In the tumble-dry furnace of Nevada afternoon, a snoop escapes notice.
This impostor, a perfect artifice of thought and design, drifts (seemingly) in congress with its confrères, deployed seeds of the dandelion delicate. Fluffy copters of the air currents. Through chain link warnings, as good as a ghost. This tiny spiny cousin to the drone. Cheating the clever camouflage, its flight is sure. Into penny sized vents it is guided and, when needed, waits for a chance entrance. Soon now, soon, thinks a white- haired man in Ecuador. The Great and Secret Show will be known.
Category Archives: Fantasy
Found in a diary
Today, my Manna told me stories of the stars. How we, at the Hub, sent our Envoys far far afield, long ago in the Folding Times. How one of them came to a world of blue and green and white. Many lived there, but still there was much room, and bounty for all. Fleeces of white beauty floated in their skies. There were depths of flowing waters, yes! If you can believe. Creatures many and varied. Years divided by the weathers, and blessed by a life-giving sun. The one who stopped there saw these things. I said to my Manna “Why treat me as a child? These are fairytales to make us think there is a Heaven, no?” My Manna smiles and hugs me, tousles my hair. After all, I will turn 1,562 tomorrow.
On a hay field
undulate acres
gold under sun
neatness of mown rows
randomness of dropped bales
without pattern, it seems
might they be the tines and the prongs
in some airy music box
that, when plucked,
would fill the world with sweetness?
(one thinks)
Cassandra’s dream
Gerald. My Gerald, my boy.
I seem to wake on this snowy night, and, my boy, my little boy, you are deeply asleep, but you float in my room. You are a balloon boy on a string, and, bumbling against the ceiling, you drift toward my open window….why? why? did I leave it so?
I grab onto your string….ah! my little boy!…..but you are taken fast out into the night.
I climb out quickly, something is tugging you away, away. I hold fast onto your lifeline, and run stumbling out into the cold white.
A seething throng, out of the birch forest, all pale, all living death, all grasping with bony hands, all floating, has come to take you.
They pull, they pull, they sighingly say you belong with them.
Gerald, your eyes open and you are in fear, my son.
How comes this visitation? What have I done?
My dear dear boy. My life.
***
Art by Michael MacRae
All in good time
Some days,
the sun seems to stare.
Like the Great Eye of Mordor.
A spotlight finding us out.
(I think, in the stupor of early dawn)
What has it seen? We wonders, yes we wonders.
“Everything under the sun”. So.
In its ever exploding light,
the very beginnings of time.
Eons. Ages. Epochs….ancestral.
Our scuttlings, squabbles, struggles, sorrows, and loves.
Who will witness its neon death?
Will they be gone before the time?
Star children of another realm.
Next stop in the infinite.
Aremyfeetofftheground 