An Ancient Tale #135 (part 3)

It had been rainy and lonely those first few nights
With only some cold grains to eat
Chasing him out with stones
Sending him out of the walls into the wilderness
Bidding him to never return
Driven out like that first couple from their maternal grounds
Uris felt that the people had stolen the fire from him
He had stayed angry
On the fourth sunrise as his wounds healed,
He dried out and let that madness evaporate
With the water from his skin
He found flint, obsidian, wood, and the will to move on
It was a time to hunt, not just for meat, but for a way to continue
He could not fashion the spear tips to match Quetin
Using the obsidian and striking stones he made smaller tips
And with strands pulled from his tunic
Was able to make the smaller striking sticks
He twisted the twine into a string, bending a strong shaft
Made a bow as he had seen a northern man carry once
It would do
The hare on the spit that night tasted like victory
If not vindication
Uris tried to understand the elders reticence in drawing words
Betheadeeon had first showed him how to make some of the symbols
He didn’t know why it was blasphemous if he only pictured praise for God
Or showing the exploits of Gilgamesh
Some of the elders didn’t want these tales easy for everyone to see
Without them to tell them the tales
Control
He would ask Zontan why the speech spinner-elder, Horth, had turned on him
Uris knew that Zontan could draw speech and hunted alone
He would track him when he came to the hills to hunt
They both knew how to set the symbols in wet mud to keep the words
Uris knew that it was death to be caught on the hunting paths
He knew how to hide his smoke in the hills
Damp leaves of the Tigrus tress suspended over small flames from hardwood
Skins from the hares would cure well and keep him clothed
But he missed his mother’s spinning
Maybe he could find a mountain tribe and hunt for them
Teaching them of God and Gilgamesh and of his people who descended from Eden
And cultivated the crescent
From one full moon to the next, he planned and hunted and scratched symbols
In far hills
Uris knew that Zontan would hunt the hills during the full face of the moon
He knew his rock

An Ancient Tale #135 (part 2)

The moon rise is cool in the hills above the river
It’s large, round, white lion face lights up the land and village
Dark rimmed eyes stare down
Seeing all
The dark will grow cold and long
I am grateful for the company while I sit on a rock, waiting;
Spears at the ready
Using a non-lethal end to make pictures of words
It is still forbidden to do so
Urisabethe was stoned for it, after only last moon rise
He has been banished and lives in these hills, alone
I will meet him tonight while I am on guard duty
The jackals are active tonight and I must stay aware
There is another lion pride that has killed our cattle
They hunt at sun rise when God sends us the new day
My people once only lived off of what God gave us
Now we are able to plant and grow;
Raise and herd cattle, sheep, goats
As well as hunt with skill; using knowledge gained from
The fall of Eden
The tale of the Gil – Gilgamish – has taught us how
I rub out the picture speak with my foot and take up the trail again
Of the lion pride
Wolves howl at the night’s light
I hear the cattle’s concern from far below
The first summer night when I took my man-lion’s tuff, I was 16 anos
My father had fashioned me a strong, sharp spear
I tracked the pride to its lair, Eathis taught me well
I did not pick out the old lion as I was told
But the alpha; I wanted the pride’s best
When I baited him to charge – I place the shaft’s butt in the sand
Holding it fast with my foot and drove its head deep into his chest
As he fell at my feet, I was not prepared for the roar of rest of the pride
At his demise
Only the fire circle that I lit with my flint kept them at bay
I took the beast’s head in my hands, and praised his spirit to God
Knowing the when I ate his meat and wove his main into my hair
I would grow from his strength
Uris taught me to draw that story in the ground
Someday, I will place that in wet clay and let it dry so that it lasts forever
Horth and other tale-tellers will pass it in the circle of fire
These talk pictures will one day be inscribed for descendents
Ancestors and descendents will be able to live in the same moments
Knowledge and stories
Something moves to my left – I heft a spear, ready
This night will be long

An Ancient Tale #135 (part 1)

The first time the men took me into the circle of fire and
I heard the full tale of the hero, the Gil
I was 48 seasons or 12 anos
Smooth faced and just beginning to learn the hunt
The full gray beards sat closest to the red leaping flames
And told about time before history
The circle of fire was the night time circle of time
The straight tall polls arraigned to time the seasons
Letting us know when the sun will lower in the sky
And when it will begin its rise in the sky again
Here in the Tigerus valley this time table determines our
Plantings and when we bury our dead
Our river provides us plants and meat
Plants grow, animals come to water
I am Zontanabide, son of Quetin, the spear-tip maker
And Bibe, my mother, herb mistress, knowing the property of plants
My father can see into the heart of obsidian stone
Chipping out the strongest tips with flesh slicing sharpness
The flutes he fashions fit tight into the split-top pole
He knows when the sinew is chewed enough and will dry
To hold it all together
He made my spears special for me to kill my lion and
Taught me how to throw straight and true with keen eye
I have my lion tuff tied to my hair
And I’m around to prove both his worth as a spear-maker,
My courage as a hunter
I’ve heard the story of the Gil for six winters
Each time I see into our past with better understanding
The word spinner, Horth, is the wisest man the people
His beard is white and long, his days as hunter are past

