The Road Without End~

"How is father?"

"The Master is dying."

"How are the wolves?"

"The wolves are old."

How are the Horses?"

"The horses are still complaining about the proximity of their stalls to the den of the wolves."

 

Pan

asleep for decades

stone grown around him

veined in vines

stirs

in the barren rose garden

 

Bead one

I don't pray

but I pretend

soft topaz between thumb and index finger

a stone church

the violets here never die

they tasted my young blood eons ago

 

"Father, you are dying."

"We are all dying."

"The wolves are tired."

"They are tired of pretending to be wolves."

"The horses, I swear are senile, and are still complaining."

"Morocco never left their heart, it makes them grumpy."

 

Pan

shivers

his lute whispers

almond eyes open to sunshine

reflecting

in a puddle of rain water;

a rose bud struggles past the ease of dormancy

the garden moans

 

Bead two

I don't chant

I do now

white plume notes bumping pollen

my fingers in the roots of the ground

tearing apart reality

a caterpillar inclines its body against my wrist

I sing bones

taking comfort

where least expected

 

"Wolf, Father is ill."

"Girl, your father is mad."

"Wolf, I forbid you to grow any older."

"Girl, I wish you were god."

"Wolf, the horses want to die in a desert."

"Girl, if wishes were fishes we'd all cast nets."

 

Pan skins himself of stone

bends to a puddle

palms flat against the soil

water fills his mouth

the lute waits

for his hands

 

Bead three

my blue jeans in a stream dripping washed out denim

my blouse a curiosity to a robin building her nest

my feet pound blood songs into dirt

my fingers scratch against the sky

I bend into old world rhythms

bending time

rending the present with a scream

 

"Horse, father is bleeding his life into a glass of distilled hope."

"Girl, your father is a stubborn man."

"Horse, the wolves say everyone here has gone mad."

"Girl, the wolves are wise."

"Horse, you cannot go back to the desert."

"Girl, the desert lives inside of us, we are there every day now."

 

Pan watches through the rose bushes

screaming blossoms

pink

red

blush

a single indigo bloom;

Pan gives the garden his tears

lifts the lute to his mouth

watching his long ago girl

climb the trellis

of her fate

 

Bead four

I do not pray

I do not pretend to pray

the canopy separates for my familiar skin

welcoming my etchings

in bone

and blood

between the click of my jeweled claws

I crawl out of human imagination

into the wild

eyes blood rimmed moons

and do what I was made to do

 

the horse turns away "Bad, bad, bad."

the wolf resigns its life to a canvas of stars "She was made for this."

a man seals onyx eyes on tears, whispering "The road without end."

 

one life ends

another embarks on a journey

inside a single cell

dividing

 

Girl leans her head against the wheel

of the car

inhales

exhales

a push of pedal

torn grass

her only trail

 

Pan leans against the trunk of a yew

the garden rich with scents

lush with prose

scrolls written in little girl script

his treasures;

he is glad

he is not

a human being

in love with a dangerous girl

 

 

 

 copyright:2010vssmd/pa.inc

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

 

 

excerpt from

 

 

 

Reviews

[TAO]

Oh my goddess, wow... You remind of time spent int he books of Terry Brooks, David Eddings, and Terry Goodkind; though they are not so nearly as poetic as you, your poetry brings the same magic to me their fantasy novels do.

What's more, I've noticed, it's blended with the times...it fits, seemlessly.... As if the world was dying of thirst and you provided the water just as Gaea began licking the sweat off of Death's feet...right on time; so very like a goddess (forgive me, but Ms. Selene, your words so unreal they're real).

One day, I hope to be this good. Amazing work, Ms. Selene.

[Robin]

this is art , so deep, so personal - myths are for those who havent looked inside

"a rose bud struggles past the ease of dormancy" "inhales, exhales"


man

[Ed Hart]

the fates assign us difficult postures...a girl comes gliding along and (as penance for all that gliding) is made to bend and stretch and move so close to the archetype that she almost disappears in a symbolic hew of jeweled aura...she becomes the living Kali, great mother, giver, lover, taker, destroyer, and bleeds into the world the savage and lilting words the muse dispenses, and, all the while, she laments and keeps on trying to pretend she's human...but, oh, the gift and the glory

[Jibey]

I take it you are using the idea of prayer beads as you develop the mystery of these mythical figures... and the old man dying represents the end of the life, while Pan is the blossoming of youth with all its possibilities... a cycle that repeats and repeats... Always your writing is intriguing and other-worldly... like a magic spell..

[Jason Galliger]

There is such an interesting mythology you build here. I find myself traveling through a garden of your words and marveling at their beauty and the emotions they evoke.

[Brad]

for some reason...the great god pan scares the shyte out of me...this was eerie like most fairie tales...sssshhh...the wolves are circling

[Wildfleour]

Now you've got me coming back to the Cafe to sip from your cool waters.