with cries and loud lament
they will dash their harps in pieces;
after which all is silent in the mount.

In the green woods and valleys,
in the meadow and on the hills,
the Elves perform their nightly ‘stimm,’
that is, play and dance,
from which cause the grass grows
luxuriant and of a darker green
in circles; these by the people
are called elf-dances,
and must not be trampled on.

- Swedish traditions