These phantasms bordering on prayer 

Of some lost changeling with kohl eyes 

The disarray, melancholic and hellish beauty, still tempestuous 

Wild eyed and without the doctors reason and rule 

Because as you say of the ancient revellers, we may be satyrs now and again 

Midnight talk of callings and ancestors, and the earth so souled and alive for us 

the sea goes down into our ve...

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I am ancient Etruria where the sunflowers still stand 

Our little wooden house beneath the winding paths, the cypress and umbrella pines

On the old wooden chair outside I sit and read the poems of a venus year 

The classic black rye and Swiss, and fruit from the village markets, one apple, one pear 

I hear the wooden stereo blaring fado, I can hear their Portuguese yearnings for their ...

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The flow of simple things 

White gypsy skirts

embroidery and white-work 

Silver circles from Rajasthan

artisanal huaraches walking slowly

The long green scarf as shawl 

Sea ebbing in as we circumnavigate it 

Persian poets painted on the wall 

One lone hand beside it painted white 

Deep purple açai spread with nuts and strawberries 

Then we flee to the ramshackle books...

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Under these hanging trees of the cafe 

I borrow you love poems and a song of despair by Neruda 

I pass you my journal with its moon bodied poems, 

it’s mystical cloth, it’s singing out 

now we kiss though we barely know the other 

Yet thousands of lives we have reached together till this point 

hundreds of rebirths to bring two persons to ride in the same boat

it takes a thous...

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You kiss the tops of my closed hands, the mottled scarf round, a hand-fasting

Where little triple diamonds sit, it stands like a marriage 

Our walk round the sea brimmed with its longings and its blue remedy 

I am peering into our brief lives like Ægir’s wife and her sea fury

what’s lost is lost 

May the mead of poetry find me still 

I make a new dream for us to take refuge from ...

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Swimming like a siren in the wild sea

Gather shells to listen in closely 

books to read nestled under the trees

Balsamic for the array of coloured greens

Songs from Spain to ease the spirit and dance the flame

Born again from fado blaring through the house

I see for the first time the lushness of the land

Passion enlivens where it lives despite

Slow walk toward the blue out...

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Wooden folk puppets from Coppélia

the stained glass windows of heraldry 

Those medieval leather boots by the door 

This our little shepherds hut 

Wooden chairs set with sea glass stones 

Gold cups inlaid with mother of pearl 

and dazzling opal just for us

Might someone think they drifted in from

Andersen’ s tales here in this house

Mosaic sign ‘the night poets house’ in ...

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The slow way we walk to

the edge of the sea

with fable, with Hallam

The kettle storms on the stove

welsh cakes and oat coloured

mugs of our favourite tea

I’ve collected shells far and wide

Despite the minch’s rage

to sit upon the old desk here

may it rain on forever

that we might light the pillar candles

beneath the wild moods of the skies

nurse our cares in sto...

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My black diamond, with her

Russian goddess embroideries

Opening your circle

to my friends near and far

dressed in costume from corfu

and babbling about Egyptian magic

Reading you the sun princess by the fire

Tucked away out of the trap of death

The puppet queen, now you hold the strings

I will come back, renew and restore you

to life giving things

I’ll cherish, I’l...

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Gilded journal in azure for magical studies

The timber house for two, arcane music from the otherworld

Bruin wool blankets gifted from old friends

To keep us warm in this little enclave of dreams

basket of gala apples picked ripe to last us

Makeshift bed on the floor and the moorish lanterns lit

The sylph’s secrets in the paintings beside us enchanting our sleep

We have brough...

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Hither and come in my silver boat earrings and wild hair

Reading Tristan and iseult in the border worlds

The painted little gypsy wagon by these periwinkle seas

Our long journey back to where we came from 

The woodcuts are framed of sirens and alknost

I too am replete with birdsong that will make you forget yourself

Time too will be a map from where we are standing to a dreamed o...

