Erika Edberg
Bio
Part time bard serving whispers from forgotten kingdoms.
windwitch.substack.com
Stories (13/0)
Bugs
All of the bugs have finally gone to rest. No longer will they sing and scream when the sun hits their yearning forms. It will be many long, cold days before they wake up and serenade the world again. A consistent soundtrack for the days of sun and warmth. I guess I can admit that I already miss them and the way they make this existence seem less empty and alone. As much as I try to avoid it, humans have very much cut themselves off from much of the living world. Isolated ourself to our cozy houses where unless a window is cracked or a door left open, not much of the external world can leak inside. The reality that so many of us see a crawling of the outside world within our own fortress and we curse it, crush it, and kill it, then disposing of it in our carefully hidden cans of shameful refuse. Anything that is not prim, proper, and orderly is cast out and deemed unacceptable. Maybe that’s why I like a little dust in my corners, the occasional eight-legged guardian, and some dirt trailed in from a recent excursion to the land outside of these walls. Maybe that’s why I don’t mind a little clutter and madness, it seems to keep me grounded, not exiled to a world of sterility and imagined perfection.
By Erika Edberg6 months ago in Poets
Desire Path
There is a tired, broken line running from our bedrooms, miles and miles away. Along this line one might find bits and pieces of love worn passages, words tumbled from mouth into ear, mouth into mouth. There are brambles, thorns, thickets, puddles, mud pits, flower gardens, vast green meadows filled with birds fishing through the air, swirling about, disrupting the clouds. It took time to make this line, it took time to make it sturdy, to turn it into a well worn desire path. Then it took time to make it ragged, for spots and patches to grow back with feral life. We can remember the way if we dig deep into the soil of our minds, the seeds are still there, they are hibernating until they are again watered, cared for. The path will be one that doesn't fully seal, even when death kisses our breath away, even when our final moment is swept from this temporary body and ushered onto the next. The path will pass onto the next pair of lovers, of friends tangled in the romance of loving another person, in passion or in platonic enmeshment. The kind of enmeshment that happens only when two souls share a bond forged by walks under streetlights, dilated pupils, dancing in the flashes of thunderstorms, trailing muddy feet back to tents full of friends, hands wrapped gently, hands wrapped desperate for something to hold onto in a world upended by choosing illusions over reality, making them into reality, turning each other into small gods for a moment in time, a moment consumed with the existence of the other.
By Erika Edbergabout a year ago in Poets
Rolling Love
Try to explain to me the way you roll in love. How it sets your fire stirring, sparks flying up. If you take your time maybe the street lights will turn off and you can go walking home under the morning sun. Fresh burn on your eyelids. Tired, heavy with the fleeting night.
By Erika Edbergabout a year ago in Poets
This is not a Simulation
We walk along manicured paths that wind their way through an overgrown forest. Thick and dense. The sun trying to break through the canopy. See creeper vines wind their way up the trunks, hugging, suffocating, the dying trees covered in moss, pulling them back into the underworld. Nutrients for future landscapes that only invasives recognize we are heading for. They are the catalyst, the gateway into coming times.
By Erika Edbergabout a year ago in Earth
- Top Story - January 2023
Rough and Tumble DarlingTop Story - January 2023
Rough and tumble darling Your little eyes are gleaming with burnt out fury, and a suitcase full of worry. Brush those tangles out of your mind woman and kiss the dirt under your fingernails, it only arrives there through some sort of struggle.
By Erika Edbergabout a year ago in Poets
My Harbinger of Joy and Madness
My harbinger of joy and madness. How will we find violets among the skeleton scar of the wildfire? How will we garner pleasure and emit riot songs from our burning lungs? And what of you? What hurricane will you ride upon as you derive chaos from the falling of a catastrophic society? Fated for failure from the very deviation it believed would give it a more stable life. Where will the orchid woman grow when she flowers from a place that was created from ravaging her? Her scent, her petals, her leaves, her very roots threaded together with the mycorrhizal bonds forged with her sisters, braided together below the ground. What say you of the diamonds yanked from the earth by hands yearning for survival to then be placed upon fingers wedded with wealth.
By Erika Edbergabout a year ago in Poets