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All Art Images & Creative Writings Associated with Victoria Wetsch, StudioWetsch, PapercraftGallery & KingdomsGate reserve all rights and are subject to copyright laws ​© 2024-2025  

Restless Night

Letting go,

paper, so easy to tear,

in a moment, bits scatter

carried by a breeze,

caught up into chilling arms,

tripping over airy stairs,

a quivering silhouette

of delicate empty branches,

fluttering inside

another restless night,

I don’t know if I’m ready for winter,

shivering through the dance,

joining leaf and paper torn,

over delicate twig scars,

a grace filled connection

bleeding, dribbling drops

of chilling blue rain,

my face, my empty hands,

your virtue, your devotion

swirling round a trail

of memories and dreams

absolving, dissolving

into a reserved orbit

where you drift and flow

far from this night sky,

I suffer to be near you

 

—Victoria Wetsch—

Sleeping Sea House

Over walkway planks,

the rhythm of salty waves

crawl past the sea house door,

white washed, to its end,

sleeping a long course

through sun and time,

a haunting random decline;

empty windows drink in cornflowers

tangled in garden blues

bending with the breeze;

from jagged slivers of glass shimmering,

a cracked mirror reflects

fragments of light, scattering;

a distorted glistening glimmer,

sparrows echo hollow, rise up

pilfering bits of painted paper

from the corner debris;

in their beaks, fallen plaster

for their nests hidden

in sacred burdened boughs

alongside a ring of three,

from ash and birch, twigs

tied round with scarlet twine,

stolen from the swollen roots,

anchored, gnarled and knotted,

edging over roof slates,

to shadow gates of weedy iron

set free with blossoms flourishing  

among the thorns and thistles.

​

—Victoria Wetsch—

Olesya's Dream

Photos inside a tattered card,

dried ochre fleurettes, dandelions

on delicate pressed stems;

Simple gifts, a treasure in her grasp,

she cradles an image,

her child in her arms,

under the tree on a park bench, resting,

bent over with age and lament;

She missed all the parties,

birthdays and a wedding day;

From a face drawn deep with shadows,

wisps of silver white hair, silken

embroidered golden rosettes,

border her kerchief, tied back;

lulled by the snow-white ghosts,

a whisper, a breath

carried by an easy traveling breeze;

She dreams, lifting up her child,

a divine blossom, an invitation

to heaven for a moment,

through and through, miles and miles

of tall, rippling grass blades, lost

among myriads of dandelion heads adrift,

settling over another day vanishing.

​

—Victoria Wetsch—

 

 

Woodland Floor

 

The sun, radiant, moving close

in its golden season, luminescent

over calm water, light to the world,

pebbles twinkle beside the pond’s edge

at the southern slope near the old city,

a thousand years green, silent

moss creeps over fallen stones,

trailing ivy, twisting vines tumble

below brooding cedar branches,

lowly shadows skip over cones,

their scales in a precise spiral,

life inherent, nestled within its core,

seeds of generations delivered,

wonder of the woodland floor.

​

 

—Victoria Wetsch—

 

 

Chickadee

 

Long branches, frosted white

with delicate ice crystals, sparkling,

glittering mirrors of the rising sun,

the dance of scattering light;

Radiance, this day brings,

stirring within a birch hollow,

out pops the chickadee,

a bundle of gray plumage,

shivering under its thick down coat,

white cheeks, black cap, a ragtag bib;

Is this backyard bird too small to be

precisely designed by the Creator,

its weight equal to a few pennies;

But size does not define its significance

as it flits across crystalline branches

in celebration of the morning sun;

Left foot clutching a frozen twig,

right foot tucked up into its feathers,

leaning into a northern gust;

With bird song

rehearsed, for generations,

note to note, a sweep of chirps

gliding through the chilly air

ringing affection,

from the essence of its being,

surrounded with protection,

called by name:

ancient, treasured, entirely complete.

​

 

—Victoria Wetsch—

 

 

 

A World Reborn

 

They watch and wait

for the hour, looking up

for the promise

to unite with, to ascend with

—I Am—

an awakening,

in a twinkling

for the faithful,

carried by mercy 

from the deep hollow hovel

into the vestal light of serenity,

worthy by grace to be ever here,

ever now, one with heaven

as it blooms from praise, 

a rising spiral of hallelujah,

radiant in a world reborn.

 

 

—Victoria Wetsch—

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The Bandog

 

Winter words and tools of war

swing from Bigwig’s chain,

to-and-fro, from west

to east, favoring the end

to the beginning of invasion,

an expression of the lowest

human thought, legions of demons

stumble over the final call

sent from bureaucrats, thinking

like all the others, bleeding

from audacious eyes, sunken

in the mire of greed,

as gathering clouds cover the sky,

as dark misery floods the earth,

heaven wears a shirt of flame

and all the world fears the Bandog.

​

 

—Victoria Wetsch—

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