Monthly Archives: April 2014

Nature on His Mind

Nature on his Mind

He’d thought about it a long time. A very long time, standing there on the hillside, looking out over glen and moor. It made no sense to him, this scurrying and hurrying and milling about. He understood the cows and sheep. They had their place; they knew it; they filled it well, content to be cows and sheep. It was those other transient ones, the ones with two roots, that puzzled him.

Sometimes they came close by, and he listened carefully, not to their buzzing insect speech, a whine in his slow ears, but to their hearts within them. The sheer speed of those hearts amazed him; indeed for a time he could not relate it to his own slow, patient, pulsing heart, but finally understanding rose ponderously up his xylem and spread through his branches and he knew them for heartbeats.

They must burn up their sugars enormously fast, he thought, and perhaps that is why they run about so.

Another decade and the realization dawned that they weren’t just running about: they were striving. Always striving. This was very difficult for him to grasp, but finally after a very rare dry hot summer, he understood the concept of lack, of discontent. He had not suffered as the grasses had, for his roots were deep and wide and strong, but still he felt the lack of rain, the lack of covering from the sun, and wished for something else.

It was that, the wishing for something else, that opened his thoughts to understanding the two-legged itinerants. They, he realized, they wish for something else, too. But what? They have shelter from the sun. They have water, for they apply it to their fields in drought. What more do they need?

Their roots weren’t well-grounded, he had noted long ago, and perhaps this was what they lacked. He spent a year, or two, pondering what that would be like, to have his roots skimming the surface of Lover Earth, rather than penetrating deep within, caressing far and wide. Horrible. No wonder the poor creatures flit about. They have no anchor to the Lover.

He would help them, the piteous little things. Slowly — for what did he not do slowly? — he extended a larger root toward the surface, and then another and another, until they sat just on top. He carefully left their passageways unfilled and then set about getting a few of the unanchored things to come where his root-help lay. It wasn’t easy, since they were obviously used to the whining chitter of their own kind and not the slow deep resonance of his own. Finally, though, they heard him. They began arriving in small groups, with devices he paid no attention to. They were listening to him, he knew. He could hear it in their hearts. And so he explained it to them, his plan, his offer to help them.

It took a long time. The excited crowds had left years ago, and now the listeners were all that remained. And those odd ones that came and went wearing very different barks to the others, and waving fire and branches on Beltane and Samhain. The listeners and … those, who at least knew the proper days.

Finally, he had said it all. He waited for their reply, but to his astonishment, the crowds came once again for a time and the activity around him grew frenetic. So much so that he asked the Green Man to bring winter a little early so he could have some peace, for the crowds were never there in cold and rain and snow and sleet. They seemed not to like it. He shaped a branch into a reminder to himself to ponder the meaning of that come spring.

The Green Man heard and answered, and the crowds faded away. Only the listeners were left, and they were … sad, it seemed. No matter. He was ready, and soon they would be put right.

He had noted how the listeners scurried from spot to spot if one called to another, and so he acted in all his surface roots at once, opening the ground, snaring the roots of the transients, pulling them down into the ground to the level of what he assumed were their crowns, where the roots joined the trunks.

He’d planned well. The surrounding earth moved at the whim of his filaments and compacted around the listeners he was planting, for he knew they would need solid contact to form filaments of their own. The sounds they made changed, he noted. They must be rejoicing, thanking him for showing them the way to resolve this constant striving, to be at peace with who and what they were, not seeking always for more and more and more.

He gripped them kindly, tightly and encouraged them to sink deeper into his Lover, for the Earth is Lover of us all, he knew. They would begin to root soon, though they must not be very good at it, for they struggled constantly against remaining still. It occurred to him that they’d had no practice rooting, and he resolved to be very patient and to see that they received all the water and soil they needed, though how they would photosynthesize without leaves was a question he had not managed to answer yet.

The sudden increase in activity that day startled him. This was new. There were colors flashing and more people, shouting and trying to pull out his rootlings. These were not the listeners. They didn’t know. He would explain again.

What are they doing? They are … they are digging up my rootlings! No! He would not let his precious rootlings, his own offspring, be pulled away from the salvation he offered them.

He began to wave his branches wildly, though there was no wind. At first, that worked. The others ran, terrified, but returned in a brief span of time. He had to admit, they were dedicated. They were not going to give up, but neither was he.

He gripped his rootlings tighter, waved his branches more wildly, until some began to break and fly toward the others. He had to be careful, since his rootlings would be tender and delicate until their filaments and tap roots formed.

And as he waved and gripped, he began explaining again. His rootlings calmed down, attending to his words once more, and then seemed to be conveying to the others what was going on.

The activity changed again. Not quite as frantic, but just as dedicated and deliberate. They tried shovels. He held on tighter. His rootlings made their noises to the others and the shovels went away. They brought fire. He was scorched and blistered before the rootlings managed to convey that his grip was even tighter, that they were hurting him and he was writhing in agony. The fire went away.

