I am the fire spirit risen from Aries, I have been riven, on the birthday of Artemis I was born of a stardust promise.
I am to be sought not bidden. From in a dark place hidden. On the cusp of the gloaming, I may be found the hillsides roaming.
Summer nights, running through forests of love Entwined like tree branches intimacy found. Lips kiss as if greedily taking in water. Bodies intermingled like vines, sought and received Wrapped in each other’s arms, passion sated.
In the November snowfall. Through the darkness of night. My courage in both hands. The hours drifted by. The pain was numbed by gas and air. Suddenly, you were there – belovéd firstborn.
When one loves more than the other no good can come of it. The other cheats and tells lies A divorce follows.
the saddest thing is to be mourning the living, our estranged children
October sorrows recalled memories – birth, death, awaiting rebirth our promised eternity free from human pain at last!
she sits on the sea’s floor shaped by the world above it–changed forever. the workers of ancient tongues sift through her words, chanting their dismissals. the pressure from centuries ago labels her again and again. is this the chosen path home or not?
The Brave Girl Knoweth Not
enchanting winds sway over the clandestine clouds she speaks of hard times the chosen few laugh behind her back, valleys shift to the hills of life brave girl knoweth not of love or impending storms she prepares for pain
good dog sleeps alone savors the sunlight of morn drifting into dreams human loves her more each day Mother Nature gifts them peace
Winter Knocks But Isn’t Allowed Entry
Temperatures tank throughout the day, mimicking winter blues. We shuffle along in life, wrapping our bodies in extra clothing. We are layered for bitter chill, the calm of every storm spits in our direction–we war our way through the hell of it. A long walk lends frostbite to the limbs–we shake ourselves into warmth–turn the thermostat up, shoot fire into the bones. Winter knocks. It is premature. We howl at its presence–fangs sharp enough to slice through hardened flesh. We are not ready. We are not ready.
We aren’t the warriors of the past. We have different methods–different ways, but we still work words the way the ancestors intended. What we say can be misconstrued, but what we mean, never is.
shriek into the void dark shadows shatter, dissolve still empty inside
alone in abyss my screams no longer echo finally absorbed
a soul-touching croon expands to vast crescendo calls me back to life
clasped closely – I do not wish to escape held by darkness – his cold embrace, a refuge he lives – because of my blood I am not yet dead – he needs me alive
docile, I submit ecstasy, then sudden pain give myself freely
moonlit muscles enfold me metallic kisses drown me
you cannot live without me I need you to sustain me
what have you woken in the embers of my soul – dark flame of your heart
with an attitude as bad as my boots, I strut, swagger and sneer – untouchable bite me! killing for sheer adrenaline no emotion this side of death; why should I care?
no one hears me therefore I do not exist pale ghost in shadow
I step out into sunlight erupt in blaze of glory
Freya Pickard is the author of The Kaerling series, an epic fantasy. She writes mainly fantasy tales and creates poetry in order to rest the prose side of her brain. She finds her inspiration in the ocean, beautifully written books, and vinyl music (particularly heavy metal and rock). Freya was featured twice in The Short of It – May 2020 and October 2020. Her piece, Sailing, featured in the first anthology – was selected for the Pushcart Prize.
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