Poetry for me is a kind of magic. It’s the magic of saying things in-between the lines, of dancing around the edge of mystery and teasing out its gifts. Every poem is an invocation to hidden gods that dwell deep within those long forgotten cracks of branch and bone. When a poem becomes a spell, spelling out the language of liminality, with invisible words left like low hanging fruits in those quiet luscious spaces… it rings a bell in the places unaffected by mortality or linear time. Something stirs, awoken in those pregnant moments that words can never capture. A courtship blooms, and you open up, awaiting transformation into a being you’ll never be able to define, but will always be able to know with certainty, as being true. Poetry is the divining rod to ancient powers, powers older than gods and ancestors, older than the memories of stone or soil, even older than creation. 

There are good reasons why witches and wizards say incantations…

Inside poetry, there is a key to the primordial language of the cosmic imagination, a key to Magic itself. 

 The Dreaming Tree Calls

Immersed in the pitter pattering,
The Tree whispers in dreams,
Where the moments of time,
Measure past eternal means.

The breathing body slights,
In movement felt frailty.
A place not day or night,
Where dreams make up reality.

By the sun and the stars,
Their shadow drives in deeper,
Through the well veiled bazaars,
Awakes the ancient sleeper.

This metamorphosis compels,
A calling to our cells,
As we carry on new meanings,
A re-membering foretells.


Seams stretched to tattering,
Pulled tight against our skin,
To destiny’s strange summonings,
We let the starry night in.

To wear heaven’s lilted melodies
Divine the weaving spheres.
Re-sounding tender elegies,
With dripping god tiers.

Root us into wonders,
Of this our Dreaming Earth,
So hearts may dwell like thunder,
Within our minds rebirth.

Leave us to this trance,
In this our twilight dance,
Where the dreaming tree calls out,
To our one and only, true romance.