I've always felt I should write a poem about the birch forest birds. They're perhaps my favorite animal in the forest -- they're much more sociable than the other little creatures (except, perhaps, the dragonfly), and so often unnoticed. This is the first, and will probably not be the last.


((This has been another visit to Seed's Poetry Corner))

I would like to apologize to various small animals, whose pictograms were too tiny to recognize, for baring my antlers at you. I understand your intentions were all in fun -- fun I was personally involved with and enjoying until my heart was pulled in an opposed direction -- and that you meant neither ill nor annoyance towards Walter... But he didn't want to be a part of the game, and was hurting, you see. I tried to tell you in every manner, through apology, gentle discouragement, and even gestures of fear, and you continued to ignore them. I understand the traces of amusement, and that I'm sure some of you may have even been, like me, only trying to watch over and guide Walter in his wounded state. But...well... You were pestering him, and as his friend, I felt I needed to try and help him not be pestered, even if it involved hollow threats and overblown displays of wrath. I apologize -- I meant no one ill will. I'm sorry.

((Me: Uhh...sweetie, I don't think anyone really cared.
I know...in my head.))

I dreamt half of these yesterday, but did not sit down to adequately compose them until sitting with Darkweaver and Bastilion this evening.



((This has been yet another of the increasingly-frequent visits to Seed's Poetry Corner. Anyone who guesses what I'm referencing with the "this has been another visit to Seed's Poetry Corner" gets a cookie.))

I don't normally much care for limericks, but something I saw tonight suggested one to me.


(I keep trying new variations on the ending; does this new one work better than "but it would just hover above," "it just kept hovering above," or "it stayed hovering above"? I like "remained" as a verb, but...)

((This has been an unusually limerick-y visit to Seed's Poetry Corner, your stop for all of your "Poems Written By a Deer" needs.))

[=#006400]
When tragedy has been, for the most part, left behind -- left to (again, just for the most part) fade quietly into disuse, until the moment again comes for an examination of old feelings -- then there grows room for a new batch of joy. It is only through clipping that flowers may grow; and today has been a day of flowers, of perfumes in bright red and twilight-tinged purple, of things so rare and delicate they seem but soft paper illusions of flowers. Yes, the dormant branch of my heart has once more put forth fresh vernal blooms! And since such blooms become, as time passes, fainter and fainter, I resolved to (for an unfortunately rare change of pace) pluck one from my heart and press it firm into my diary.

I awoke to Walter's presence today, and went quickly to join him. I could not -- and still cannot -- guess his humor. There were times he seemed to be in a good mood, and I was happy to see it; at other points, he seemed... Not exactly angry, because Walter angry is something you cannot misjudge...But bothered. He would time and time again rear and roar, or else stand completely still, watching smaller groups of deer. I left before I could clearly make out his intent there.


A while later, I ran into Scape, having already heard news that my darling vision had made her return. I was already giddy with anticipation, and so Scape and I frolicked like fools for a while. Along our way, we ran into an absolutely charming pair of fawns, and played with them for a while. We even helped teach one of them, who I quickly grew fond of and who throughout the day gave me one set of flowers after another, to slow-hop.

This will be my updating list of deer whose names I want to know, but do not know. Any help will be greatly appreciated. I will pretty much keep bumping this list for a while, until someone recognizes the deer on it.

Faris met this deer the other day; I can't recall ever seeing her (at least as Faris) before. She seemed very affectionate, and a little puzzling (to me and him). So who is this deer, does anyone know? (should I know?)



This is a fawn Seed met the other day and had a lot of fun with, though he kind of ended up abandoning it for Payton. Sorry, but Seed was just so over the moon to see her again that his priorities were very focused (for a change). Anyway, Seed would like to see this fawn again -- so who is it?

[=#006400]
Awareness, as always with me, dawns with a certain geological slowness. Sometimes things cannot be communicated but for the whispering of leaves. Perhaps some things are better off that way, tragedies better left to be slowly eroded away, like the shore before the tide. Perhaps. I'm still not entirely sure I understand it -- and even then, I'm not sure I know what "it" is: do I mean the death of the fawn (not one I knew, nor an event I saw, but the weight of which hits me and makes me long either for ignorance or knowledge, though I'm not sure I'd be happy with either), the reactions to it, or the reasons behind it, spiraling in foaming madness? Or is it something more -- less what it was, something that touches me only periferially, some great sad thing in the shape of a death-pale fawn, and more what it means....

What does it mean to be endless? I thought I knew once. I thought it meant being, like a stone or a drop of water, unchanging and everlasting. And then I thought it was to be like the night sky, so without end that no heart can hold it. I've watched some of the more volitile reactions to this that I've seen, full of rage that seems oddly alien in the rain. I, like many, have seen that poor little shade and, at last, knew it for what it was and is. I offered it my apologies, for what little they were worth, and a nuzzle or two. I looked into those pale, sad eyes and I knew something: I knew what endlessness is.

To be endless is to be the prayer of the blush of summer; To be endless is to be a lie told by the most ephemeral of flowers; To be endless in not even to be the darkness before life or after it, those great caves in which this moment is but a small reprieve of fresh air and light. To be endless is to have never been at all. The only thing that is endless is endlessness itself. Not our forest. Not us.

Sorry for my (likely unnoticed) absence; my computer was acting up a lot. and now (in theory) it is better! HUZZAH!

Just a little something I composed today. I don't think, even by the standards of my work, it's much good. But I'll save my criticisms for someone besides my audience.


((this has been another visit to Seed's Poetry Corner))

I decided to play with some repetition and refrain in the haiku form. The opening line is based on an exchange I once heard: I offer my own answer. Mind you, I expect I could (and should) write a million things of what is best in life.



((This has been another visit to Seed's Poetry Corner))