He asked the Green Man for relief from his pain and the Green Man sent cooling rains. His rootlings shuddered in their holes until the others put … coverings … over them, to keep away the rain. Did they not know living beings need the rain, need to feel it wash over them? But perhaps these rootlings did not need much rain. Perhaps their tender new roots that they must surely be forming were drowning. The Green Man granted his request for a cessation of the downpour, and he offered his favorite branch in sacrifice to his god.

The others brought large yellow … things … that belched horrible smelling gases and rattled the earth as they moved. He’d seen them before, when the transients were building paths for the cruel metal cages that carried them away and brought them back on a whim. What had they done with them again? He hadn’t paid that much attention.

While he reached into his memory for that, his rootlings squirmed and wriggled, but this time, they seemed to be squirming and wriggling to speak to the others, pointing their branches at the yellow things and shouting.

There! He had the memory. Oh sweet Dagda, no!  He shuddered convulsively. They dig with those. They scrape the Lover raw with those. They mean to scrape her here, and take my rootlings!

He turned his attention back to his rootlings, anxious to protect them, and noted that one was making slow deep noises in his direction. Could it be … speaking … to him? He paid careful attention and finally managed to speed his understanding up enough to catch the meaning of what his rootling said.

They had not realized he meant to plant them? But he had told him, explained patiently again and again, until even a seedling could understand.

Still, they had not realized. They would wither and die planted like this? But how could helping them root make them wither?

They cannot root? But how will they rectify having no connection with the Lover?

The answer to that shocked him to his heartwood. They would not? They did not want to? They did not need to? But if this is so … he must think about this long and hard again. He withdrew his roots from around them, hastily, shuddering a bit that he had been so intimately connected with beings that spurned the Lover.

The root— the listener who had spoken, spoke again, thanking him. Why thank me? For not helping you, not saving you from your hurry-scurry? He would consider that, too. They would return, he said, since they had come to an understanding. They would speak more, gain more knowledge from each other.

He wiggled his twigs in acquiescence, wanting only for them to leave so he could cleanse his mind of their touch and begin to consider what this all must mean.

He withdrew completely after that, speaking only to the Lover and the Green Man. Winter returned, and returned with a vengeance, since the Green Man looked kindly upon his plight, and wished to know the solution himself. The listeners came once or twice, but didn’t stay long. It wouldn’t have mattered. He would not speak with them again. Not until he knew what the answer was.

It was the eve of Imbolc when the answer came. He would prepare, he hoped they all would prepare, until Beltane and then set his plan in motion.

When the celebrations had died down and the bonfires’ embers no longer glowed, he began. It hurt far worse than he had imagined it would, especially because he knew it hurt the Lover, too. He began to quiver, to shake, from topmost limb to deepest root and everywhere in between. The grasses joined, and the oaks and the beeches and the holly and even the grain in the fields. The four legged creatures sat or lay or otherwise gave themselves over to comforting the Lover, even as she, too, joined in. They shook and quaked without ceasing until the cities broke, the roads crumbled, the factories slithered to the ground; the wires and cables whose posts were drilled into the Lover snapped and the world that the rootless uncaring ones had created was no more, and then they stopped.

He had no doubts they would try to rebuild: they’d persisted in their dealings with him, benign or otherwise. They would not succeed. They would learn to somehow root and connect with Lover or they would perish. He couldn’t say which he hoped for more.



[image credit unknown. Information sought.]

Drumroll, please!!!



My novel is now available at Amazon!! Here’s the cover, done by Rebecca Poole of Dreams2Media. My editor is Diane Nelson.

Please head over to Amazon ( and grab a copy of Bittermoon, the first book in the Fallow Moon series. Book 2 expected to be released before summer!

Here’s the blurb:


For two decades, Leo Ruggeri’s needs are simple: forget his past. Then he meets a man with eternity worth remembering in his glacier-blue eyes. A man whose existence challenges everything Leo believes.

For five centuries, all Kesan Glendubh needed was blood and sex. Then he meets a man worth loving for eternity. A man whose ex is a vampire hunting priest.

Kesan’s latest novel will be published in graphic format, so he requires the services of a graphic artist. When he and Leo meet, the notion of services takes on new meaning and passion overtakes both men. Kesan realizes he cannot protect the young man, from himself and what he is, so he offers a choice.

As both men struggle to come to terms with their feelings, disturbances in the supernatural realm signal a return to a time of danger and persecution for those who walk the night. Kesan and Leo discover they have a Watcher — Father Guillaume Arsenault, come to reclaim Leo’s soul for God and his body for himself while fulfilling his calling to rid the world of vampires.

Crossbows aren’t modern weapons, but they are effective tools for vampire hunters. Eternity, like love, may not be so eternal after all.



Breakers sing and breakers dance upon the sand-gray shore

While everlasting blue expands and shifts to nevermore

Horizon dark with distance seeks the lover in the sky

The sea’s hard-on, the masts and sails thrust for all to spy

The cresting waves toss upward still and drop downward once again

Azure-cheeked, the lover takes and gives and breathes out a sweet amen

To those who sail upon the sea, who give the sea-god face

Who take the yearning empty blue and bind the sky to space.