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Turkish delight, rose scented with pistachios in a little wooden box

Velvet journals in midnight blue, brass pen that rolls on

my husband the lustful and fecund pan

An ideal for the Creatrix that I am

mermaid lore at the bank of the wild sea

fairy tale dresses in embroidered corsetry and cap sleeves

i heard people can grow sick without beauty 

but not us who are in ever adornm...

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The stone heart and the house of orio

In our little quarters by the sea-canals

Penning these night myths to book

Era una notte magica you say

these embroidered velvet dresses

The slouched beret with diamond brooch

The opulent gondola that carries us, magica you would say

Each passing bridge a pact, a kiss then to love forever

Drinking ombra and moving slow through Carnevale

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In your burgundy Theodora dress

Pinned with diamond paste brooch in the shape of star

Crow haired and orb eyed and looking me down

Your haughty voice that last lick of grandeur

The drawstring bag of an escapee and all your poetry books

To drive through the night playing Huron

Here in this little settlement of trees and lanes

Our old caravan that we shall home yet

Embellish ...

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At dusk, these books of dream lore

Records we made of our singing folk songs

Mediterranean verdure on ciabatta rolls

The wild sea on a Sunday afternoon

The vest I made you with appliqué

The genius loci of the valley

My spirited and tell tale drawings

Silver bangles with elegant borders and verse

Wild, dark haired and gothic beauty

Waking up with the bird’s songs

The w...

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The keen magic of these phantasms being born

The paintbrushes wrapped on the table

The canvases lining the hallway,

The paintings and their wild pathos enough for us to not go hungry for anything

Life that has been and is mysterious and passionate to its brim

My grand love setting its breath over the night

Writing these poems under a little flame

Figue sauvage - the last burni...

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When we walk to the river at nite with torches lit

Swim under Selene’s opal gauze and gaze

Then you’ll have words for me

Your hair water-bathed and eyes brilliant

When we go home to read Circe’s stories once more 

Make love under a mythic sky

Then you’ll have words for me

The shoes I made, embroidered Cybele at the door

New books you bought me about ancient dream templ...

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You had the dream-maker tell you riddles

You gave the way forward through your prophetic heart

We felt our way through what they call intuition

It is really the soul when it speaks

My magic is unceremonial, my turn is my own wand

When I walk I have wattage and the daoine sìth gather

My sea hymns are of certain instinct and make a good flood

Such as they seek of the river Boyne...

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Moon-wise and heavy under the sea 

Living down those lost depths 

Sure footed, even marked for death 

Terrible wind that befell you 

Agony that you not once mention

Love in a pathless wood 

The sea-house you search for

Paucity of words but not without melody 

Not without fire and delirium to passion 

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Your long dark and dead morena 

Your wishbone heart with six senses 

The wheel still spins its misfortune 

These pagan nights which were the making of me 

One that hides and one that sees in the dark 

Diamond eyes and hidden in my body each one

These pagan nights, these pagan nights 

Mysterious fuel this passion that drives me 

And when they marked me for death 

I drove ...

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The first request of that body of stars 

From cursed light and clarity of day 

What spirals now will spiral forever 

On and on goes the spinning top

the ancient lore of those witches 

The thread of that first rite 

 Erebus before he made his arrangements 

Before you could climb La Scala Contarini del Bovolo and see

running in the dark toward reason 

you who could shoot s...

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Which mother of Eire are you this evening 

As you talk in turns as other women 

Raise your stake, take medusas throne

As the hordes redeem you and the charge of them makes way

Who is this Melpomene,  ever up in arms 

Some tragic beauty, the banríon drámaíochta

A  decadent poetess and muse to all who observe from the bowl

These divine possessions, but this is your favourite

...

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When out from hellia

the matron of night

The firmament, the evening star

the colour wave of first delight

I feel no sanctuary myself in light

A sureness of the sun

Finds no commitment in me

I seek the æfnian, and chaos crowned

lux brumalis and the depths of poetry

The divine performance of passions

the play I partake in with our devestating fate

I am seeking the da...

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