Hour Seventeen Creation Mythology

17 2017 Creation Mythology

Creation Mythology
by Paul Robert Sanford

Long time past,
before the Big Bang myth scattered the stars
and send cooling balls of matter to become
planets and moons
and the myth of evolution populated
the water planet named dirt upon which we live.

Long time past
Before Galileo set the Earth dirt spinning around our Sun,
before Arab and Egyptian scholars mapped the distant stars.

That time,
Everybody lived on a flat dirt planet surrounded by water on every side.
Some water fell out of the sky, some was down below.
The Sun and Moon behaved themselves and flowed across the sky
each day and night.

That time,
there were many stories to explain Everything.
Our planet was a bid of bird poop on a tortoise shell.
The Sun a ball the trickster Raven stole from Bear
and threw up high in the sky to keep from being caught.

Mountain tops had names and histories,
Rivers flowed from the homes of powerful beings known as gods.
The stories made a kind of sensible nonsense that taught us
not to ask too many questions lest we anger spirits that were listening.

The problems came when Raven and Bear and the magical beings and spirits
got promoted into full fledged gods
that demanded worship, sacrifices, loyalty as a price for rain and good crops.
Pretty soon every nation, tribe and watering hole had its resident god or godling.
Some of them weren’t up to the job.
They demanded too much and gave too little.
They ruled by fear and punished with flood, famine and plague.
It was untenable.

Then some bright Charlie or Charlene came up with the bright idea
that religion and gods could be good.
Pretty soon people were meditating or telling stories about how to have a better life.

Now there were franchises in which Creation was made on purpose
out of love for all that is and kindness for people, who are special.
The earth was still flat and the sun reassuringly went around us,
and everything could be explained.
It was written down in big books.

Now great thinkers stand astride the Creator myth and the Bang,
striving to make them work as a team and lead humanity in a good direction.
But the trickster is still at work and we are still confused.

That is a sketch of the many mythical stories of creation as we know it and have known it.
May we find salvation in the truth, if we ever figure it out.

And that’s the Truth, whatever that is.

After the Rain


Poem 4

After the rain

The sun does come out after all

It peeps from behind fluffy balls of cotton
It waits, it lingers
And I wonder does it frown or smile?
Silly mortals perhaps it contends
Just as it smoothly edges out
Stretching its arms as if in a yawn
Light rays spraying wide across

   Like opportunity and hope and more tomorrows for us silly folk.

Jewels

I see gold and silver
Emerging at the temples.
Jewels of wisdom
Or melanin wearing off.
The exuberance of youth
Paying homage as it leaves.
Bowing away gracefully
Placing jewels as she recedes.
Loss…not really.
Achieving accomplishing
Acquiring …
Not lost …but gaining.

Hour Eleven: My Favorite Pokemon, Mew

Author’s Note: Yeah…I’m too addicted to the music I’m listening to do the Hour Eleven Prompt, so I’m going to do something that’s similar to one of the later prompts, except I’m not going to talk in the point of view of a well known character. I’m going to talk about a well known character, and that is Mew from Pokémon. She is my favorite character. In case you want to know about the music I’m listening to, that goes along with the theme, it’s In The Water by GAWVI and Closer by GAWVI. 🙂

Mew,

from the moment I saw you,

I smiled.

Your beauty,

from the inside out,

makes all the other Pokémon pale in comparison

to you,

even that popular Pikachu.

 

But Pikachu has soulless eyes

whereas yours have soul to them.

There’s a reason why you are so rare,

and that is why.

 

Despite your short appearance in Pokémon,

you have left a special place in my heart.

In you,

there is eternal joy.

 

From the bottom of my heart,

I thank you for being a part of my life.

You are forever missed.

17~17

Seventeen, My Seventeen

How I Miss My Lover

 

He said to me

That he must go

Where his ashes are

I do not know

 

Seventeen, My Seventeen

How I Want My Lover

 

He said he did not want to leave

I knew not then

How deep I’d grieve

 

Seventeen, My Seventeen

How I Need My Lover

 

I look for you

But you aren’t there

I turn around

You’re everywhere

 

Seventeen, My Seven Teen

We met when we were 17

 

A Poem About Loss

Who would have thought that we’d have this day (after all the time we’ve squandered and lost)

as stage 4 slowly takes you away

in each of your belongings that i rummage through, its that one thing that seems brand new

photo albums long come unglued, me – sharing, you; I loose in this battle too, pathetic but true.

Posters of us from way back then still stick to you wall bearing witness to all.  love and passion of drummer and dancer easily did blend

 

i give my heart anew to make this transition so burdensome for you

So strike up the band and wave your hand (El Maestro!)

As we dance away upon our cloud. never again to be without you

 

 

Unexpected Loss (another prompt 17)

I wanted to try a Golden Shovel poem from an earlier prompt tonight. I happened to do this one, also on loss.

From W.B. Yeats – When You Are Old
“But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you”

 

 

The weather was always too hot for you, but

that didn’t stop us from taking joy from the one

thing we loved most–togetherness. You were such a man.

Afternoons were the times we talked and loved

best. Joy sparkled in our blissful oneness. The

trust in your soft eyes encouraged my pilgrim

spirit, your nurturing fed love into my soul.

No doubt crept between us, yet we parted in

disarray. My heart still beats with a hole in the shape of you.

Palette

My neighbour irons nights at her first floor window

keeping one eye for Love Island, the other on me,

After 6 months she asked if I’d be buying curtains

with such conviction it sounded like

she’d witnessed something still to happen.

 

These unemployed years

she contents herself with the amusement of

someone gratefully retelling a witnessed car-crash,

logging my late night hours, remarking that

my tv still glows between pole & frame

and how, each time she gets up to relieve herself,

she thinks I must be a vampire.

Doubtless all the black doesn’t help.

 

Yet, yesterday I saw a girl so white

she blazed from the distance

a planning notice resonates,

cheek flesh the hardboiled hue of Cool Hand’s bet,

neck a counter slick of skimmed milk

butting two unsheathed reams of clavicles,

with a sternum of tripe pinned so tight

her cleavage shone like lid-clinging

home-brand, Greek yogurt,

limbs tapering into the sun,

ankles, wrists as Tippex bright

as her High Top toecaps.

 

But

 

no matter how much breath her

floating step, dancing hem

filleted from me,

I could not say a word,

for in the instant of eye-shift behind lens,

of lip-rise and drop again

I knew

that every kiss would leave her mauled

like a drowned girl in the morgue

been mapped for bruises.

Hour 17–KSR

I don’t have the polite eulogy

in my memory bank

others seem to expect

I could remember the good times

if I could remember the good times

I can’t think of him without judgement

without his skulking exit

from an island long dead

I simply don’t know

how much of him was real

ambiguity sits quietly like a Buddha

and the truth is

I don’t need to know