There is a meteor shower tonight and tomorrow.
This poem came out of the July 2012 Torn World Muse Fusion. It was inspired by a prompt from clare_dragonfly. It has been sponsored by laffingkat as part of the 2012 Holiday Poetry Sale. This poem belongs to the Torn World project.
Sleep, little fish,
in your blue blanket,
blue as lake water.
Sleep, little foal,
in your green jumper,
green as summer grass.
Sleep, little chick,
in your brown hat,
brown as a bird's nest.
Sleep and grow strong,
then you'll have the whole world
to run around in.
This poem came out of the December 6, 2011 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from janetmiles. It has been sponsored by laffingkat as part of the 2012 Holiday Poetry Sale.
Long ago, human travelers were warned
to stay away from the Fair Folk,
not to enter their territory,
not to eat or drink from their table --
for the foods of faerie
were exquisite to the eye,
delicious beyond compare,
yet not nourishing at all.
One could eat and drink to bursting
and never feel full, waste away
in the face of a feast while
the Fair Folk looked on, sniggering.
The humans grew numerous
and arrogant, taking over
the places once held
by the Hollow Hills.
The Fair Folk did not go to war,
for that was not their way.
Instead they slipped into kitchens
and ... whispered.
Dishes began to emerge
with bright colors and potent smells,
driving the diners into a frenzy of appetite
yet somehow leaving them craving more.
There was cheez whiz in thick neon orange,
jiggling cubes of blue jello,
artificial pasteurized processed chocolate food product
and the bubbly brown poison of Pepsi.
Gradually the humans grew too fat to move
and they stayed on their couches,
nevermore to bother the Fair Folk
dancing in their distant forest glens.
Women are strange about food.
They will speak of it as an ethical foundation,
as if the less they eat, the more moral they are:
"I was so good today,
I didn't eat any of the doughnuts at breakfast."
Yet the truth of food,
like the wisdom in it,
is only to be found elsewhere.
A chocolate fountain
flows with bounty,
thick liquid sweetness
cascading down to festoon
toothpicks full of strawberries and bananas.
No matter how long
you hold your fruit under the flow,
it will gather only so much chocolate.
That is what you will have to eat
when you put it into your mouth,
and the rest will remain in the fountain
waiting for someone else.
The Goddess pours forth chocolate
from the cup of Her hands,
as rich and sweet as wisdom.
You can have only what you can hold,
but there will always be more of it
when you are ready.
Your body is not a storehouse
to be stuffed full or forcibly emptied
and then locked that way.
It is a fountain through which
air and food and water,
are always flowing.
Go ahead and use it.
Just try not to clog it up.
This poem came out of the December 6, 2012 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by prompts from moonwolf1988, idhren24, aldersprig, and kelkyag. It has been sponsored by laffingkat as part of the 2012 Holiday Poetry Sale.
Hidden behind the pots and pans
and cauldrons of the kitchen
lies an archetype.
It is there in the
ereann coire of Ireland
and the potlatch of North America.
It is the source of fortune and fellowship,
the form of food as community,
and it appears in countless different ways.
You will find it under the tree
in a tin of cookies tied up with ribbon:
food as a gift.
You will find it in potlucks
and food swaps, expressing
an exchange of energy.
You will find it in communal kitchens
where people cook together,
eat together, live together.
It is chicken soup
for the mind and soul and body:
food as family, food as comfort.
This is how we care for each other,
sharing that which is necessary for life,
nurturing in the first tongue we ever learned:
I love you.
I will that you continue.
Therefore, I feed you.
Around the world there are legends
of a pot that is always full
and never runs out of food.
This is why: no matter how much
love you give away,
there is always plenty left.