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Zywa May 13
The statues destroyed,

temples without a roof, gods --

that are still alive.
Poem 29. "Ionikón" ("Ionic", 1911, Konstantinos Kaváfis)

Collection "Held/True"
Viktoriia May 3
she borrows the light from the sun
just before it can set,
slipping to the other side of the horizon,
reflecting it in her irises,
covering them in liquid gold.
she's the entity that the pagans prayed to,
the object of countless legends.
she slips into her skin like a hand-sewn dress,
and everyone who ever loved her
is now consumed by the earth.
she picks flowers that took root in their skulls,
wears a crown of white ribs
and grows around their remains like moss.
she's the end of all things,
the silent watcher of time,
meeting the travelers on every single one
of the countless roads.
she borrows the light from the sun
just before it can set,
breaking through the other side of the horizon,
reflecting it in her irises,
standing by as the world around her burns.
A celestial event, a message, a warning,
A solar eclipse, God showing us to believe,
Care, love, each other every day. The moon,
Between the sun and earth, actually happens,
Every twenty nine days, to see darkness, during,
The day light hours, the moon has to be at a perfect,
Angle, to block the suns rays. God the almighty power,
Reminding us he could darken our life, any time, any day.
The power involved, hundreds of thousands people,
From around the world, not thinking of the cost,
For travel, lodging, waiting in traffic for  hours, that day,
For a three minute, view, the unseen power, pulling them,
To the area on that April day.  At the totality, a special feeling,
In the air, and your body, blessed, peace, no word of disturbances,
At any viewing sites, a perfect day, to reflect, and be reminded,
Why we are here, in this life today.

                                          The original: Tom Maxwell © 4/11/2024 A D
2 eclipse crossing the same spot in Illinois 7 years apart ?  the number 7 is related too in many religious writings.....
Oh fair mortals, heed my call
For I am the God of the hunt, mighty and tall
In forests deep and meadows green
My presence is felt, my power unseen

With bow in hand and arrows true
I roam the land, my prey in view
The beasts of earth, both great and small
Are subject to my aim, one and all

Oh how I revel in the thrill
Of the chase, with every skill
My keen eyes scan the terrain
For my next target, I shall not refrain

From the mighty stag with antlers wide
To the timid hare, I do not hide
For I am the master of this game
And all creatures within, know my name

But do not think me cruel or cold
For I am also the protector bold
Of balance in nature, I ensure
That life and death remain pure

So heed my call, oh mortal kind
For in me, your strength you'll find
For I am the God of the hunt
And in my realm, all creatures are one.

So when you wander in the wild
Remember me, the God of the hunt, mild
For in every creature, my spirit lives
And in their survival, my power thrives.
Anais Vionet Jan 2
I tried to draw the attention
of the disinterested God
who builds the weather.

“Send us snow - just a few feet -
make our Christmas fantasy complete”
I pleaded, but she never interceded.

Angels, that will-less posse of hers
only seem to watch earth’s slaughter
as the wind carries a warm disregard.
Peter (my BF) flew out last night. #harshrealm

(*BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: posse = a friend or working group*)
Where Shelter Dec 2023
In God’s No~Fly Zone

blessedly, so many of you are
unaware of the full color spectra
that be can seen only when an
age of experience has been reached,

reached, not attained, for the no~fly
zone is no place to be, without any
redeeming colorations, it is dark hued
twilight that inhibits vision clarity,
a precursor warning of the hungry
that offers to swallow one
into shades of sad remorse, and other

How came I to earn this distinction,
was not by acting out, rather by inaction,
the failure to pick the  correct fork in a
life of sentence diagramming, sentence
in the prison sense, all my sentences,
broken down,  no connection sensible
to the next phrase, next phase,  so I
sit beneath my vine and fig tree, unable
to fly, unable to tear shed,
grounded, pounded in my head
Mark Wanless Sep 2023
what we call gods
do not care they
do not exist
xjf Sep 2023
Promise kept, for the sake of promise kept.
Robes worn, for the sake of robes worn.
Wedding bands, and oming hands.
The value in virtue, I will willfully adorn.
Its tightening locks of golden strands
the lightning rocks me, but it understands.
I must work through what I've made,
I trust the solace in this, a stoic slave.
I picked my lot and hold it fast,
I'll stick my spot, this mold is cast

Doubt will cause a shadow
and I've drunken all I had, so
a deep drink in divine, then have your spew.

Trust in the voice
that made this choice,
and for this lifetime, actually see it through.
neth jones Aug 2023
who re-marrowed this hollow tree ?
thought themselves of mythology ?
processed death into the dying **** ?
blunt   blackened hope
           buttering up what god ?
                                   what mischief maker ?
: Loki the crow with his promethean nose ?

covering his crooked actions
                          the defiling of a life
  a coward of failed coupling
congress    a night down the pub
    the gender polar pair collided
            sottish upon their union
genitals bragging through urgent gaps in clothing
but that urgency deflated
it muttered away
he felt baited
             he committed to ******

crude amateur throttling
  a ***** sogged brick  
an indiscreet botch up
    and a stolen wheelbarrow  
        to ferry her away

'The Mourning Tree'
           despondently sifts for nourishment
its gummy combs of branches
  sashing particles  from the night solution
the tree ; a cavity
too verrucose and fleshy to whittle the winds
                                               or fife a tune
a rubbery craggle     foreign against the landscape
should   rather   make out its' habits
                  off the floor of a deep sea trench

roughing in the corpse
head first   down the gullet thirstily
skirts up and claustro
between spread limbs
to ***** puckle in the hollow tree
evicting the bird of Minerva
      ‘whoing’ into the charged sky
  blooded over
             the night blackens further
               brooding on the event

who re-marrowed this hollow tree ?
married themselves to a mythology ?
force fed life   engorged within deathly seed ?
upended crime     in lieu of a sacrifice
           he offered a glass of woman
               to oder the night
he strummed teasing fingers
      raked them humming
         through the heady resistance of the air
electric creeping warmth   over the skin
                        erecting the hairs
   museum silence
   an arena    as fraught equal    between magnets
       clouds cut the moon
      moon cut the eye
    sinful kiting to mend a link
ramblings kinked
he makes sparking incantations to the gods

one scatting madman
one corpse woman

that same bled night
where the furrowed fields
            meets natures disarray
children approach this woodland border             
children with empty baked bean tins
      that they joined with lengths of string
trying to reach out their ears
    extend their timid range
       to sprites, nymphs, pucks or faeries
an older kid strikes up a cigarette
one of the younger ones squats to ***
         and be mocked

one brave girl of ten years
  runs a tin and the line into the woods  
it jerks taunt after about thirty paces
she wedges it in a tree fork and runs back
the children crowd the receiver tin
spooking themselves
        upon the hollow wisdom of small gods
            that mask their shame in the dark
influenced by ‘ Who put Bella down the Wych Elm? ‘

misuse of the word 'sashing'
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