© Jennifer K. Marsh 2015

There once was a man so holy of heart,
though oft times he wondered when his life would start;
he roamed through his town with his shadow forlorn,
beset by a sense that the world he must mourn.
For, though holy his heart, a piece was misplaced,
which could not be found with imprudent haste –
like flowers that blossom with each merry spring,
the timing of Grace is a delicate thing.

And as this man rambled through well-trodden streets
he yearned for a beauty for his eyes to greet,
but where could he find such delight to the eye
when all his surrounds were a joy so denied?
How this man yearned for the blush of a flower
to inspire a smile through his lonely hours!
And so with a sigh and a drop of his head,
he wandered away to meet what lay ahead.

His feet led the way, knowing not where they went,
but being a vagrant bettered silent laments;
he would wander afar to seek what had been lost,
through valleys and tors, and sunshine and frost.
Perhaps, so he thought, if he ventured these lands,
someday he’d return with a flower in hand,
for with hope in his step and with faith in his soul
he would find the stray piece to make his heart whole.

Ever onwards he went, though the flowers he saw
were pretty and special, and yet nothing more –
he saw flowers of peach, of pink and of blue,
but knew that in spirit for others they grew.
Though he was perplexed by the flowers in sight,
for they wilted not beneath the blazing sunlight;
they were as gentle and as fair as could be
and suffered none in the heat – which was not so for he.

How he longed for the shade as he journeyed the dale!
Alas, no trees he found to offer avail.
The sky above had not even a cloud
to ease the travail he felt on the ground.
Only woe he had found as he travelled abroad,
and so, with despair, he cried out to the Lord:
“Why must my heart bear such sorrow as this!
Why is your Grace not enough for my bliss!”

So passed the day ’til the sun’s fall was due,
for the dusk welcomed he with a heavenly hue.
Relief was his own when the heat fell away,
and so he awaited the nightly display;
soon he would see the diamond dance of the stars
and moonstruck he’d be by the light of afar.
His wonder so grew for the dark mystery –
a vision of glory so melancholy!

But then as he trod ever marvelling still,
providence sang over wind-smitten hills;
it taught him of patience – his heart would soon sing! –
for he was so blessed, and a lover of spring.
The truth of these words he could not deny,
but his heart still wept for a flower to find.
But then his eyes met, on the horizon faint,
the shape of a tree that compelled to acquaint.

The tree greeted him with a smile and said,
“Hail, weary traveller, may my roots make your bed!
Dear child of God, I bid you rest beside me,
for you are my keeper and in return I keep thee.”
The man offered his thanks, expressed humble and true,
but the tree spoke again, for foretelling he knew:
“I have heard word that a flower you seek:
Turn and behold! The Lord’s flowers are meek.”

The man turned and beheld but he could not admire,
for this flower was frigid and stirred no desire;
she hid her bloom from the light of the sun
and retired her beauty to instead only shun.
But though this was so, he was caught by intrigue,
for what flower can hide with such quiet mystique?
How would she be if she opened her heart?
Would she be fearful, or broken, or dark?

The tree chuckled and said, with much good intent,
“You know in your heart this here flower I meant!”
The man did respond, “But how is this so?
For she is no heavenly image I know.”
And the tree so replied, “And so that should be,
since her beauty is only for your eyes to see!
She has been waiting for her sacred spring,
for the timing of Grace is a delicate thing!”

He sat down in thought, pondering over his plight
as he was amongst the ever darkening light.
So came to be the sky faded to black
and the stars sparked to life for him to gaze at;
they waltzed around the moon’s silver throne,
but how could it be the moon seemed so alone?
And yet, even so, it was the sphere of peace,
and night brought him many a sentiment sweet.

But then he noticed amidst the gentle moonshine
that now arose Grace, for the timing was nigh:
the flower, with care, did open her bloom
beneath the pale light of the moon.
Her petals were bold in a delicate white –
an angel that shone in God’s holy light!
Her beauty was more than he could ever tell:
she was the moonlight’s own precious belle.

