The beasts, they say, a graveyard make,
A place they go to die,
When deep they feel the staunchless ache
Of life that passes by
On paths their feet will not have trod
Through days they will not see.
Much worse, the ache of dying god
For no one hears their plea
There in the midst of holy strife
Immortals draw their breath
And in the mysteries of life
There is none teaches death.
The angels fear, or so they say,
To walk where fools rush in.
Among the dying godlets play,
And dance upon a pin,
Triumphant priests, whose sacrifice
To honor their god’s name
With hidden guilt more souls entice
And cover them with shame.
In temples built by mortal men
Whose walkways are blood-paved
Unheeding choirs sing last amen
And no one there is saved.
Between the cells of ancient gods,
Stone membranes line the way
Truth shown now, all the crowd applauds:
The gods are made of clay.

27 thoughts on “Between

  1. Just something quick off the top of my head as I am just getting this post from Erin—

    Marvel at the bars of shaped stone
    “Such scales they were”, —or so I’m told
    “That once sheathed beasties blood and bone”
    Stories of legends I am sold

    I’ve a ticket— “I can’t go wrong
    Come see the past; these oldest stars
    Great they were fearsome brave and strong
    Dragons owned these skies near and far”

    For a moment I close my eyes
    What was lost I’m left to wonder
    In my mind shadows darken skies
    And then far off I hear thunder.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Laurie, I sure enjoyed this! “…the stone, rough like cat tongues” is the best line I’ve read today, of anything. And relate? My two sisters and I could tell stories … 😀 Thanks for joining the fun. And now I hoppe you realize that when Susan and I say “kink,” we mean bending a phrase, jarring reality just enough to make others think, as you’ve done.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Your words are brilliant, all of you. I’m not a poet, but Erin asked, and the photo made me think of this:

    Bored with watching grownups holding hands, we dawdled behind my sister and her latest dreamboat, dragging our small fingers against the stone, rough like cat tongues, giggly with the effort not to shout hello into the distance to hear it echo back like a voice from our older selves. Surely we would have landed in the soup for such rude and childish behavior, stern looks tossed at us from the front seat of the old Pontiac, but we knew that we had the power. We were her cover that day, and our silence could be bought.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Posting on behalf of Morgann Peters, after our dear friend Erin put out a call for responses in the form of flash fiction or poetry. Here are Morgann’s beautiful words, revealing her pure and lovely heart.


    She stood beneath the trees
    Seeing not their ancient leaves
    Nor their runnels of wrinkled branches
    As they arched overhead
    All she saw was what came before
    And what would come ever after.

    She’d had words in mind
    Written in the ink of her heart’s blood
    But they fled at the sight before her

    Gone were the whispers of apprehension
    “Are we allowed to be here?” she’d asked.

    She’d broken her friend’s heart
    Just a little, in the asking
    Now she knew the answer.

    It had always been ‘yes’.
    So two hearts were joined
    As the trees held hands.


  5. Just got the memo, Thanks for including me. I looked at the pic and this came out.

    Into the void go I, to play with pictures and words.
    So fresh and full of possibility.
    Images dazzle me until numb with beauty, I stagger in fear.
    Blindness and weeping follow.
    Finally remembering to play nice, I release my contempt…
    and the light reappears.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Brilliant, my dear friend. Here’s my own impression, in my typical three-minute clickety-clack of keys inspired by the same pic:


    We toured the tonsils of the beast
    led by a bored museum guide
    through the gullet
    down to the gut
    where aeons of seawater
    sluicing through
    had left hollow ulcerated pools
    in the bone.
    Look, my son said,
    how funny he is now
    that he’s dead.

    Liked by 1 person

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