I don't need stories of battles
Between knights and dragons
In the days of old.
I don't have dreams
Of everything I touch turning to gold.
I don't need to walk on water
Or turn water into wine.
I have enough magic in my life
Because you're mine.

For every poem you write about rich,
write ten more,
each about poor.

For every song you sing about rich,
sing one hundred more,
each about poor.

For every story you tell about rich,
tell one thousand more,
each about poor.

i wanted to visit my ancestors,
so i stepped up to the gate.
i was told “You must be
/this/ dark to be let into this space,
see, there aren’t many people
here that we can match
up to your face,
and by the look of your skin
we couldn’t be certain
you’ve ever felt the sun’s grace,
we’ve seen many colours
but you are another,
do you really belong in this place?”

i wanted to visit my ancestors,
so i stepped up to the door.
i was told “You must be
/this/ light to walk up onto our shores,
see, we saw your curls and thought
Black Pete had come up
from the moors,
and you're familiar,
but that foreign tongue’s
taken several points off your score,
we were only one colour,
there's no room for any others,
so what are you coming to us for?”

i wanted to visit my ancestors
but i wasn’t sure where to go.
they’d shut me out, left me in doubt,
and i was in limbo.
i thought i’d had a birthright,
some kind of claim to make,
i didn’t think that i would be
so easy to forsake.
i hadn’t convinced the ghosts,
and there was nothing left for me,
so i packed my things, tore my branch down,
and went to sow my own tree.

Imagine you and I, rocking chairs on a front porch after time has left it’s mark on us.
The wrinkles on your forehead tell the sweetest stories.
I hope we’ve kicked all the things that had their grip on us.
Imagine you and I, bathing beneath golden rays with our backs against the earth.
The concept of time has no hold on us.
I’ll love you long after this body fails me

The Fairy Tale Queen
and her vast Queendom of stories
entwined, branching, shepherded

The Fairy Tale Queen
directing questions and wonder
so that each yarn can flower

The Fairy Tale Queen
ruling with a hand of Order
and a hand of Whimsy

The Fairy Tale Queen
Herself a Fairy, Itself a Tale

The Fairy Tale Queen
Queen over her subjects
and over herself

Overgrowing graves,

overbridging time: ivy –


of all the stories.

I have so many stories, yet none.

But there once was a flower in the corner.

It told me something of importance, something it clung too, yet didn't.

It danced under the moon.

I asked "of all places, must I ask, why the moon? Isn't it just deep?"

"It is nothing deep, yet even more so then ever," it said, "I'd much rather prefer a mess of comfort, than a cleaned smile."

That flower treated the moon not as a gatekeeper meant to take you to the next day, but as an old friend that will always be.

Whenever I meet someone new I feel like I’m repeating the same story of my life, but every once in a blue moon I’ll meet someone who will make me want to tell my story in a way I never have before.