But what did he see when she opened her heart?
She held a fragment – his heart’s missing part.
She was of heaven, this he now knew,
for within her the Holy Ghost surely grew;
she was his gift for his heart so divine –
the piece he had always been yearning to find.
With blessings abound the Lord showed him the One,
and his heart was anew – a new life had begun!

Nevermore would this man pine through the hours,
for he had found her – his little moonflower.


It has been a while since I have done anything on this blog, and an even longer while since I have written/shared a poem. I believe I’ve said before that I never write poetry unless deeply compelled to, and ‘Moonflower’ came to be in quite a… Well, I was cleaning the house when out of nowhere the idea popped up in my mind. I knew I had to let this one out. I don’t think I’ve ever written such a long poem, either – it just kept on going and going! Still, it tells a story, so it’s okay.

As for the odd (and not desperately wonderful) sketch I did to accompany the poem… I’m not quite sure what happened with that, to be perfectly honest. It wasn’t supposed to be what it ended up as. I planned to draw a tree with a man kneeling by it, admiring a blooming flower in the moonlight, but, when I sat down at my desk with pencil in hand, the above happened. For whatever reason, I drew a woman’s hand with the flower coming out of it… And the rest is history. Make of it what you will.

We have all heard of the glorious sunflower, yes? It is sunshine in a flower, blooming and flourishing in the sunlight.

But did you know there is a moonflower? What a gentle thing this flower is! It does not bloom during the day, but rather once the sun has set. It blooms throughout the night.


I want a garden full of moonflowers, so I may see its white beauty, and feel as if the moon’s essence dwells before me in a delicate flower once the night falls. And maybe these moonflowers can be grown amongst some sunflowers, for when one opens the other rests, and the sun is a joy to behold! The sun and the moon, different as they may be, are very much one. Though, for me, my heart lives on the moon.

An aside: I wrote a little song about the sun and the moon once – a ‘love’ story, if you will, between the two. 

‘So the two share the sky, though at differing times,

yet they long to know something more.

Can the sun hide away?

Can the moon see the day?

Would their yearning soon make them fall?’


I feel very much like the man in the poem at the moment. A wanderer. Lonely. Mourning what is not there to be mourned. Maybe I too should wander away in pursuit of my flower… *sigh* 


May you find your flower, be it one of the sun or the moon,

and be at peace, my friends.

Blessings keep you,


Sing Your Spellsong Lullaby (O Noble Winter One)

*clears throat, taps on microphone, rolls out red carpet*

Dear everyone (or should that be, ‘Er, listen yeah? Totes got summin’ to say’, in accordance to his preferred speech?),

I would like to introduce to you a very special friend of mine – and nobility at that, no less. He is, in actual fact, my long lost brother. Can you not tell by the hair?

BEHOLD! HRH Prince Stevick of Hairyfootville of the Kingdom of Norway, also known as Shelob. And Gollum. And Nick Hewer. 


Bet you regret sending this to me now, eh, Steven 😉

I am slightly concerned that Prince Stevick might retaliate to this here sharing of his face. And ‘hair’. But we’ve already discussed that he shouldn’t pick a fight with me, for I am the creator of my own language, and I could say all manner of things to him and he would not be able to Google translate it. Mwahahahahaaaa.

Anyway, as much as I’d like to tease Stevick all day, I’ll get to the point, before Sherri P whacks me with her magical brolly and tells me off for bullying. 

