That’s What I Want

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t
Live in a world
Where there’s no mask
For my face
Of pigmented foundation
And smokey-eye shadow
Lipstick to give me
That luscious full pout
That’s what it’s all about

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t
Give up my caffeine fix
My Mountain Just Dew It
Diet Coke habit
Six pack on my hips
To wash down a bottle
Of diet pills I take
To kill the hungry pit
And make size zero fit

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t
Let my boyfriend’s eyes
Stray to other girls and guys
He might decide
The younger, thinner model
This season’s fashion accessory
Is what he wants on his arm
The centerfold promised lies
Of airbrushed, photo-shopped thighs

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t
Let even a second go by
Where I’m not center stage
My Twitter page
Filled with photos of food
I didn’t eat, but still tweet
From my smart phone ap
Current mood: a bleating sheep
Like this if you’re asleep

 

Æthernet

First of all things was the expanse into which all other things burst forth in a great cataclysm of fire and light.  Yet while the æther is of all things the greatest, the mystery of it is also greatest.  For as in darkness is hidden secrets that light may reveal, this darkness resists the light of understanding, as a veil over our eyes which obscures.

The æther birthed the Creators, who gathered to themselves the Firstlight and formed them into the forges of the Gods.  In them they made yet greater and greater creations, binding together the lesser with the force of their hammer blows.  They toiled until they could create no more, and their forges burned until they had exhausted their fuel.

Some, weary of their work, left their forges to cool and die.  But some burned too hot, and in their folly they did not see the doom they heaped upon their own heads.  They pushed too far and their forges, in a violent burst, expelled all of the creations, scattering them across the æther.  These greater creations from deep within the forges, cold without the Creator’s fire, gathered around other forges, some closer and some further away.

Among the Creators were some who were not content with the way of the others.  Instead, burning first their own fuel, they hungered for more.  Such hunger was in them that they sought to consume all others.  They are the Nassanai, their forms like spiders with grasping legs.

These Creators have turned to Destroyers, the Devourers of all that fall into their spiral webs.  They have spread their nets across the æther, catching all that wander too close, and from their dens they draw in their nets toward their waiting mouths, consuming all things: Creators, creations, forges, those which gather for warmth, and even the Firstlight.

So hungry are the Nassanai for more and more to fill their bowels that they may even catch one another, their webs colliding, distorted, and engage in a great battle.  In the end, a victor will remain, even more powerful and even more hungry.  The Nassanai will consume, destroy, and battle until time has ended and only one remains, and the Firstlight shall in the end be extinguished, and thus will come the end of all things, and only the æther will remain.

 

***

Train Ticket

Window seat for one,
Passage out of town
The old fashioned way:
Train ticket, out bound.
Midnight departure,
Red-eye double-track.
Star filled horizons,
Beacons in the black.
Last call for boarding,
Destination: nowhere.
Two carry-on bags
Ought to get me there.
Don’t know how far
‘Til my journey’s done;
Train ticket, out bound,
Window seat for one.

 

The Sacred Feminine

Hands clap in sharp rhythm
Drum the dirt with my heels
Voice calls out to mother, sister
My body, the instrument of worship

Heart pounds and lungs ache
Skin alive with shadows and fire
Sacred blood, bearer of life
My body, a sacrifice to goddess

Solstice

The sun has set behind the distant hills,
A raging bonfire imitates her glow.
Priestess speaks blessing on the sacrifice,
The stones turned sanguine with the blood that flows.

We dance between the edge of fire and dark,
Where unknown creatures lurk beyond our sight.
Our bodies, instruments; the earth our drum;
Annual ritual and ancient rite.

Sweet mead has filled our heads with joy and song,
The earth has turned, let go of all you fear,
The sun is rising in the eastern sky,
All life renewed, gifted another year.

 

Poetry Prompt #9 – Dead Language

“Quaere scientia,” he beckons,
Hand outheld for me to take;
His stride is so long
I take two steps to his one.

I wonder if that means
I have traveled twice as far?

“Quaere scientia,” he beckons.
A light shines only so far.
Into the dark, every step becomes
An act of faith the path continues on.

I wonder, if I have traveled twice as far,
Why do I feel always two steps behind?

“Quaere scientia,” he beckons;
The greatest gift that he has given me.
I struggle on toward the future
He worked so hard for me to have.

I wonder, if I am always two steps behind
How will I ever arrive?

“Quaere scientia,” he beckons,
Even after his footprints end
His hope for me is fulfilled
Every day I let myself learn.

I wonder at the vastness of knowledge;
It is not a destination, but a journey.

