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Poetry by Sasha Walker

The Romance of Stone

Artwork used with the permission of Tim Lantz. See more art at his website Stygian Darkness

I'm on the edge of dream, again, in dusk, unrelenting.
It draws, and holds me, ripe, for your taking. Lodged
in the quickening of sand, I feel your longing spill
over me, love. Humid sorrow, lachrymose to my naked
feet, I am death, warmed and breathing. Inclement winds
whip my spirit until I feel the sting of my own mahogany
tresses. Your face haunts the troubled sky, softly cradled
in the light between suffocating clouds. You seem at peace,
in upward gaze, though, the light and vivacity of your
laughter rolls in, pressed wicked, wet, in its reaching…

Lover of arches; windows, doors…feet…neck…back…
it was the arches, that caught your poet's eye ~ and the
romance of stone that held our hopes and dreams, alive.
This dwelling was grand in its day, truth filled it with
light, though some would vilify its presence it was ours,
it was love. We were fire, embracing, we scintillated the
woodlands, nestled deep…lovers…sylvan, and free. A string
of charms, you tied around my ankle, then…called me Gypsy,
and bade me, dance; my rhythm, feminine, earthy, Pagan
…it still haunts my skin.

The death of you, has become the death of me…bad luck and
poverty of heart, has filled these seven years, since.
The mirror stands near our bed; broken, as am I, with
your passing. Each piece now, holds a stranger's face at once…
dispelling, for a moment, my loneliness. I am, but an echo,
without you…bound, in longing, for something more than
just your memory. In the mirror, I hear you calling, feel you
reach for my reflection, though, once, blythe, vibrant, with
the touch of you…now, merely shadow…in the halflight.

It is a curious kind of dusking, love. This light is strange,
the woods have fallen…silent…though, in my heart, I still
hear it. The Ash, flexes his limbs, and I am drawn. Each breath,
each footfall…aches, to leave this tatterdemalion existence.
I want to climb him, to you…as loneliness personified;
threadbare, and waxen. Let my fingers wipe these tears of
remembrance, then slowly trace your sigil…down. Awaken the
sparking within me, as your limbs guide mine, my love
…I'm coming home.

Sasha Walker

The Legend of Wairaka

She wore the misty veil of long white cloud,
of feathered pride that draped her sun-kissed skin.
Her people, they were warriors, and proud,
high-spirited, they valued kith and kin.

The Maori, grew their crops by phase of moon,
and navigated oceans by it too.
But came a story, haunting as the tune,
of pipes and whistles, chanting, by the blue.

And while the tribal men were gone away,
to gather food, the whanau waited, long.
A waka started drifting from the bay,
Wairaka stepped out from within the throng.

The waka, huge, yet nothing broke her hold,
and to this day, her legend, still, is told.

Sasha Walker

Note from Sasha:

Waka = A large solid wooden canoe, like a dragonboat

Wairaka = A Maori woman who saved a waka from drifting out to sea

whanau = family

The Legend goes, that the men of the Mataatua Tribe (on the East Coast, of the North Island) went off to gather food, and while they were gone, one of the waka (canoe) started drifting out to sea, and there were only women and children, but a young woman by the name of Wairaka, grabbed hold of the rope and pulled the canoe in to shore…and after that the Bay was called Whakatane, which means "to act as a man"