Scry A Wind We Cannot See
All the darkest hours All the strangest days All the shadows playing in all the sullen ways We take these bones this dish these ashes We scry the ripples poured The past is gone The future is hidden Our prayers as echoes to the Lord The sound of that door swinging like the darkness of the night The sound of hinges scraping like the darkness of a fight All the shining moments All the brightest days All the shadows over them in all the sullen ways
Jack Beltane writes about memories and music the way Jack White plays guitar.
—Eric Anderson, author of “The Parable of the Room Spinning”
Poetry
Echoes of the Unspoken by Wayne Dodd
The magic of everyday life revealed through emotion and memory. Last lines highlighted (from “Seasonal”):
to say: oh let it come, oh
let it: we
here with arms
upraised wait
Not Poetry
Jack Beltane and the Seven of Pentacles by Jack Beltane
My next novel, now in the drafting process. I completed a red-line reading of the first draft of part one (it’s a two-part book). My plan was to move on to red-line part two, but part one is so full of holes that I need to finish it first, since part one will definitely inform part two. This is how it goes: Fill in the holes, patch the cracks, smooth it over in future drafts.