Vashta Nerada

 

There are always more shadows than light
yet, without the light
there would be no shadows

The moon is always here

removed, going about her business

but always a witness

to the things that happen in the night

 

She is not new

or slivered

or halved

that is only what we see

 

She is older than memory, older than superstition,

and full as the fire that consumes you

always

 

Follow the light, if you will,

but never forget

to count the shadows

The image is provided as a writing prompt by The Sunday Muse.  Check it out.

The Sunday Muse 156

 

Image Anthony Edwards in "Northfolk"

The voices in my head

all agree it's

time.

They whisper

then laugh at me

and my feeble attempts

to navigate through another day

another labyrinthian set of interactions

 

with my fellow humans.

Why is it so difficult?

How can I find the courage

yet again

to face each one,

when every

 

meeting,

every conversation,

is a pit with sharpened sticks

waiting for me to fall

and impale myself upon them?

 

Others don’t even notice

the red, neon signs

“DANGER”

that begin blinking above their heads

as soon as I walk up to them.

 

So once again,

I prepare to go out,

prepare to do battel with

everyone who is going about their business

so casually,

so comfortably.

 

For them it’s easy-peasy.

They have no idea

just how harrowing it is,

how exhausting it is,

every damn day.

Picture prompt from The Sunday Muse.

In the Field of the Sky Ponies

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I'll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about.” Rumi.

Meet me in the field

that has no fence,

where the sky ponies graze,                                                      

above the earth

and beyond the heavens

 

Here we can speak

of all the things we keep hidden

as we lay in the grass

holding hands

 

Here our secrets shine and spin

then burn out,

their powers spent

 

Here our truths seed the prairie

that grows and blooms

beyond all sight

 

Here we are safe

Here we are sacred

The image Indigo Sky Mares, by Laurel Burch is provided as a writing prompt by The Sunday Muse.

Pure Souls and Saucers of Milk

Acolytes roam through the city
looking for pure souls
and saucers of milk
 
It’s nearly time for the rapture
and all the worthy
are gathered in the street
 
That’s right, suckers,
cats rule
and dogs and humans…
well, you know.

This is for The Sunday Muse, where Carrie provided this delightful picture to write about.

P.S. I'm not pleased with the title of this, but finally wanted to post while it was still Sunday!  Any suggestions?

We've Got Cows - The Sunday Muse

 

Come, sweet Hathor
my space-cow
bring your children
back from playing leapfrog
with the moon.
 
The glass on the counter
is half full
and the sweet clover
is blossoming in the field
and soft, September breeze
spills milkweed seed everywhere.
They fly with exuberance,
though they will die,
preparing for next year’s
butterflies.
 
Come with me, Hathor,
from the Aaru
back into to time,
back into this world
of grass and dirt and sun
 
back to this afternoon
of warm sunshine
and soft grasses
of falcons circling high above
and crows preening
in a nearby oak
talking amongst themselves.
 
Of course, it won’t last forever
my dear,
that’s what makes it
perfect.

 

The image is provided by The Sunday Muse.  

 

Aaru – in ancient Egyptian mythology the Field of Reeds, is the heavenly paradise

Hathor - ancient Egyptian goddess depicted as a cow, or a woman with the head of a cow, considered the primeval goddess from whom all others were derived. 

Offer it Up

It’s not the wickedness that kills us
but the expectations
and the pretense

It’s not the poison apple

or even the apple

of The Knowledge of Good and Evil

it’s the hundreds of apples

over the years

bruised and mealy

offered for our own good

 

It’s not the single, clean stab of a blade

it’s a thousand paper cuts

it’s not one deep gash from the sword

but a million little jabs of the pen

that add up to our demise

 

Death by hypocrisy

death by conformity

death by good intentions

 

Image by Brooke Shaden.

Written  shockingly late for The Sunday Muse.