"mugwort" poems
That's Mugwort
and that's Red Sorrel
and that over there
is Red Campion
Jane said
we were walking
on the Downs
the sky
summery warm
almost cloudless
cattle mooed nearby
a flock of birds
flew over
our heads
her hand held mine
skin on skin
warm
soft
I sensed an appley scent
about her
we had kissed
the day before
and it had been
other worldly
and now
I wanted to kiss again
but didn't want
to push forward
but wait to see
what happened
and that
she said
is White Deadnettle
smiling at me
you know
the countryside well
I said
well you Londoners
know nothing of it
but at least
you want to learn
she said
I liked the flowery dress
she was wearing
red and yellow
with a yellow sash
tied about her
and the white
ankle socks
and black shoes
(slightly muddy)
I observed her carefully
wanting to know
more of her
of nature
of us
and that bird back there
was a pheasant
she said
we paused
in the corn field
and looked back
up towards the Downs
and she turned to me
and kissed me
and held me close
and I felt almost
absorbed into her body
and wanted
to feel more and more
and she parted
and said
I'm no expert
on kissing
was that all right?
not sure
I'll need to try again
I said smiling
and she took my hand
and squeezed it
and kissed me again
and the cattle
mooed louder
and a bird
flew overhead spying
before it took off
in the sky high flying.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
he always insisted
i needed something to believe in
yet he scoffed
attempted to laugh it off
when i promised that i built stonehenge
and the great pyramids
ground his teeth as i whispered
that the world found cuneiform by my hands
and he dropped me off
when i elaborated on the day
i walked away from babylon's tower
so
off he galloped forever
destined never to understand the factual weight of one's dreams
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
this is the finally finished poem that i had uploaded last year as untitled:
wake up inside a faerie
ring, sun probing
between canopies,
a musty odor leaking
out of the Styx, the dark
Master waits in hollow,
aching trees.
from the stumps
he calls to me, he wants me
to play hide and seek.
he can't hear, but he smells
and feels each warm, hungry
step bringing me closer
to the river.
a stew in my chest,
a stake for my shoulders,
i know he is my ancient Master but
i though i was released.
now i drip down like the slugs,
i scoop jelly out
of my eyes and feed it to my children.
like the bite and bark
of a Celtic Oak, i slice off calluses,
stratum by rooted stratum, till
i have a full basket of raspberries.
i just want to slide this naked, dead
weight body across the pointed treetops.
by the light of starving embers, i eat
my knotted hair and cough up muddy ice.
i burn down teepees at night so i can see
the souls of screaming children
rise like red dust to Andromeda.
last night the Acid burned
a hole right through my cauldron,
and when i could see
the other side,
i sat there- speechless, dumbfounded,
at all i had
forgotten:
a ball of mugwort, still aflame,
a purple spiral galaxy,
ten micrograms of safety,
and an echo
that escaped from me
every time i tried to pet it.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:09 AM UTC
Raglan Roc was a Warlock, and
He lived up on Mandrake Hill,
Up where the witches gathered
Once a month, for a coven spell,
He tended his herbal garden, growing
Mugwort, sage and ash,
Supplying the monthly coven, though
He never would deal in cash.
They paid him in philtres, magic charms,
And the odd love potion or two,
For some of the witches were younger ones,
He’d say, ‘Let’s try it on you.’
And they would giggle and ride their brooms
Right into the witching Dell,
To check out the Warlock’s magic wand
As he put them under his spell.
He didn’t believe in favourites
But welcomed more than a few,
Till half the coven had buns in the oven
And didn’t know what to do.
They got too heavy to ride their brooms
Back down to the village street,
But waddled along the cobblestones,
Tripping over their feet.
And husband’s, down in the village square
Would mutter and moan, nonplussed,
‘Here comes another, a magic mother,
It should have been one of us.
The place will be full of ankle biters
If this don’t come to a stop,
All with a set of tiny horns
And looking like Raglan Roc.’
They followed the witches up the hill
On a coven day in June,
And each one carried a baseball bat
On that sunny afternoon,
They played a tinkling game that day
On his ribs and his Warlock form,
And by the time that they went away
They’d chopped off his favourite horn.
The witches no longer go up the hill
They say it isn’t much fun,
Not since the Warlock lost his pants
And his flirting days are done.
They get their herbs from the corner shop
And they weave their spells ad hoc,
While ankle biters still roam the streets
To remind them of Raglan Roc.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
In the heat of the afternoon,
I sat in silence on the shore
and listened to the lapping
waves come rapping at my door.
You said soon you'd be along,
surely nothing more than a day
but now the afternoon is sinking
and the dragonflies come out to say
"What keeps you distant dreaming?
Son, you should head out on your way."
Into a bowl I place the herbs
I've gathered on the hike:
mugwort, sage, peppermint,
and pine needles with their pollen.
I fill two cups, with some left over.
One for you, should you come along.
The second for the travelers,
with no other place to belong.
The rest I give back to the waters,
offered to the sprites and sylphs.
The valley'd lake is getting dark
and the sun hides behind the peaks.
I'm skipping stones across the waters,
watching ripples flux and cease.
And the moon casts gentle radiance,
a silken envelope of thought.
She guides my mind to contemplate
what is really going on:
I hope that you've been stalled
by a love more bold than me.
I hope it takes your hand and
shows you what I could never see.
If you're sitting home alone,
afraid of what may not ever be.
Imagine someone strumming slow
to your whirling symphony.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
mugwort dreams
can you remember?
snakes on the trees
yellow, pink, and green
you're sat there in between the trees
just like the moon
blue and unassuming
Mar 2, 2021
Mar 2, 2021 at 11:34 PM UTC