We sat on our hill and she taught me a song.
I remember her laugh when I got the words wrong,
I remember the way the grass tickled our feet,
And the flowers I tucked in her hair looked so sweet,
But I ruefully deem the dream as incomplete.
Though deep I have delved and long I have sought,
I cannot recall what she patiently taught.
I did something creative! My little wrung-out sponge of a brain managed to ooze a flash piece and three illustrations for my friend Chad Woody’s book, a collection of small horror stories, called The Darkest Season. Expect humor, horror, and Christmas rolled into one festive, grotesque, ungainly animal. It’s great fun.
Aoudads are enormous, proud, and graceful animals.
The largest have sweeping beards from chest to hoof,
thick horns curling behind them,
and a critical goaty gaze
which sees you from its perch
high in the desert rocks
and seems to say, “what low thing
squints up at my grandeur?”
Their strength prevails in a climate
where lesser breeds wither.
Every image on the net
is one of these proud ruminant gods,
dwarfing a human at their side,
held aloft by the horns
by a smiling hunter.
Something there is about a god
which drives mankind to kill it.
We suffer nothing to live above us.
fomented, divided, abandoned, regained
we are still children yet
what will tomorrow’s trials teach us?
who will fall?
who will flourish?
what pain will bear
life does not get easier.
we will have days even worse than this,
enough to tear our souls apart.
we will bend, burn, bellow
if we can listen we can learn
from each successive conflagration
but wiser, truer
aligned in the sudden extremes.
in this tiny place
the stimulation is small
home is all we are
where nothing can touch us
still we twitch
wound one another
when the chaos butterfly
flaps its wings indoors
the storm concentrates,