Posted in stream of consciousness writing, Writing for healing

The Horns of Hell

The braying coward in the room
reminds our dreaming hearts
to continue
following the Golden Rule —
to do unto others that which you would have done unto you

or at least to make the attempt
to look as if you’d paid attention
during that first decade of your own early existence
when
blackboards
and chalk
and rulers
ruled.
Yet apparently the memo
never appeared in the DNA
of such a barnacled baby branded by the horns of hell.

The indigenous grandfather, the shepherd, would say to his fold
his flock
the watchful courageous children
quiet now, young ones. Be still,
stop talking so much
keep your hands to yourself.
Don’t be a braggart
watch out for grandiosity and boasting;
the grandfather, the father, his hands ever-warm

tended to by his long-loving

tawny wife
steadfast, kind, capable of moving mountains
with her keen eyes…
a heart, a fortress
as mighty as the tides

and
as delicate and tenuous as a curled fern.

It is the space inside the
last page of the story
beyond needless words
that holds the children

eager for the sight of their kindred souls,

the scented earthy

sheltering arms
protecting them
from the foul-mouthed monster
born out of the fearful horns of hell.

Author:

I made it this far and plan to keep going. I believe nature heals the soul. I love to journal, to write, do art, and music. I'm not afraid to tackle tough subjects. Solar-powered & drive hybrid. Trying to do my part. Earned my BA at 53. And, I believe, it's never too late to have a happy childhood.

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