GloPoWriMo – Song 12

Origin, Destination

Healing, I sit in a camp
where senche-panthers dwell.
My jaw aches
where it met the mace.

In battle, always in battle
against daedra, dremora,
bandit, pirate, the follower
of the worm cult, those

sworn to battle, always
in battle.

I sit flanked by panthers
watching over me,
healing, not far
from home.

I’m not far from
home, two days’ walk
to Haven, and the
memories of my father’s song.

My father did not sing of battle.
He sang of graht-oak and Elden Root,
Of merchants and trade.

Moon-sugar! Sweet, here!
Ruby ash! Trade cheap!
Mudcrab chiton! Dragon-thorn!
Lady’s smock! Get your moon-
sugar! Sweet here!

In Haven, my father
raised me to trade
wormwood and meat,
maple and gemstone.

He sang, not of battle,
but of the change he knew,
the quiet fields where columbine
and ancestor silk grew.

Two days’ from home
I heal from battle.
My jaw aches from mace,
my heart, from the father I knew.

Daily Prompt: “write a poem of origin… And having come from there, where are you now?” from Na/GloPoWriMo.

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NaPoWriMo 2019

GloPoWriMo – Song 8

Skips-in-Muddy-Puddles (When Slavery Ends)

When you were taken
from swamp, from egg-sister,
egg-brother, from the soft mud
of home

And hauled past volcanic ash
to frozen lands to
trek into stone
reaches of the Imperial City

When you were torn
from soft mud, from grub baskets
full, from the song
of the great Hist Tree
from home–

Stolen. Alone.
It is a life, anyway,
whether yours or none.

When slavery ends
you’re free.
You find you have
no desire to return.
The song of the Hist
is the song of the graht-oak,
of the cherry,
of the ash pine.

Aldmeri, Daggerfall, Ebonheart–
all one.
All people are as
your people and
the Hist as any other tree.

Now that you are free,
it matters not if you’re alone.

Wherever you are
is home.

Daily Prompt: “write a poem of gifts and joy. What would you give yourself, if you could have anything? What would you give someone else?” from Na/GloPoWriMo.

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NaPoWriMo 2019

Captain’s Christmas: Chapter Two


She woke to music. She hadn’t heard music like this except once, when her mom took her to the concert hall with the golden chandelier in the city.

The room she slept in had a tall window, all the way up to the ceiling. It looked out on a jungle, with flowers and ferns and a wild white panther with a black tail racing down the path.


She supposed she might as well go find some food. She’d skipped supper the night before, and she felt so hungry that she thought maybe she was ill.


She followed the music, thinking it would take her to Great Uncle Jacob.

A fluffy white cat with a raccoon tail sat on the edge of the couch, glaring at her as she walked past.


A fluffy orange cat, with an orange raccoon tail, sat guarding the fridge, giving her the stink-eye.


The black-tailed panther sat on the kitchen high-back, looking at her with curiosity.

“I’m just a girl!” she said. “No need to stare.”


Great Uncle Jacob sat at the piano in the front parlor. Sarah knelt on the high-back sofa and peered over the back at him.


She didn’t know what fancy music it was that he played, but it did funny things to her ears. If ears could taste, then this would be sweeter than the sweetest salt-water taffy.  She closed her eyes to see the swirling colors: pink, purple, green, blue, with starbursts of yellow and red.


He stopped when he saw her peeking above the sofa back.

“Hungry, Captain?” he asked.

She nodded. She wanted to ask him about the music, but he was already making his way to the cupboard.

“Go sit,” he said.

She sat on the couch, and the panther followed her and jumped up beside her.


“Hi, cat,” she said. “I don’t know your name. I am Sarah Seriph.”

The panther growled.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she said. “I’m trying to be friendly.”


The panther hissed.

“OK, OK!” Sarah said. “I won’t try to be your friend! Geez!”


“Pippa,” Great Uncle Jacob said when he brought in Sarah’s breakfast, “settle.”

The panther grumbled and lay down.

“Not used to company,” he said.


When Sarah finished her cereal and washed her bowl, she asked Great Uncle Jacob, “What are my rules?”



“Like, where can I go, where can I not go?”

“Captain, we’re on an island. No other people around. Anywhere you can go, you can go. ”

“Aren’t you scared I’ll fall and break my leg?”

“Nope,” he said. “You’ll take care.”

She breathed it in for a moment: No rules.


That meant, she was free!


The panther and the white raccoon pounced on each other in the kitchen. They didn’t seem quite so frightening when they played like kittens.


Then Pippa turned and hissed at her.

“All right! I was just leaving!” Sarah ran through the front parlor and into the jungle.

The fountain roared like a waterfall, and the air was warm, heavy, and moist.


It smelled like candy left overnight in a wet pocket: sweet and musty all at once.


Crickets chirped, even though it was winter outside.


She followed a red brick path around and between the flower beds. Fairy lanterns lighted the way.

One path led to a long room, lined with work tables and all sorts of potted plants.

“This must be the plant hospital,” she said. She walked to each, offering some a sip of water, others a kind word, and still others a song.


A funny green dwarf looked at her bossily. “Don’t worry!” she said. “I’m not breaking any rules, for I haven’t got any to break!”


When she left the room, Pippa stood guarding the door leading back to their living area.


“Shoo, cat!” Sarah whispered. The panther sat down in the middle of the path.


A tall madrona grew in the center of the tower, its limbs spaced like ladder rungs.


Sarah climbed easily, step after step.


Soon she was up in the tree’s crown, higher than the neighboring hemlock,  where the hot air smelled like dried apples and cinnamon, and when she looked down, the panther was no bigger than a mouse.

“Ha!” Sarah called down. “I am not afraid of you!”