Approximately nine thousand years ago, Stevick dedicated this post to me, and, light-hearted it may have been, it meant an awful lot, and made me beam and laugh in the midst of the grim week I was having at the time. I said, as my token of gratitude, that I would write a poem for/dedicated to him. So, I did. However, in my typical blue whale fashion, it has taken me an age and a half to get around to sharing it. Stevick, bless his heart, has been left in terrible suspense for months on end now. I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

This poem is for WAS – or, to those unaware (which is everyone in the world apart from Stevick and I), the Winter Appreciation Society. And what better time to share a poem for WAS than in the midst of summer, and more specifically, in the midst of an absolutely INFERNO week we are having here in Britain? The answer is none other, obviously. (And when I say ‘inferno’, just bare in mind that we’re British, so what I’m really saying is we’re currently experiencing a cold summer if comparing to any other country’s standard.)

But, on a serious note, this poem is truly heartfelt. I am only good at heartfelt things, I’m afraid – especially when it comes to words. 

So, without further ado…


Dear Steven, this one’s for you.

Sing Your Spellsong Lullaby (O Noble Winter One)

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2014

They always say, “That castle on the hill is cold,”
but I know that’s not true;
I just know there are great thick walls
that are hard to break through.
They always say, “The cold brings nothing but despair,”
but I know that’s not true;
I just know the beauty is shy
and hides out of their view.

If I said, “That castle is home to a magic prince,”
would they laugh at me?
Would they say, “No such man could dwell up there!
Why are you too blind to see?”

But, in actual fact, I am the only one who sees
the beauty of his magic,
and the beauty that he breathes.
For deep inside those castle walls
there burns a fire in the halls:
so warm, so bright,
and soon his spell will ignite!
But who needs sceptics anyway?
Let them waste their lives away
if they do not wish to see
the magic falling with the leaves.
For there comes a time when nature dies
and any warmth seems hard to find,
but that is when the magic Prince
ignites his spell hoping to convince
every eye to behold he:
The Winter One
of beauty keen.

They always say, “That castle on the hill is cold,”
and maybe that is true,
but that’s because the ice-frost shields
form the walls of white and blue.
They always say, “The cold brings nothing but despair,”
but that is never true,
for glory is found in every flake
of snow that whispers silent tunes.

Now I say, “Sing a song to the world,
O Noble Winter One –
a lullaby, beneath your spell,
and cast the blizzard’s endless run!”

Enchanting winter spellbind us
with glitter-chill and bitter gusts
as you breathe down icy streams
to make the frozen water gleam.
Fly afar yonder the hills
until the nightly snowdust spills
out from the sky above
to make the whole world fall in love
with the mystery you always bring
every winter when you sing.
O, how you spellbind me
with every single breath you breathe.

I wonder if they will ever see
the beauty of his magic
and the beauty that he breathes.
Will they ever fall in love
with the falling leaves?

They always say, “That castle on the hill is cold,”
but I know that’s not true:
the Winter One’s fire burns brightly inside,
and it will always warm you.
They always say, “The cold brings nothing but despair,”
but I know that’s not true:
the Winter One will fill your heart with joy
with his season, white and blue,
for he will always sing for you.

If only they could hear him, too.


Keep that fire burning inside, Steven, and it will brighten the darkest nights

and warm the coldest winters,

for, though we may love winter and the dark,

we still need to stay warm, lest we turn to ice,

and we still need to see.

From your long lost sister and fellow Shelob catacomb companion who will always keep an ear open for you, should you need it,

Princess Jenona


Eternal Thread

This poem/piece of creating writing was inspired by a particular man – James Radcliffe, to be specific 😉 He is a beautiful person, and he creates equally beautiful music, so I think everyone should visit his blog and check it out.

Pretty much everything in this poem is taken from things we have said to each other, including the title, Eternal Thread. One day I happened to say the words ‘eternal thread’, and he said that would be a great title for something, to which I replied by saying that I would write a poem about it someday.

He said that if I did write this poem, he wants co-creator credit (that sounds quite demanding, but I can assure you it wasn’t like that). I guess it kind of is his poem too, though, for without him I never would have written it, for I never would have known his words. Maybe, then, it is entirely his poem, and not mine at all. Co-creator credit is all very well, but I personally think that this should be a gift. Therefore, this poem is for you, James, and not by you. But either way, this is yours, in every sense.

