Seeing Things?

If you are a reader of my other blog, Song of the RainCrow, you may recognize the previous posts here. I just imported several of the more "writing related" posts from there to set the stage here. I may still be cross-posting relevant entries from that blog, however, my intention for this one is to strictly present my writing efforts, as well as flights of fancy related to my main projects. You may see vignettes drawn from my proposed mystery series, "Shin Oak", or from my in-progress untitled fantasy novel, or more poetry from me. 
In the case of the "Shin Oak" series. I have had fun compiling a lot of info on the denizens and surroundings of my fictional small town. I have struck upon this as a method of developing color and back story for that project. It's not "News From Lake Wobegon", but is somewhat inspired by that. I will also post from time to time tantalizing portions of my archived play scripts.
All this bearing in mind:  "A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits."
--Lazarus Long (well, Robert Heinlein)
You've been warned!

One more love poem from the attic.

Bruja

Last night you appeared when I most needed you to

You covered me with yourself

Your flesh against mine

Warm and inviting

I was stirred deep into my soul

Love and desire and adoration

All too soon you were gone

The feel of you against me lingered

And the fragrant smell of your flesh

With the knowledge that you love me.

This morning I was low

Feeling lonely with aching head

Again you appeared

Sat beside me, touched my skin and my soul

Brought nurture for my spirit and head

Gave freely of your love

Shared affection, coffee, and talk

There has never been anyone

I so longed to see arrive

So hated to see leave

Nor so missed when she was gone.

But I know that you love me

And that you miss me too.

And it helps.

William RainCrow
about 2007.

A Pair of Poems to my favorite Muse.

A DISTANT TOUCH

She touches me

across the miles

and lifts my heart

I hear her smile

and I grin as well

I hear the catch in her voice

and I know she misses me

as much as I miss her

though it seems impossible

that anyone could.

I sense her breathing

and know that her flesh

yearns for mine

that we both feel the pull.

We will always be joined

in spirit, and that is right.

We long to be joined

once more in flesh,

to know once more together

what we remember so well.

Limbs entwined

Safely held.

To ride the wave of love

heart to heart

soul to soul

until it crests again and again

and we are

once again

united.

By William C. Seward, 7/6/07

WH

For Cat Dancing 

TRANSFORMATION

He wrote a hundred poems

And they were good

Then he met her

And none were good enough

All that he thought he knew

About love, and life, and desire

Suddenly fall short

Of his new reality

The things she teaches him

Of how things are

And ought to be

Make him wonder if he has known

Anything.

The things he had done

The man he was

Fall away

Relics of some other lifetime

The best of them

Only preparation

For what he is becoming.

She is his muse,

His mentor

And his soul mate

It is not easy

To find the path

To awake the shaman

To find the priest

He must have been

And will be again

The warrior path is

Full of challenge.

The butterfly does not emerge

From the cocoon

Without a struggle.

And she is there

The priestess he loves

She sees the shaman within

And welcomes her priest

Into the temple

By William C. Seward, 7/6/07

WH

For Cat Dancing

Another Past Poem.

I wrote this back when I was spending way too much time on the internet in chat rooms.

 

I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS

I didn’t want this in my life,

this glowing siren that takes my days

and haunts my nights.

Taking me places I never wanted to go

along with those I did.

It draws my eyes and fingers and mind

into vortices of time and space.

Hallways and rooms that don’t exist.

Memories of an absent mind.

Who do I meet there,

passing the time in text and speech?

Countless souls lost in a limbo

more dreadful than any Dante could see

in his fevered dreams.

All of the lost, wandering, searching for hope.

What hope?

Hope they know nothing of,

a thing they can’t identify

except to know it’s absence.

Love, or understanding, or acceptance.

Missing pieces in their ever-shifting puzzle.

Constantly morphing from shape to shape.

This, or that, or him, or her.

Is it you? Will you love me?

Or cast me aside?

Am I your piece?

Are you mine?

Can we possibly be each other’s

piece, and peace?

How can we know

if words are lies?

Even the ones that are true?

Especially the true?

I hope

I trust

I love

Perhaps I lose.

W. C. Seward

1999