Cracks form in the pottery
as the clay flexes -
The grooves filled in
with opalled glaze
to form paralyzed rivers -
All movement frozen
in the heat of a moment -
Imperfectly stunning -
I wonder if I’ve left traces
under the fingernails
of God


© christine DINGLEY 2013


They burned this island
three years ago.

Bleach-white bones splinter
fall upon themselves
into the blackened flesh.
The deer have left the island
only the flies remain.

This corpse explodes with life -
a stag turns its branchéd crown.
The stone oracle still stands
but in the end it crumbles
and only the flies remain.

© christine DINGLEY 2012


There is a dungeon in my throat

for all the words I will not say

There the guards are many

Prudence, Kindness, Wisdom

but chief among them is Fear

It is Fear that will chain up at times

proud words, vulnerable words

all to keep me safe

But I feel them languish there

and wither in the Silence

With vengeful words, greedy words

rattling their chains

I tremble with such pain

I am quaking with such Rage I wish

To let the prisoners go

common IDIA

flitting by my ear
a flash of brushed tin
by the lamplight

I cup my hands together
mid flight around it
in a living cage

this fae creature bumbles
its blows more gentle than
the bat of an eye

flees my touch in a heartbeat
of tiny grey-gold wings
dust painting my palms

© christine DINGLEY 2013


Heading home on the river
following the subtle palmistry,
Scrying the clouds for future storms,
divining the wind in the sinking leaves.
Read the rune-stone markers,
then cast them into the waters.

A midnight passenger on the sliver-sky
the mirror-vein,
sailing through the night
by the Yggdrasil charts
and the lighthouse-moon
the crystal moon.

And the stars
o the stars
will guide me home.

© christine DINGLEY 2012