Yet although this poem is one of things James and I have said to each other, I wanted to make it something more. I wanted to make it something anyone could read and let it mean something personal to them. Hopefully I have done that. That said, there is one thing in particular which speaks out to me in this poem and which came to my mind when I wrote it, but my lips are sealed, for I do not want to influence your path of imagination. Though, I shall give you a clue: if you regularly talk to me via this blog or email or what have you, this poem is kind of for you, too.

I like writing things for other people. Maybe, if you so inspire me, I will write a poem for you one day 😉 I also like to make the vast majority of my poems link… What I mean by this is that if you put my poems together they tell one continuous poem – or story, as I prefer to think of it. So, this poem may be for James, but I also wrote it in such a way that it could be added to my collection of storytelling poems. And for all these reasons, it is a creation I hold dear to my heart. 

James has already seen this poem, for I sent it to him when I finished it way back in January or February (whenever it was), but now I feel it is time to share it with you all…

I hope you enjoy!


Eternal Thread

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2014

(and James Radcliffe, if he so desires to be co-creator 😉 )

Shall I stay here on the shore, that one you mentioned once before? Shall I sit there and stare far away beyond the ocean’s distant waves? Often I wonder what lies between the blues of the sky high above and the sea’s navy hues, but then in a whisper upon the gentle breeze someone told me, “It is home to golden dreams.”

Where are you now, my friend? Are you there at the other end, over the horizon where the sun ascends? Are you there by another tide where the land and sea joins on a beautiful shore where happiness resides? Is the sun awake and sending you to sleep beneath its rays that beam so far, or is the moon the ruler now, making you arise within the night so you can sing beneath the stars?

Shall I stay here on the shore, that one you mentioned once before, and make a thread out of everything we’ve ever said? Shall I make it go on forever and let the world smile at this eternal endeavour? I know this thread will reveal our rapport, and I know you are waiting for it on your shore, so when I am done shall I throw this thread into the air to let the wind carry it there? And do you think, as it travels beyond the horizon, that those dreams in the sky will shed their light and paint it gold to make it the most beautiful thing we’ve ever laid our eyes on? But don’t you worry, for I want you to know: I will hold onto my end so very tight and never let it go. When this thread reaches you, will you grab onto your end too? I hope you do.

For then I would hear you and your whispers sweet, always, and perhaps in time your words may sway my disheartened mind to forever feel that golden light found within us all, for I once said that golden light comes only from the sun, and that if a soul may know this light, mine is not the one. Yet still I ponder, perhaps needlessly, how strange it seems that you spoke of such a light when once, long ago, I wrote of this very thing:

“I can see you with your thread, stitching every word that’s said … Sometimes I wish I could be there with you, to see the world as you do … But maybe you have painted a trail of golden light for me to follow.”

How did you know such thoughts of mine when all I did was voice the sky? Do you think it could be the eternal thread was one step ahead and formed itself on all unsaid? Do you think the golden light could be this very thread? Do you wonder whether those dreams in the sky waited for this time so as to bring all sense of this into the benign? A thought so pretty, wouldn’t you agree? Though this all makes little sense to me… But since when did life live rationally?

You know how inclined I am to I sigh! You know I do it all the time, and I know that you hear me. Yet how I hope this thread may turn my laments into the sky’s own melody, and if such grief befalls you so that you fall to lament too, maybe yours can be the sea’s own chime that sings the world its lullabies. For though I am here, and you are there, this thread can take us anywhere, and thus a smile will not be far behind whenever we gaze beyond the sky and cast our eyes to the horizon. Is it not such a beautiful prospect?

