Daily Poetry & Prose

I sat again and looked at my feet. The blood had stopped. I had farther to go.  I slept and dreamed of nothing, but I had wanted to dream of outer space. As a young girl I watched the stars and always felt I could go there and back. Now I now my feet are much more valuable than those shining lights. I woke up and shook my heart like a bookcase, the gratitude falling out like many pages of a book, like the cleaning of a canary cage, debris flying everywhere, my gratitude, my gratitude. Falling and landing in space. Is my gratitude merely platitudes? It's an armor I started wearing to protect myself from the dark. I keep seeing those damn lights, though. 

The sacred art: the statues that were made by the basket weavers the pots that were made by the statue-makers the baskets that were made by the pot people in the jungle on the plains these statues came together covered in semen and blood they meant something about the survival against the lions Now they are in a tourist shop built out of cardboard  and I buy it and put it on the shelf when on vacation. The sacred writings: Created in caves by candlelight in dungeons dug by man people died carrying the stones to make this small coffin in the ground where the monk writes over and over again These writings on animal hide with ink from the eye of the octopus and fine colors ground from  the sea shells and the clay painstakingly applied with a small brush made of animal hair and attached with an animal glue rabbit or egg I lost track. I see the images now on a computer screen as I glance for five seconds before returning to work and cat videos.

Life will go on whether you write a poem or not.