24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
It was soft once for it
believed in old adages,
good begets good, justice will be served
and the likes.
But day after day, its belief was torn to shreds,
honesty was ridiculed, thieves were rewarded,
fools were celebrated and monsters emerged victorious.
It hardened gradually, it learned slowly
That the kind and fair no longer had place in this world.
-Prachi S
translated from The Book of Lycan Poetry
The Moon, my love, my gift. Lunata.
must retire.
A goddess must rest to rule.
Her love. Her Mate, gives playful chase.
Lupos, the light wolf, is bestowed upon by
Her painting of the dawn.
Soft. Like the goddess herself.
Smudges of the beautiful blackness
that fade with the crescendo of his light.
Their playful symphony carries until
our fur and bones are once again given to Gaia.
Would it be blasphemous to howl with him?
To sing with him to his queen?
As we do to her when she rises
and shifts the tides in our blood?
Certainly, it would not.
Song is incorruptible
In the eyes of the light and the dark.
White and Black and Grey wolves
we sing.
– Oryn
“Not her, not her, not her…
write about her later,” He says,
“Not time, not time, not time…”
Yet.
Cosmic map of consciousness;
man of men and women,
you led me here,
then say “stay silent”!
I play along,
laughing at your wisdom.
“But, you are writing
about her!”
Yes. Lovely, beautiful her.
I turn on the oven
Its warmth fills the house
as I start whipping eggs
and adding vanilla
sifting
and sorting
blending
and tossing
and turning
kneading the dough in my mind
waiting patiently for it to rise
punch down
stifling the bad memories that come up
let it rise again
I wrap the smell of home baking
around me
like a protective blanket
to fill my insides
to shield me against the hate
What will the sky tell me today
will it light my way or cloud my path
Weightless steps into the vastness
leaving worries behind
The dream that escapes me
and remains out of reach
as the monsters grab me and pull me back
The sky fades away and darkness swallows
Squinting through the canopy, she looks for the sun
Leaves falling like dry brittle tears
Crunching footsteps through cracking twigs, Unaware of mycelium network underfoot
Each towering tree once a sapling she nurtured from seed
Individual unique perfection
She caresses the bark of each, calling them by name
Oblivious to their interconnection
What play of light is this?
That catches my mind and twirls it through the swaying treetops.
Some distant sense of adventure calling through the wind,
tossing my restless spirit to and fro,
orbiting this central point of recognition,
of realization,
of eternity breathless in a single moment
when my lungs are truly felt,
when the blood in my fingers throbs with my pulse.
I am the micro, the macro.
Each level, not one atop of the other,
but one within the other,
patterns repeated on a small and large scale,
doorways ever opening toward more doorways
windows leading inward,
leading outward
blink
branches of dancing trees—
blink
the veins inside my eyelids—
blink
the sky is the pale fathom of my own eye staring back at me.
I have lost track of how long I have been
Doing this.
Hours run past like mice or hamsters on a wheel
Going going going
But leading nowhere except
Toward the grave.
Duty bound to complete this task
Or any task
Feels like a frigate trapped in the shallows.
We want to work
Hit the gas
Pump the motor
Forward then aft
And forth and back again
Until.one day we look at our progress
And notice how much time we wasted
When we could have just
Pulled up the anchor
And gone on our way.
A panoply of twig, sprig and leaves,
a canopy of stars, a cavalcade to celebrate,
an arcade of variegated brollys,
a wooden heart to elate.
A soaring, a gliding, eliding an entry
and an exit to exhilarate…