The Lottery

Eduard came night after night
And sat at his table to take in a view
Those bangs, the straight nose, the hour glass
And waited for her to sigh
But it was only that green liquor to take him away
But could not forget that down-ward gaze
Her painted face couldn't hide her beauty
The milk-maid nee' bar-maid
And that small mouth
That he could only guess would taste of
Garden peaches
The only way to capture her for himself would
Be to put her on canvas
Because he would never be able to capture her between his sheets
Her downward cast gaze matched his forlorn stare
Ah well, Eduard knew that there two-franc women
And that was a lottery he could win

Wet Socks

I’ve had wet feet since we hit the beach
Eight days ago
I’m sitting in a dirt hole, cold; it’s getting dark
And I can move back and try and sleep on the ground
When the night gets black
I have seven kills
Must think of them as Germans and not other men
I’m trying not to think of home
It seems like a long time ago I was playing football
In high school
But, it was just six weeks ago
I had never shot a gun before
Now I have seven kills
I hear my mom’s voice once in a while
But only her tone and not her words anymore
It was either me or them
The fire fight seemed to go in slow motion and
Last forever
I scan the field with my glasses
There must have been wheat here before...
It’s only a memory now
My feet are cold, but at least I made it inland
I’m only up from the beach somewhere in Italy
I remember reading about the Romans
And that’s all I know of Italy
Except that the Germans came and killed Italians
And now we must kill the Germans
I have killed seven of them, and they killed a bunch of us on
The beach

Touch #531

He lightly brushed the back of his hand against her cheek
And she responded smiling, brushing back
As he titled her chin up to kiss her lips
She pulled him into her
More than moist lip to lip
Exchanging electrical charges
Her laugh was like a light breeze that seems
To sneak in through an open window
The sheets still held the memory of last night
But the room was charged with the laughter of the morning
Too soon they would wash and dress and leave

They lay back on the bank, resting shoulder to shoulder
As languid as the smooth surface of the late summer creek
She whispered something that the dragonfly flew close to hear
But just missed it
He smiled that deep type of smile
Slowly leaning into her
And she responded by laughing and leaning into him
When they touched palm to palm and chest to chest
Even the breeze stilled to watch
The sun felt warm, but did not match the heat on the blanket

Monsters

I want to know that my monsters are hiding behind closed
Doors
I want them lurking in the shadows ready to pounce and
Devour
I want them in books and on the screen
I don’t want them running banks or congress
In charge of manufacturing or making decisions about my
Health care
Scary monsters should live in my head and not head of companies
That make people work long, hard hours creating wealth for the few
I want my monsters chasing Scooby-doo or Ripley
Not putting my friends on the street with little hope of work
Or housing
Running numbers that are so large that none of us can comprehend them
Using industrial fillers for baby formula or children’s’ toys or pet foods
Sowing fear and selling guns on the cheap

In another time he would have been the head of some organized crime
Organization
But, that’s not where the money is anymore
Illegal drugs are too risky, better to work with the pharmaceutical companies
Cholesterol and diet medications are the wave of the future
Organizations have always owned politicians – it’s all in the donations
Master of the Universe is just another name for Godfather
Where once upon a time big Al would have wiped his competition out
Now, it’s just easier and cleaner to bankrupt them
And what they did and who worked there are of no concern
And when his game time ends
He knows who and how much
His holdings will be safe and his bank account fat
His buyout will be big

Little Streams

The summer stream barely covers the rocks and stones
In its winding bed
The long grasses that reach out of the water no longer
Bend to its current
Dragonflies rest and sun themselves lightly
Tadpoles no longer part of the foodchain
Frogs slide slowly under the surface
Up or down stream take about the same effort
And they only worry about the occasional bird
Or barefoot boy aiming to make his first conquest
Cattails grow to heights above the road
And brown
Each morning the sun rises a bit later and each evening sets earlier
Everything is hoping to collect that last bit of extra warmth
He blankly stares out of his high-rise apartment window
Lucky to pay for an eastern river morning view
Soon the undergrounds would disgorge gray creatures
That would fill the streets and look like ants around
A piece of discarded candy
Even women dressed in their colored uniforms looked
Dark from up here
He fingered the smooth slightly greasy metal in his pocket
Today
He lit another cigarette and blew and smoke against the glass
It looked like pictures he’d seen of cosmic explosions
As the white cloud dissipated all around him
Time to go
Lock the door, ride the elevator, take a cab
It all seemed so ordinary
Not actually a chill in the air, but that first day after days of heat
And humidity
When the dry air is a relief, when the heavy air of August breaks
And you know that summer is over
The coffee shoppe was full and active
Suits, three piece, double button, pants and dress
Steam coming from behind the scurrying coats on the other side
Of the counter
It was a study in black and white
Normal
The gun’s magazine held twenty rounds
It was empty in ten seconds
Scattering, falling people; screams; shattering glass and broken lives
Filled more than coffee cups