January 25, 2026
AI tells me there is hope.
It says that hope can feel
distant at times, but that it's linked
to resilience and taking action.
It doesn't mention, though,
all that's good and pretty.
And what does it say
about the state we’re in
that I would be
Googling such a thing
on a Sunday morning,
with refracted light
shimmering on the threads
of a spider web?
Here's a little piece from a Zoom session I led a few years ago.
When we kissed, you
seemed like a prince
and I swooned
over the amber scent
of your open lips.
Oh yes,
tears were spent
when you issued your decree
and banished me from
your close kingdom.
But eventually I
relaxed my fists
and stopped pounding
on your castle gates.
Instead, I walked
through a neighborhood,
as common as a penny,
with pale mushrooms
bobbing in parking strips
and a marimba of ants
crossing the concrete.
Have you ever noticed
the scent of ferns or a faded
rose or even dirt after a gray
November rain?
These are things worth
bowing to, the things
the gods create,
the things I thought
I'd tasted in your
gilded kiss.
Linda Ferguson
Fear Marbh
Off the coast of the Dingle Peninsula of Ireland
A man shaped rock island lies,
Inis Tuaisceart, the Northern Isle.
They call him Fear Marbh, the deadman.
How does a heart and soul of a man turn to stone?
He’s been in this same spot for as long as time
and man have been around to witness him.
A man who can’t see beyond his rocky bed,
cannot recognize emotions in himself or
others, he never changes, even when storms
pass by with waves that break over him.
He does not yield, he is deaf to all that
call just like when he was a human?
Is this why his unfeeling heart has
turned to stone?
If a spark of truth should penetrate
this rock, will warmth and compassion ignite?
How many waves have pounded his side?
The cries of humanity may some day leak
through as the world circles the sun
in our vast luminous universe.
Linda Ann Fraser
1/16/2026
Inis Tuaisceart (In-is Tōōsh-kart)
Fear Marbh (Fear Mar-ov)
Here's a love poem I wrote a few years ago:
What can they know of you
or me? They talk as if you were
my concubine, following my orbit
with head bowed, three steps behind.
No one imagines how we carry
each other’s soul across the river
of the divided universe. My blush
is well documented, but not the pleasure
we take bathing in the milk of our mutual
banishment. Is our bond science
or fiction? Their calculations prove
convergence is impossible. Yet
our ice shields are lit with pulses that spike
without ever touching. When I laugh, you
feel the breath of snow drops blooming
in the frost, and your tears are butterflies
that land on my open palms. Some believe
deities watch and nod approvingly. But
from where? Look, even the radiant eye
of Jupiter is blind, a shrinking swirl of salt.
There is no above or below in infinity – we both
know hierarchy is a mortal’s dream chased
by the tiger claws of uncertainty. And so we float
in our mingled dust, embracing the solar wind
and cerulean glow no one sees but us.
published in The Poeming Pigeon: Cosmos, 2020, The Poetry Box
Playing with words and colors like a kid with finger paint, not too worried about making sense.
Look
the lake is lit
amazing
we have come
wild and light
unpetalled
love
float and sail
astonished
impossible
excess
I thought I preferred those first pristine pages, remembering how, eyes closed, my pen could glide precisely as shining blades on ice. But now there are crags to climb -- the buckled paper contains lakes of stains to cross. To write here is to tread deep into Hansel and Gretel's dark forest. To dance with a bear, the scent of blood and blackberries on its breath, to palm the warm apricots and plums bartered for at Christina's Goblin Market, to put them in my mouth, between teeth and tongue, then face the flowering of fangs and stars.
