Category: poetry

Wooden spoons make very good friends,
Perfect for soup and stew and porridge.
They’ll help you make pudding and help you forage.
They stir and ladle and allow you to slurp–
But a wooden spoon should never hurt, (even goblins sing their worth!)
But some may think a spoon should spank,
Or they’ll treat it like a common plank,
But rue they will that lonesome day–
When all their spoons break and fade away.
And leave them lonely, soulless and gray.

For wooden spoons, they hold a charm,  
A magic wrought from hand and arm,  
They’re carved with care from trees so wise,  
Whose roots dig deep, where secrets lie.  
Each grain, a story etched in time,  
A whispered spell in rhythmic rhyme.

But those who wield them with cruel intent,  
Shall find their warmth and spirit spent,  
For spoons are bound by unseen ties,  
To earth, the sky, and ancient eyes.  
They dance in pots with joyous glee,  
But turn away from tyranny.

One conjurer, they say, learned this truth too late–  
Her spoons all splintered, snapped by fate,  
No potion brewed, no cauldron stirred,  
Her magic waned, her chants unheard.  
She sought in vain for wood to mend,  
But found no spoon, nor faithful friend.

For spoons are keepers of the hearth.  
They stir the soul, they shape our heart,  
Of meals made with loving hands,  
They bind good folk to their land.  
And when they break, when wrongly used,  
The house itself will feel abused.

So treasure well your wooden friends,  
Their rounded curves, their sturdy ends.  
For they will serve with steadfast grace,  
In every dish, in every place.  
But if you treat them ill or cruel,  
Beware the fate of the foolish fool.

For when your spoons depart your hearth,  
They take with them the home’s warm heart,  
And leave behind a shadowed place,  
Where laughter fades without a trace.  
So honor those who stir the pot,  
And in their care, you’ll find your lot.

Midnight wraiths shared my campfire, 
Waiting for my eyes to close, hoping (I assumed) 
that I might soon expire.

But I said, “No! I'm a healthy fellow. Pray, share with me your stories.
Mine, I'll share till dawn's sweet stare, if you’ll but do me kind.”
The wraiths replied with epic rhymes, as their kind is wont to do.
And I listened well to their great spells, and then I wove my own.

I spoke of trails and mountain tops and crooks and creags,
And creeks and trees and moss and leaves and pleasant things.
The wraiths hissed, “Yes,” much impressed and bade, “please do continue!”

So on I spoke about Wild Folk, and Little People I call friends,
Until the darkest shade, who had yet to sing, 
Stepped forth into the flames.

His voice was rasp, a dry keep fast, and his story I now shall share,
For his was a sad sweet lament, echoing yet fallow.
He longed for love, forlorn and lost, a heart that once had been,  
But now it beat within the dark, where shadows alone defend.

He spoke of days when he was whole, with skin and bone and breath,  
Of a maiden fair with obsidian hair, who loved him still in death.  
But jealous hands had twisted fate conspiring to rend them apart,  
And now he roams midnight’s veil, a wraith with a hollow heart.

Our fire flared and flickered, ‘cross faces long turned to shade,  
And as he spoke, still more wraiths drew near, engrossed and unafraid.  
For his raspy words held common truths, a sorrow they all might share,  
The pain of love that time forgot, a grief they never dared.

He told of nights ‘neath living stars, where once he held her near,  
Of whispered vows and gentle sighs that now were lost to fear.  
And as our fire’s light burned low, his voice began to fade,  
A ghostly echo of the past, a love he could not save.

The wraiths ‘round our embers sighed, a chorus soft and low,  
And in their eyes, I saw their tears that long had ceased to flow.  
For they too knew the bitter ache of love that time had torn,  
And in the darkest hours of our night, they mourned what they had worn.

I felt their pain, their longing deep, and in my heart, I swore,  
I’d carry forth their tales of woe, to let their voices soar.  
So in early dawn’s first gentle light, I bade them all goodbye,  
And as the wraiths slipped to mist, I felt their silent cries.

But in their place, a peace remained, a gift of memories past,  
And as I walked the morning’s path, I knew their stories would always last.  

For every step upon the trail, each whisper in the trees,  
Would carry forth the wraiths’ lament, upon each autumn’s breeze.

And so I wander still today, ‘neath Brother Sun and Mother Moon,  
With tales of wraiths and love’s lament woven upon life's bitter loom.  
For in the heart of every night, where shadows softly tread,  
There lies the wraiths’ sweet rhymes and songs, and all the love they lived.

In shadows thick where shadows breed, 
Fae Aduin writhe and hunt and feed–  
On dreams unspoken, thoughts half-made,
on embers bright and hopes unswayed.  

They thrive on warmth they cannot feel, 
on joy they choke and swiftly steal;  
To those who wander, lost and dim, 
they whisper, crooning dark dark hymns.  

With fingers black and sinewed thin, 
they snatch at hearts from deep within,  
Leaving but an empty shell, a hollowed husk, 
a lightless well.

In caves where sun has never dwelt, 
‘neath twisted roots where earth has knelt,  
They plot and murmur, curse and frown, 
dragging hapless souls down down down.  

Once, in ages known to none 
(but crumbling stones and stars undone)  
The Aduin supped merrily on mortal fears.  
They’d pull the breath from poet’s lips,
drain painter’s brush of hues and quips,  
Devour thoughts uncast in form—
no hope untouched, no dream unborn.  

For though old tales all fade to dust,  
Children know, as faeries must,  
the peril shadows breathe and stir.  
Fae Aduin tread where moonlight shuns,  
their shadows silent, swift they pass—  
and leave in wake a chill that runs  
through marrow, thought, and shivering skin,  
a touch that stills, and strikes within.

And they belong to Her and Him,
the Darkened Shadows of Light’s disdain,  
They loathe each dawn, each star, each flame 
And all that dare defy their name.  

In that place where all brightness fades,
all colors wilt, all kindness wanes,  
And hope itself, so rare and frail, 
lies gutted, shackled, bound in chains.  

So wise men claim, to soothe their night, 
that monsters dwell in stories bright.  
But all who’ve heard their hushed refrain 
know Fae Aduin still stalk their prey,  
For in the dark where secrets keep,
they stir and watch while dreamers sleep.  
And once your spark catches their eye,
beware your doom it waits nearby.