She climbed until she could climb no higher, and she looked out the tower windows, out past the dock, past the breakwaters, across the straights to the mainland then over the hills, imagining that she could see the city beyond, and out past the city, down a quiet road, where the white hospice stood under the beech trees, and where her Gran lay beneath a log cabin quilt, while her mother sat beside her, singing softly and talking.

“Oh, come back!” Sarah prayed. “Come back before Christmas, with Gran, too, all well again!”


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Captain’s Christmas: Chapter One


“There’s the island,” Sarah’s mother said, as they stood on the prow of the trawler. “You can see the lighthouse.”

“But I don’t want to be on the island,” said Sarah, “not without you. Can’t I stay with you?”

“We’ve been through this so many times,” her mother said. “A hospice is no place for a child.”

“I’d rather be there, with you and Gran, than stuck out here with Great Uncle Jacob. I don’t even know him,” she whispered.

Sarah glanced behind her at the old man at the captain’s wheel.

“But I know him,” said Sarah’s mother. “I spent one long summer with him on the island, when I was not much older than you, and it was–”

“–the best summer of your life,” said Sarah. “I know. I heard the story before.” Only a million times.


They pulled away from shore, heading to the straights. Sarah looked back, wishing the mainland wouldn’t recede, wishing she could stay, wishing that Gran were well, like every other year, so they could spend the Christmastime at her house, with the tree, the stockings, the roast beef, and the tiny Cornish game hens, all golden and stuffed with chestnuts and raisins.

“Does he know how to cook?” Sarah whispered. They’d probably be eating out of cans.


“Hey, there,” said a gruff voice. “Will ya steer the ship?”

The island hovered in the mist like a home for forgotten selkies.

“He’s talking to you,” said Sarah’s mother. “Go on, you can drive the boat!”


“All right,” said Sarah. “What do I do?”

He showed her where to place her hands.

“That way,” he said, pointing to a cove behind the breakwater.


Steering the ship was easy. Sarah leaned into the wheel. Now and then a wave or current moved the wheel, and she had to push against it with all her weight.

Her mother talked softly with Great Uncle Jacob.

Sarah tried not to listen, for it was about Gran and how even the cheerful nurse didn’t hold out hope anymore. But Sarah could still hope, if she didn’t hear what they said.

Seagulls called.

“Easy now,” Great Uncle Jacob said, standing behind her. “Steady round the rocks.”


She guided the boat into the cove.

“Mighty well done, Captain,” he said. “I’ll take her into the dock, then.”

Sarah stood beside her mother in the bow. “There’s the conservatory! Your room will be in the back, with the living area.”


If staying there hadn’t meant being apart from her mom, Sarah would have been jumping with excitement. The conservatory rose like a palace tower, with cheerful fairy windows looking out upon the bay.

As it was, she swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked away a few tears.


She kept her head down as she shuffled up the path. Maybe if she walked slowly enough, her mother would miss the mailboat and have to stay the night.

When her mother showed her her room, she sat on the bed. She wouldn’t say goodbye.


Her mother and Great Uncle Jacob shared a pot of tea in the kitchen. And then the mailboat blew its horn and there were hurried kisses and promises of phone calls.

“Come get me before Christmas!” Sarah said, between sobs.

“If I’m able,” said her mom. “If I can.”

Then she was gone, and the house was quiet.

Sarah got into her PJs and crawled under the quilt. Time would pass faster, if she were asleep.


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Septemus 2

Dear Sept,

Who are you looking for when you wander? What do you think you will discover?


You gave me a scare yesterday. I was grilling the sandwiches, and when I turned, you were gone. You weren’t in the house or the yard. I looked up and down the street. Just as I was about to panic, Bella brought you back.

“Missing someone?” she asked with a laugh.

I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my life.


But you were mad when we came back inside.

You kept muttering under your breath, “mastikokopa,” and I didn’t know what you meant.

Finally, you took your sandwich into the bedroom to eat alone.

Miko came to visit.

“Where’s the little bug?” she asked. I pointed.

She went in and sat beside you, and I could hear her telling you stories about the latest otome she’d played.


I came in to tell her I didn’t think “Hatoful Boyfriend” was appropriate for you.

But you were giggling.

“Miko bizaabgotojo!” you said.


“What’s he saying?” Miko asked.

I didn’t know.

By the time you’re able to read this, we’ll be able to speak to each other. At least I hope so. You’ll learn my language, right? You can say “Miko” already.

I didn’t know how hard it would be to raise a kid with a language barrier. I wonder how much is different between us besides language.


Most of the time, I see you as any other little kid.

And the other times, I notice little things like how your ears wiggle when you breathe. How you sometimes stop breathing altogether, for five ten minutes at a time, and then you take a big gulp and you smile, as if the air is delicious. The material the agency gave us says “prolonged breathing pauses are normal in this species, especially the very young.” I’ve read about the differences with your digestive tract and your circulation and your double heart, too. But you probably don’t want to hear about your differences, do you?

Well, if it’s something you want to know more about, just ask. I’ll tell you anything.

What I notice most are the ways we’re the same: the two eyes, two ears, one nose, one mouth, two hands, ten fingers… all that litany of sameness.

Already, your smile feels like family to me.


I just wish that I felt like family to you, and that our home felt like home.

You woke up from your nap feeling ornery.

“Mastikokopa!” you moaned, and you headed towards the door.


“Where are you going, Septemus?” I asked. “Stay here.”

I stood in front of the exit.

You shot your angry glare.


“Stay here, Sept,” I said again. “Do you know who’s coming over? Miko’s coming.”

“Miko?” you asked.

“Yup. She’s on her way.”

“Miko bizaabgotojo!” you said, with a grin.


Well, at least you like my friends, even if you’re not always sure how you feel about me.

We’ll get there, right 77?

From the guy taking care of you,


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