Cricket Song

Van Gogh - Angler und Boote an der Pont de ClichyI call out your name, but not in despair, never in despair.  For you are my boy of summer, my sunshine, my days of plenty.

No, I cry out your name with all the radiance of a newly-formed star, with all the glory of a Parisian springtime in bloom, with all the reverence the moon holds for the sun, and he too for her in return.

Why, from the tip of my tongue to the back of my throat, you are there, the wind of change and the flame of eternity melding into one.

From the bottom of my soles to the tip of my head, every nerve singing its song of ecstasy and love, crying out your name, for all the world to hear.

La Fée

©  Odyne La Fée 2018

An Uncommon Complacency

*Take Hwy 35 north, until it don’t go north anymore…long road.JPG
There’s an uncommon complacency – out here among the trees;
a relaxing of everything – except for those immortal mysteries.
No broadcast news, no corporate control,
only the loons and my fractured soul.
But cast deep within the shadows of this dark-twilight wood
is a secret no man has ever understood.
For a secret language lingers here
yet it’s only whispered into the feminine ear.
For this is where the Goddess dwells
and by her Grace I’ve come under her spell.


La Fée

©  Odyne La Fée 2018

Antithesis of Death

I’ve seen the death you cradle in your eyes, and I know that nothing can soothe its god-awful cries
A phantasm longed for, yet repulsed just the same, it’s the darkness that brings only loneliness and shame
This hunger for blood, this hunger for pain, why it’s the demon that drives you out into the pouring rain
Yet there is a place where death goes to die, a place where a man can face all that he’d deny
A darkness as natural as the roots beneath your feet, a darkness filled with the sweetest of heat
And here in its womb you’ll find a natural fit, the antithesis of death, this primordial split


La Fée

©  Odyne La Fée 2018

Blade of War

Danny Quirk - (De)Facing P.T.S.D..png

I have woken into darkness; a part, not unlike the whole,

yet still wholly lacking, even cracking, yet never slacking, despite the shackling.

I woke to bitter tenderness; just another victim in this vast wilderness of war,

these endless, ceaseless hostilities that bury me though I still breathe.

And into this vast ocean of empathy I sink, and seethe.

Because there is nothing they can do for a part, never again to be made whole;

indelible, immutable, irrefutable blade of war

now shattered and broken, a pile of pieces upon the floor.


La Fée 2014

What Pain

El Greco (Domenikos Theotokopoulos) (Greek, 1541 – 1614), Laocoön, c. 1610/1614, oil on canvas, Samuel H. Kress Collection 1946.18.1


What pain lies beneath

that molten lava twisting in your eyes?


What pain is it

that draws from each breath

a cacophony of sighs?


What anguish is it

that beckons me like a siren,

pulling me from my icy grave,

my upturned stone,

my pirate enclave?


Why must I crawl out upon this land,

some terrible plight,

some heinous rite?

Or is it just a man who’s forgotten how to stand?


Why now, crippled in pain, do you come

upon your knees,

if not to cauterize a wound that’s begun to rot,

if not to once more see the man

the world forgot?


La Fée