The Myth of Her
There was Angel blood and fire dust in the wisps of heaven, blown by the currents of passionate havoc. The molecules escaped history and slipped into the slit kept secret by the future, now red with remorse at the loss of clock-tick virginity. Somehow the folding of hope and loss gave life to a seedling, with roots of immortality and stems of divinity. She rose from fertility with soft eyes and strong bones held tight beneath pale skin. Every time my heart beats, she blinks and I feel the breeze.
Mother Earth and Her Cherubs
Beautiful earth cherubs
looked askance
from perches of mirth.
Rosy cheeks and innocent air
belied the erosive damage
they all were committing
to the sacred Mother
who birthed them
and nurtured their bodies.
Sobbing Mother Earth
lamented as she watched
her sweet cherubs
throwing their trash
on her beauteous land,
using toxic poisons
to fertilize her beds,
washing her fair face
with noxious chemicals,
emptying filthy sewers
into rivers and oceans
cutting her verdant forests
leaving them fallow.
The bereft cherubs wailed
as they realized
the damage they had done
but it was too late.
Mother Earth was no more.
Eraser Faeries
Deep within the crevasses of books, within the curls of grass blades, within the folds of jean pockets, lives tiny, tiny fanged creatures.
They are mostly shades of gray, fluffed to look like dust—but sometimes, a gritty brown to mimic dirt. They cling to students, and teachers. Tiny eyes, hidden by tufts of fur, never blink. These creatures are eager to devour their pray—pencil erasers.
As they get closer to their prey, fangs click with excitement. They will suck each eraser dry—Yet, students never weary, teachers never stop, mistakes are allowed to be made.
Nothing can stop pure written creativity.
Do You Know Time?
Love is a man with cold, dry hands;
Love is a woman with ample breasts;
Love has a scythe
And a pretty green dress.
Love is the one who takes
And breaks
And turns to ash;
Love is a lullaby.
Love is the one who gathers the dust,
And plants the seeds
In water and warmth;
Love is a flame.
Love is the music that continues to play
As we dance and dance and dance.
Love is closing empty eyes
And a rush of relief as the infant cries.
Love has five letters
And four letters
And four letters
And four more,
But ends with seven
Or sometimes six.
And love has all of us,
Future and past,
Until love itself is no more.
When the music stops
Fine lady in
the dappled dress
I see you hover
at the door.
How long before we
see you no more?
The ball is over.
Not long, I think.
As you may guess
I fly to the
call of instinct.
Lady please tarry,
I would wilt
and die of bliss
to taste
a single kiss.
Your hasty wish
is granted.
Hear my spell:
'Nectar drunk,
prince enchanted'.
As the clock
strikes the hour,
words are spoken.
All mortal bonds
are broken.
The magic's done:
the prince a flower.
He glistens on,
one more lordly bloom
frozen in the lady's bower.
The Hero vs. The Quest. A “Supply and Demand” Myth
Why'd we use the word “quest” to abbreviate, better nullify our concept of “request”? Fancy ending up suspended between supply and demand, targeting the out of range?
Just like our hero who never departed into the journey of being at some point on target, he will fail at reaching it.
As excruciating and useless as it must seem, we will imperatively reveal to him the illusion of triumph. Lazy heroes get what they have asked for: interiorized challenges. Happiness is but an order placed in the timely manner of serendipity. “Wanna bet what destination will become valuable, predict the sempiternal?”
Listen for it
Once there was a girl who didn't like to talk to people. She much preferred spending time by herself in the forest. She would spend hours sitting in the trees, listening to the birds. No one minded much; she was so quiet they hardly noticed either way. Sometimes someone would look for her, but she could hide from sight in the branches.
One day the girl was sad and decided to stay in the woods forever. No one could find her; they just heard the leaves move as she passed. If you listen closely, you can still hear her sometimes.
Soft Sleep
The first mother carried her child on her back, soft skin wrapped in rough cloth, arms free to find food in the earth. The first child slept on her stomach. The world was large and wild, and those moments of sleep were enclosed in love, in warm arms, the smell of newly picked fruit hanging low in the air.
Yet days end, and children grow, and the world remains large and wild.
Too soon, a stomach is no longer a place for sleeping, and the first mother weaves the first blanket for her child. And threads enclosed them in love.
Silence
In the beginning, all was sound, cacophony. There was no rest, no reprieve from the endless, swirling vortex. All beings ambled through life with hands over their ears, adding to the clamor with their cries. Children were born, lived and died in anxiety, dissonance and bedlam.
Until one day, a single man stopped, sat, and was quiet. One by one, each person who passed settled themselves next to him, closed their mouths, opened their ears, gained a new reprieve. Gradually, the world became still, the noises dulled. They learned to listen and breathe, in and out. Thus, silence was born.
Colour
The world was black and white. One day a butterfly appeared. No one had ever seen something that beautiful before. One human captured the butterfly and made others pay to see it. It attracted hundreds, but as the butterfly grew lonelier its colours started to fade. The butterfly's captor was worried about the lack of customers now coming to visit the butterfly so he decided to talk to it. The butterfly told him that if he set him free he could bring colour to the world. The captor knew he would make no money but reluctantly agreed.
Colour was created.