'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.' Kurt Vonnegut

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Meditation on an Eggshell

“In the beginning there was nothing, which exploded.”
 ― Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies

Cosmic Galaxy Egg by Andrew Logan

To see the universe as an egg,
an outwardly expanding ovoid, devoid
of charm, cold, hard-bitten,
hairline fragmentation amid all that twinkling,
is to see the premise of irrecoverable force
and imagine another bang may shatter all.

I held an eggshell in my palm this morning
and automatically looked up
as if to find the nest it came from;
it was perfectly empty but for a lick of yolk
at the ragged edge, and chalky white
but there was no sign of either progenitor
or hatchling, nor guarantee of life.

Some days my heart seems thin as this shell,
filled only with expanding vistas,
starfields slowly consumed by black holes,
beacons so far apart as to remain disparate
and unrelated, though I like to join the dots,
search for oblique reference that I am connected:
rendered meaningful by a pattern in the dust.


Play It Again, Toads! offers us the opportunity of revisiting a past prompt at The Imaginary Garden.
There were several prompts in April 2015, which I was unable to complete and here I have combined two:

The Legacies of Nimoy and Pratchett and What's Your Vision?

To view some of the graffiti tributes to the life and work of Sir Terry Pratchett, click HERE.
Andrew Logan's artwork can be seen at The American Visionary Art Museum, or AVAM, is located in Baltimore, Maryland (HERE).

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Meditation upon a Tombstone

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
John Donne

Copyright ~ Karin Gustafson

My angels have all come undone.
Featherless, their wings shed hollow bones,
the thin and brittle twigs of an already forgotten
tree of life, root-bound in a half cup measure of soil.

Even their frowns have eroded from stone.
And their feet are toeless stumps, lichen stained
to the dull green of rotten things, old teeth turned
in the trench of a new grave. Past lives drift like dry leaves.

There is no help for us. No tolling bell.
No whispered pledge in dark of night prayers.
No sign to demarcate the saved from the damned.
Just the sameness of dust; the ubiquitous tombstones.


The Weekend Mini-Challenge is presented in The Imaginary Garden by Karin Gustafson.