little gods

An inch-and-a-half tall cinnabar Buddha. A tiny tiger eye cat.

"Boy, you've got a lot of clutter on your desk."

A rubber duck with a proper squeak. A wind-up Nosferatu. Catwoman, whip in hand.

"How can you work with all that junk around?"

At home, Eowyn leans against my desk lamp. Spike's De Soto is somewhere under the credit card bill.

"The cat cleared your desk for you again."

Behind the cubbyhole's door, bronze Bast gazes out over the badly fractured but still-whole amethyst sphere in its Baroque stand. I set the Halloween-discount black votive candle in front of the goddess, look over the plastic and vinyl eyes gazing back at me, and relax.

Damn, that's good, connie.

For some reason - despite the subject having been brought back to me forcibly and with extreme poignancy - I'm shying away from this one. I'll give it a few days and see if it shakes itself out.

I love connie's drabble. It may be my one true drabble for this topic. Still, something is fomenting and it might yet end up on paper.

I'm with Sail -- I love connie's drabble. I can see them all...

I have something coming from a totally different direction, if I can just sit and think about it for a minute.

I completely forgot Roderick the skull, who looks good in a tiara.

untitled

Back when Gerry Ford was being shot at and the Who were playing Winterland, you and I saw it the same way.

You said it yourself, before you played my song to a packed house: May the gods bless you; there's many, not just one. So many small things, tiny miracles: a sunrise every day, music running heart to ear, kidneys that functioned, your fingers, my love for you.

Small miracles, a little god for each one. Ours, alone.

Somewhere, I've never known how or why, we came apart at the seams. And all the gods and the miracles died.

Just finished something that's been in my files for a year. I doubt that anyone will ever want it, but it feels nice closing one. (writes article name in black on the Board in my head)

Cheerios: And here's my drabble.
The closest I get to faith is to check my mailbox every day. Will it be a card? Maybe even an invite or a check. Or will I be smitten with paperwork governmental and ominous enough to make me sweat like I robbed a liquor store? That’s where the faith comes in, as always, the uncertainty. Sometimes the postal gods are good and bring me sustenance, sometimes enlightenment, like books or Netflix. Sometimes they’re confusing like when solicitors have me listed as “Patricia” Why does this happen? Maybe it is part of a bigger plan.

nativity

Born in darkness, born in rain
Rainbow cradle where the babe was laid
Born of the Earth, of the Universe
Wrapped in a cloud, the baby cried

Woman and Man, they brought the child
To this place, to my backyard
In my yard, she played
Tumbled among the tumbleweeds

Pricked her fingers on the yucca's spikes
Chased the ravens and the snakes
She bled into the earth, once, twice
At this mesa, the center of the world

Adult too soon, she wed the sun
Bore him twins, Monster Slayer
And the Child Born of Water
Changing Woman, she lived here

That's beautiful, Liese.