My friend, I will stay here on the shore, that one you mentioned once before. I will sit there and stare far away beyond the ocean’s distant waves. I will always wonder what lies between the blues of the sky high above and the sea’s navy hues, but then in a whisper upon the gentle breeze you will reassure me:

“All you see is all it seems: it is home to golden dreams. Do not doubt while on the shore; have faith in all you feel, for how else do you suppose your feelings to be real? Golden light is everywhere, in the skyscape as sunsets flare and in our dreams that beckoningly call. But, perhaps, most importantly, it is there within us all.”


Dear friend on another shore,

Thank you for our eternal thread.

Love to you, always.


Time Flies

Times Flies

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2014

Hey, my little olden friend,

tell me what it’s like to fly

through the eyes of times gone by!

Did you grow visionary wings

so you could soar over everything?

Is your heart a silver key

that unlocks sight to secret dreams?

Hey, my little olden friend,

know that soon it will be the end!

But you know, deep down inside,

that this is not the last goodbye.

One, two, three: rise and shine!

You’ll be here for all of time,

right up there in my sky.

In my sights.

For you are His,

yet also mine.


I suddenly realised the other day that I have been working on the Ilimoskus story since 2011. I mean, I’ve obviously always known that, but it only just hit me. 2011. Time is a funny old thing. This story has been such an unchanging constant in my life that it has made time fly by – ZOOOOMMMM! – to the right here right now; but then, at the same time, it has plodded on right alongside me, taking in every slow little development and savouring it for the precious thing it is.

It’s been a year since my debut novel, the first part of the Ilimoskus trilogy – TIMES OF OLD – was published. It has the capability to fly all over the world if it so wished, but, for now, it is quite happy to inconspicuously hover in the British and North American skies (that may have sounded a little presumptuous, but I didn’t mean it like that at all).

After all, because it is mine, only I can shove it off the edge of the cliff so it can make use of its God-given wings. I’m clearly not very good at shoving. But maybe my little olden friend and I can unlock something instead… Something, something…


My own personal drawing of the Ilimoskus themselves (left to right: fire, air, water, earth)

We Ilimoskus, we elemental folk, are peaceful beings, unknown to the likes of you humans. We were, that is. Before, you could not see us; before, you could not hear us. We were nothing more than the crackle of fire, the gushing of water, the whisper of wind and the rustling of leaves – always there, but never truly acknowledged.

– Times of Old, Prologue

Maybe we can unlock a heart to see something that was not there before.

Jun daiamel, zhouujostlebako!

What a year it has been.

What a journey!

And what more times are to come?

We will find out. Together.


Technically, there is now a second edition of Ilimoskus: Times of Old, although this is not actually stated in the book itself. Even so, if you have a copy of the book from April 2013 – March 2014, you’ve so got a first edition 😉

And here is an update about the online magazine I work for, Pie, if anyone’s interested. It’s having a bit of an overhaul!

The Apple

Good day, everyone. I have emerged from my shadowy lair today so as to venture back into the world of WordPress and share with you a poem of mine. It is not the happiest poem I’ve ever written, yet still there is hope within it. I actually started to write it on Christmas Eve last year (I wasn’t in the greatest mood over Christmas), but stopped after the first big paragraph because I wasn’t sure where I wanted the ‘story’ to go. Basically, I didn’t know whether I wanted a happy ending or a sad one. I left this poem for a while, and ended up finishing it on 22nd February. Is it a happy ending? Yes and no.


The Apple

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2014

Oft times I wonder how the oak tree bore
an apple
and not an acorn.

What a foreign little thing
this apple seems to be
among the acorns of the tree.
This apple will not sing the oak tree’s song.
This apple knows it will never belong.
But this makes the acorns stare,
knowing all too well the apple’s aware:
“What is it doing there?” the acorns say.
“Why won’t it go away?
Why won’t this apple simply fall?
On this tree it should not be bore!”
The apple fights back its tears, saying,
“I know I am not your peer –
I don’t know how I wound up here.
I wish more than all of you
that I could simply fall.
I wish I could plummet down and roll away,
’cause I can’t stand this anymore!
For so many years I’ve tried to sing your song,
but whenever I do it always sounds wrong.
I just don’t belong!
But what can I do?
Here I must stay,
for here I am bound,
until I grow old and rot away.
Oh, how I wish I could be on the ground –
maybe there some hope can be found!
Oh, what can I do?”

