On Love That Consumes

on love that consumes

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Somewhere, someplace, unknown to me, lies my blue pen.

I lost it,

I don’t know where on when,

It could be tucked away in my backpack,

Somewhere my eye can’t see.

It could be on the floor,

Back in geometry.

It could be on the street,

Or in someone else’s hand.

It could have been taken,

To a far away land.

To the mountain tops,

Or maybe at the bottom of the sea.

To the deserts,

Or forests,

There are so many places that blue pen could be!

Where water stills or flows,

Where the whole world is buried in snow,

Oh, where did my blue pen go?

Wherever that pen may lie,

My homework is still due tonight.

Good thing I got other pens.

Man’s Greatest Fear

The God of the Sea,

Attracted to beauty is he.

His trident,

Encrusted with shimmering pearls.

The locks of his hair,

Braided with the finest of jewels.

The kingdom he built,

Is a radiant sight to see.

The deceptiveness of colorful anemones.

Schools of fish who dance and part with fluid ease.

The temples carved of gold and marble,

Are strong and study against the water’s breeze.

Hidden inside,

Who knows what could possibly be?

Poseidon grows bored of the picturesque scenery before him,

After all,

He’s known it for all of eternity.

Perhaps on land,

Someplace can be found more captivating.

So onto land Poseidon strolls,

Through mountain ridges,

Deserts,

Lake sides,

And past hills that roll.

The God the Sea has yet to find,

A place more beautiful than his home.

He finds himself within a forest,

With trees whose trunks stretch taller than the Titans.

Perhaps all the way to Olympus.

Poseidon was to be on his way,

Defeated from these last few disappointing days.

Until he heard a song,

A melody sung oh so sweet,

That he began to creep.

Along the vines,

His heart began to beat.

Pass the thorns,

That nipped warningly at his feet.

Over a thrashing river,

That calmed with a wave of his hand.

Before Poseidon,

Was a clearing,

With grass greener than green.

In its center was a temple, solid, stone gray.

The color of Athena.

From within it,

Came the voice,

So enchanting was it,

That he had little choice,

Poseidon soon had concealed himself,

Within the trees.

From the temple,

Emerged a maiden.

Whose beauty put Aphrodite’s to shame,

Whose beauty and song lit Poseidon’s heart aflame!

Her marvelous song ceased,

When her inquisitive eyes laid upon the spot where the man remained unseen.

Hesitantly,

The maiden stepped forward.

Poseidon simply couldn’t believe,

How the curls that cascaded down her back,

Framed her porcelain face perfectly.

How her eyes, a startling blue,

Contrasted with the rose petal hue,

Of her lips.

In was in that moment,

That moment,

Poseidon knew that this,

This maiden was made to be his.

And so that night,

He slithered into the temple.

Whilst the maiden was asleep,

Poseidon couldn’t keep,

His eyes nor hands from roaming,

From curve of her hips,

To those rose petal lips,

Which didn’t willingly grace his own.

Poseidon was not only a king,

But a God!

How dare this maiden tell him no?

Her pleas,

Her screams,

To the gods went unheard,

The man had done the unforgivable.

As a priestess of Athena,

The maiden’s chastity was integral.

Her life and soul had been torn apart,

By the man,

Who now went to Zeus,

The man sought to make her his by marriage.

Athena had arrived,

To her temple,

Defiled by Posideon.

The poor maiden trembled before her goddess.

“I cannot undo the horrible crimes,

Committed by he who wields the triton,

But I can prevent you from forcefully having to rule along beside him.

With snakes for hair,

And eye contact,

Every man who sees you will turn to stone.

This includes the one who wouldn’t accept,

That your answer was no.

With your very touch,

The weapons of man,

Will wither to the floor.

Dear Medusa,

You’ll strike more fear in man’s heart, than any man has ever known.”

Our relationship is one of love and hate,

One day you care so deeply,

The very next you’re a flake.

You speak so, so much,

But tell me nothing at all.

You’re unreachable,

Surrounded by iron-clad walls.

You are without aim,

And have so little ambition,

But your creativity is marvelous.

Your smile is contagious.

You’re a little too honest,

With everyone but yourself.

You’re in dire need of a reality check,

Stop letting others put you down.

You’re worth more than you know.

You could do anything you desire,

But you fear the unknown.

A world of choices,

Yet you’re undecided.

Is your fear of failure,

Why you feel so daunted?

The calluses on your hands,

From writing, writing, and writing.

The aches in your being,

From everyone else you’ve been serving.

You got no time for yourself,

Darling, isn’t that unnerving?

It’s your life that you are living.

Our relationship is one of hate and love,

Regardless of the mixed feelings,

You should reach for the stars and above.

The God of Fire

The air was electrifying,

Up here in Mount Olympus,

Hera had supposedly birthed a boy,

And it was a time for celebration!

Dionysus brought his fine wine,

Apollo strummed his lyre,

Thalia sang a song so contagiously upbeat,

That even Ares couldn’t help the tapping of his feet.

It was a joyous occasion indeed!

For whom the party was for,

Had yet to be seen.

Where was Zeus, Hera,

And their newest offspring?

Off in the distance,

One could hear a newborn’s crying.

Hera and Zeus agreed that the child was imperfect.

That in regards to their other children,

He was by far the ugliest,

Borderline grotesque.

His parents,

Hera and Zeus,

Casted him out.

Had thrown him down,

The very steps of Olympus.

But immortals cannot perish.

Where he lay,

Sprawled upon the steps,

He could see the flaming sun.

He stretched the tips of his fingertips,

And soon a chunk of it became his own.

He placed it upon the marble staircase,

Hands unscorched,

He molded it into a blanket,

One to keep him safe and warm.

The newest son of Olympus,

Was by no means a piece of art,

But he himself was an exceptional sculptor.

Of decor,

Of masonry,

Of temples,

Of whatever one’s heart could desire.

This child would soon be renowned as Hephaestus,

The one and only,

God of Fire.

We gathered around the table, talon to talon. We gobbled our prayers.

“Thank you for the meals we eat, thank you for the humans that sing, thank you Poultry Lord for everything.”

We dug in. Dishes of seed were passed around all the way from Great Aunt Linda to Little Benny. Nectar pitchers were drained to the last drop by the adults, water pitchers by the children. Sweet maize and green beans decorated everyone’s plates.

For the main course, there was a human baked in tin foil. It was seasoned with herbs to perfection.

I personally enjoyed a juicy piece of calf. My wife tore apart a thigh. The children had their fun snapping the pinky bones in half.

Once the human was picked clean, Great-Great Grandma Patricia croaked aloud, “And don’t you remember when we used to be the ones on their plates?”

Everyone, including myself, chuckled and chortled in unison.