Sanctuary

an aged Cedar of wine-hued strands rooted deep in centuries past

long summer Grass, copper and bronze, dancing in the breeze

the caress of lithe Arbutus: golden red in morning light

Dandelion in seed, alone on a rock-strewn meadow
a Spider surveying the centre of the universe

morning Mist snaking through Pine & Fir

Stones of stillness robed in Lichen

Songbird’s trill to awaken Dawn

bare soles on a sea of Moss

the first Rain of summer

the call of Raven

the Sky, the

Earth

The

Earth

beneath the

asphalt beneath the

concrete that structures our 

lives beneath the fragments of self 

we hide in pockets of fear and anger and

loneliness that betray our unspoken and denigrated

need for the dandelion that pokes her head from cracks in

the sidewalk where once we danced and jumped and sang about

our mother’s back but really its our own back that is broken and splintered

and no amount of glysophate will kill that gorgeous yellow sunshine  that dares to

 shine no matter how we pretend that Sanctuary exists within these prison walls

If you like this blog, please "like" my FaceBook page and get notices on your timeline when a new article or poem is posted. You can also "follow me" by signing up on the right side of this page and get new posts automatically in your inbox.

 

The Pomegranate

I ate a pomegranate the other day. I didn’t want to eat it, didn’t want to look at it. Just got so damn tired of seeing it in the fridge. Round, red, lush as a cherry; lascivious as the first apple—it lured me in as the sirens of lore.

I held it in my hand, feeling its firm outer shell. 

Inviolate.
Inviting.
Memories. 
My first love
scooping reluctant pieces 
of treasure. 

I didn’t want to go back.

Persephone didn’t want to go back. Demeter fought hard against the hell destined for her daughter. She almost won, half won: Six months in heaven, six below. 

The question, of course, is where lies bliss?

I didn’t want to go back. What good lay in it for me? 
Who would rightly choose a half life of darkness?

The ripe fruit sat still in my hand. Cool to touch, smooth, unblemished. Hunger stabbed me, as the knife thrust downward. Glistening rubies shone bright, burning my eyes as ribbons of red ran down my chin. 

If you like this blog, please "like" my FaceBook page and get notices on your timeline when a new article or poem is posted. You can also "follow me" by signing up on the right side of this page and get new posts automatically in your inbox.