At this the acorns sneer,
just as the apple had feared;
why should the apple speak its heart
when the acorns wish to tear it apart?
What can this apple do
but endure the scorn of acorn spew?
The sun slowly sinks as the day passes by
and oh how this little apple cries
well away into the night
beneath the darkened eventide.
The endless sky leans down to paint
the apple black for its dark escape;
it has been kissed by the lips of death,
for time decrees its final breath.
And so while the acorns sleep
so soundly lost in visions deep,
the apple breaks away and falls
far below where the grass blades grow.
The apple lands, crashing with might,
splitting in two like its heart during life,
to reveal a centre so rife with seeds –
the seeds that were the roots of its dreams.
But now the apple halves roll away,
down the hill of a dawning day,
leaving behind the oak tree’s ways.

And time goes by, so steady and slow,
all the while these small seeds grow;
soon will stand the tallest tree
of apples, both red and green,
and blossom will burst for every dream
that times before had never seen!

Time has passed and now I stare
at all the apples way up there.

Oft times I wonder how the oak tree bore
an apple
and not an acorn.
Oft times I gaze at the apple tree
and whisper:
“Now you are free.”



Serious face for a serious question:

Do you often wonder how the oak tree bore an apple and not an acorn?

I know I do.

Darling Moon

The image is not my own. It was originally taken from Google Images.

Darling Moon

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2013

You know I’m here waiting
for the perfect time
to let the world fall
into blinding moonshine.
You know I’m here holding
the moon by a thread,
dangling on every word
that was never said.

O, my darling:
shall I let go?
Shall I plunge into the depths
of all we do not know?
I’m hanging from your tongue
that burns me like the sun,
so maybe you should tell me:
what is it that you see
when you look up so hopelessly?

You know I’m here leaping
from star to distant star,
peering down from the heights
and pondering where you are.
You know I’m here heeding,
upon the darkest clouds,
every desperate thought
you never say aloud.

O, my darling:
shall I speak for you?
Shall I whisper all the thoughts
you thought I never knew?
I’m hanging from your tongue
that burns me like the sun,
so maybe you should tell me:
what is it that you feel
when underneath the night you kneel?

You know I’m here drifting
along the gentle breeze,
singing all the lullabies
I learnt from the seas.
You know I’m here shining
before your tired eyes,
bound in wondrous silver
to make mystery arise.

O, my darling:
shall I stay unknown?
Shall I be the hidden force
that carries you back home?
I’m hanging from your tongue
that burns me like the sun,
so maybe you should tell me:
what is it that you need
when silent tears fall as you plead?

But, my darling,
I don’t know where you are:
how am I to find you
when you are so far?
How am I to love you
when you do not say
the simple words I need to hear
to take the pain away?

So, my darling,
I will stay within the moon.
I’ll be there in the light
that brightly beams every night
to always be by you.
I know you love the moon,
so maybe you can tell me soon.

You know that you should tell me,
I know that you can,
and I know that all you want
is for me to understand.
O, my darling,
won’t you tell me:
what is it that you see
when you gaze at the moon?
I hope that you will tell me soon.

‘The smallest drop in the ocean can start a wave of emotion’

Endless thanks to the words in Eternity, and to those behind them. I was listening to this song one cold November night, sat at my desk and staring out the window to view the night sky, and it reminded me of my wholehearted adoration for the moon. How that wholehearted adoration had slipped my mind in the first place, I’m not quite sure, but such is the way sometimes. Writing ‘Darling Moon’ helped ease the hopelessness that was reigning over me at the time.

I am so in love with you,

my dear,

my Darling Moon