Beach Chair


Minuscule peaks of adobe form a dreamscape to frame the slats of need. I spoke to him of love that day, that god-and-devil-forsaken day when his hands left sweat-prints on my heart and his ass carved canyons of “do me now” in the cushion-canvas of my soul. Love, I said, and only love, wrapped skin-tight all my dreams. Don’t you see the shape of growing old in sunset’s golden maw? I need you, need you here with me, a million moments more, to kiss and suckle at life’s breast. Come, grip my cheeks and dive beneath the cresting waves of shuddering spurting sex.

Love? he asked. You, just you, for all my weary nights?

Not weary, not at all, as nights give rise to day. Sunrise paints amber rose to fold back the star-crusted night, and I would fold back his ennui with gentle thrusts, and hard.

It wouldn’t work, he sighed, I’m bored with you already. He gripped the wooden arms to rise.

It will, you can’t be bored, we’ve just begun, my hands atop his pled.

He shoved his muscled bulk up and left me wintering there all summer long, frozen in the sun.

I kept the chair, a shrine to him, imagining his scent still lingered. Move after move, Baja to Winnipeg to Miami to Belfast.

Be done with it, be done with him, he broke your heart, says the only one I’ve told.

I can’t. He made me what I am, I answer.

Then I must love him, too, he whispers and memory slips down to die.

My Calli’s Leaves


Calli scuffed among the leaves that day, that pink striped hoodie day, darting here and there with this leaf and that stem-gripped by toddler-pudged thumb and pointer. “Daddy, most beautifulest of all!” a yellow spade-contour cottonwood. “Daddy, Daddy, the most beauitfulest of all!” a crimson five-lobed maple. “The most beautifulest, Daddy!” a dun scalloped sassafras.

“They can’t all be the most beautiful, Calli.” Impatient, an edge to my voice, as I turned, looking for Mark, knowing he wouldn’t be there, damning him for abandoning us, whittling my heart to splinters for caring.

“Yes, they can, Daddy, yes they can. See? Look at this one!”

“All right, Pupcake, all right, I see.” Be quiet, Calli. I need to think. My husband, your papa, doesn’t love me anymore. I have to think! Can’t you just for once be quiet?

“No, you don’t. You just make-believing to see.”

A blade of truth slipped between my ribs, gashed my soul.

“Then show me, Calli. Teach me to see.”

“I can’t, Daddy. All-growed-up eyes forget how to see.”

The truth-blade twists.

“I don’t want to forget, sugar. I don’t want to be all-growed-up.”

“And there’s the problem.” Mark’s deep voice.

I turned. There, his silhouette, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted, cock-stirring, backlit along the top of the ridge. Arms folded across his chest, battling to hold in the disgust, and losing.

“Why did you ask me here, Thomas?”

I stumbled towards him, my life pounding in my throat there beside my heart. “You know why.”

He stepped away just as I reached him, just as I reached out for him.

“Papa, Papa, see, the most beautifulest of all!” Calli’s excited trill as she held aloft a bouquet of dead and dying autumn.

“They’re leaves, Calli. Just leaves.” He brushed her offering, and her, aside. “Dead leaves, dead love.”

“Mark,” I hissed, “don’t hurt her like that!”

“She has to grow up sometime! The world’s a rather nasty place.”

“My god, she’s four, Mark, four years old! She can grow up later. Let her be a kid today.”

I reached to lift her into my arms.

“No, Daddy! Dead leaves, dead love!” Calli pushed at me, turned and skittered down the side of the ravine.

“Calli!” I shouted as she tumbled, swallowed in the depth of crackling browns and golds. I ran toward the rippling roll farther and farther away. And then that bounce, that crack of pink on stone cold gray.

“Calli!” I shrieked and stumbled, tumbled after, clutching at the bouldered hope I knew was in vain. I had to look; I couldn’t look.

A universe below, moss scraped free by tiny silent hands, ashen stone impaling impossibly angled pink. And on her face, her bouquet of death, yellow, brown, crimson, the beautifulest of all.

Kings of the Forest


The silver birches march to peace beneath the paling sky

Gold and russet-brown their love lies around their feet

“Tall and proud the warriors stood who christened us with blood

Cold and empty lie they now amidst our tangling roots.

Are we but warriors, too, to fight and then to die?

Contained within a prison-skin, cut off from Lover Earth

No tendrils reaching deep within and out to other kin

The rootless ones have no means to see the Life-ness

Of us all.” Skittering in the leavings of their love,

A stripe of fur. “Rooted ones are trapped in place

While free ones play.” “And die,” a hiss and slithered gulp.

“And die,” a stoop of talon and of feather

And silence drops like shards of bone amid the standing staves.

Time Lattice



The frames of time and inner space

Are not a grid at all

But spiral, spiral, outward, up

And carry us along

From Africa we crawled and ran

We strode, this conquering race

Our home, a continent of curve

A sequence pattern stamped

Into our very world it seems.

For everywhere the spiral shows

In nautilus, pinecone

The lengths of finger bones

Petals of the rose

The vortex of ram’s horns

Vitruvian with his span

A latticework of numbers all

A signpost leading home.