*finger Guns Into Your Ask Box*

;u;

dressed up for the first time in months to go zoom with a couple friends last night

Print and poem (both my own) for the May edition of Blackbird Monthly, a publication by a local community college.

tied in knots art. thats how it's supposed to be read. oh my god oh my GOD it took me SO LONG to see that. i see your url in my activity and I'm like "tied ink not sart? I don't know what that means" but I just saw it. jesus CHRIST

😅 once upon a time i tried starting a business with this blog. i never use it, but now it's stuck as my main

If tonight the moon should arrive like a lost guide crossing the fields with a bitter lantern in her hand,

her irides blind, her dresses wild, lie down and listen to her find you; lie down and listen to the body become

the promise of no other, the sleeper in the garden in its own arms, the exile in its own autumnal house.

You have woken. But no one has woken. You are changed, but the light of change is bitter, the changing

is the threshold into winter. Traveler, rememberer, sleeper, tonight, as you slumber where the dead are, if the moon’s hands

should discover you through fire, lie down and listen to her hold you, the moon who has been away

so long now, the lost moon with her silver lips and whisper, her body half in winter,

half in wool. Look at her, look at her, that drifter. And if no one, if nothing comes to know you, if no song

comes to prove it isn’t over, tell yourself, in the moon’s arms, she is no one; tell yourself, as you lose

love, it is after, that you alone are the bearer in that changed place, you alone who have woken, and have

opened, you alone who can so love what you are now and the vanishing that carries it away.

kitchen witchen

new sweater goofin

got a nerd shirt

"The Lay of St. Kenelm"

Once again, another submission to the local college magazine Blackbird fro the July edition. This particular poem is based on the legend of St. Kenelm, an Anglo-Saxon prince who ascended the throne at the age of seven upon his father's death. He was quickly martyred/assassinated by his jealous sister Cwendred, who asked her lover to carry out the dirty work.

     "Once a good King past to Death

Cynewulf by name

And left he but a stripling heir

Young Cynehelm by name.

     "Had Cynehelm two sisters great

Yet scarcely 'like, the twain

Burgenhild' a maiden loyal

And Cwendred, woman vain.

     "To slay her kith and gain the crown

Was Cwendred's only want

And so she bid her lover dear

To do a task so gaunt.

     "Slay the child for me, my love

Cooed Cwendred to her man

Finish him with scarce a word

And take his life in hand.

     "So Ascbert went a' riding then

With Cynehelm one day

Hunting in the forest deep

For a prince to slay.

     "Stopped they for a brief respite

For Cynehelm to rest

And up behind did Ascbert come

At his dame's behest.

     "But Cynehelm spake Nay my lord

You shall not slay me here

Yet take this rod and plant it there

And bid my end come near.

     "So planted he a rod of thorn

And sprung from it an Ash

Then 'neath that tree did Ascbert strike

And Cyn'helm breathed his last.

     "But from the grave his Soul did fly

In likeness of a dove,

 - As prophecy foretold by dream -

Beyond the boughs above."

Again, you may re-post or share this this as you like, but please remember to  cite my name (Benjamin Spick) and the name of my blog (tiedinknotsart) as your source! This is my original work and is very important to me. Don't steal it!