Two Poems by Elysabeth Faslund

Celtic Mother 

In the time of dead leaves,
when wide-eyed things
frowned at sound,
and snow fell through fog,
a red berry circlet
crowned her hair.

When hunger stilled infants
and frost shrouded ancients,
wrinkled laughter dappled
forests, glades, fens.
Her talons clawed
life through death,
veil through veil.

Mother. Hag. Virgin whore.
Giver, taker, wise before
gods' birth.

In the time of black robes,
when men killed
for one mouth of meat,
she walked naked
on frozen fields,
and the earth
shuddered
its young
upwards.

Mother. Midwife. Woman.
She was breathtaking.

Dandelions in Cement Cracks

"The best poems are penned at night..."


after the world has bottomed you up
like a brown bag, no label wine.
All. Day. Long.
Plopping your worn glass,
empty, on a Whirlpool cardboard box...
absorbing, drying
all once-upon-a-time, 'Made In China',
condo-walled dreams.

Your buddy, 'Thunderbird', twitches whiskers
over glistening gutter teeth.

Dandelions in cement cracks.

Ah, life is good. Sleep peacefully.
No mortgage. No rent.
The morning brings a full glass
to hold you in escrow...

For Torquemadas
of the World.

Elysabeth lives in Theriot, La.  Is an international, professional poet,

changing with the times, but not the place as 25 miles from the Gulf of Mexico is not

a place to be for the beginning of hurricane season! See ya'll around FEMA way!

Send salami, as there'll be no place to spend money!!