Writing Prompt: Describe Being a Writer

To dream about what isn’t and make it real; to see what is through a lens of what should be, or perhaps what should never be. To paint an image in your mind and weave invisible threads into your feelings to tug and tease at will.

To be blindness to the sighted, poverty to the rich, womanhood to the man; to impart an experience through a commonality which diverges and takes you with it to places you never thought possible. To make sacred the mundane and make known the hidden. To whisper in your ear of how good a sunset tastes at dawn and breathe in the waters of life and death and see which one I become. To be a bridge, to bear your weight as you tread across my back and see what I’ve carved into my hands for you.

And at the last to bare my soul and let you step inside me for just a moment to see the world through my eyes, and in doing so, to see the world through another’s eyes as well.

Love Is Dope

 

Writer’s Relief posted the above picture on Facebook with the following caption: “Describe being a ‪#‎writer‬ without using the words ‘writer,’ ‘write,’ or ‘words.’ ‪#‎writingprompt‬ ‪#‎writinglife‬.” I’m always down for a good writing prompt, so I decided to share my (short) response here.

A somber-looking stranger on the train. The bewitching pre-dawn hours while alone at my desk. A long-abandoned building with “beautiful bones”  observed during a walk in the neighborhood. Any and all of these things could be the catalyst for my muse to alight upon my shoulder and whisper into my ear.  My mind starts churning, thoughts fill my head beyond capacity and I must (no, I really must) transfer those thoughts to page or screen. Sometimes those penned or keyboarded thoughts make it to a wider audience than my own two eyes.  In some bizarre corner of the universe, a company or a person…

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A simile is like a metaphor…

A simile is like a metaphor….

Wearing high heels is like drinking until you throw up.

There are many reasons you do it: peer pressure, an attempt to fit in, maybe you just think you like doing it… but it always ends the same, face down in the toilet swearing to yourself you’ll never, ever do this again.

And then a little bit of time passes… the headache goes away and the nausea subsides and you can eat normal food again.  And a bit more time passes and you sort of forget how bad it was.  And then you find yourself toying with the idea of doing it again.

Only to end up remembering – when it’s far too late – exactly why it is you promised yourself last time you were never going to do it again.

Wearing heels is like that.

There’s the pressure to be ‘fashionable’, or maybe to add height, or you just like the ‘click-clack’ sound of walking on linoleum flooring in them.

The day wears on, and you’re walking a little slower, a little more gingerly.  And soon you realize your little toe has that really painful blister forming on it, and you have to run hobble to the first aid kit to get a bandage.

By half-past lunch you’re cursing whoever made these shoes and wondering what possessed you put them on that morning, and why on earth didn’t you think to bring a simple pair of flats to change into after that big meeting?

And yet what happens?  You go home, and kick them off and oooohh it feels so good, and maybe you give yourself a foot bath and drink a glass of wine and even as you swear you’ll never wear them again, you find you’ve put those shoes back into your closet… where they’ll lie in wait, lurking for the next time you forget, and slip them on…

Tonight when I get home, these things are going in the ‘donate’ box for the local thrift store!

My Red Mother

Pain, a herald of her coming.
I prepare with clean wrappings,
Fresh linens to swathe her in.

The gift of life, so often cursed,
The banner unfurled, guarded,
Hidden in the womb of woman.

Send the men away to be men,
Let the women gather instead
For this is the time of sisterhood.

My red mother comes,
A blessing and a mourning together:
Another month without child,
Another month without child.

Exhale

© Suzanne Miller

The mountains exhale.

Pools of mist ebb and flow among the trees, obscuring the path.  The air, thick with pine and green tea, awakens the senses and beckons toward enlightenment.  Every breath a renewal of spirit, a coaxing of the waters of life which glisten from gossamer designs.  Hands unseen paint ferns of frost upon nature’s canvas, the eternal persistence of night to create that which daily is lost.

Purification by ice.

The cold sun has lost its power.  Indigo hills float against the sky, seduced by freedom’s lure.  A single crane calls to a mate unseen, perhaps absent.  Symbols turned from their meaning, to mingle hope and sorrows in the warp of life.

Aloft on red pillars.

The temple stands at the gates of heaven.  Dharmic harmonies resonate from prayer wheels, turning turning turning: the spin of earth, the passage of seasons, foot following foot.  The journey undertaken is a sacrifice; a thousand steps ascend among the echos of chanting, the singing of bowls, which compel the traveler onward.  Until, at the end of the corridor, the curtains part, opening onto a balcony which stands upon the precipice of the world.

there at the summit
the universe is revealed
as breath is lost