Coursing the myth


Jane Dougherty Writes


The priest dressed in his mystic robes

Sprinkles the course with magic water

Calling down a benediction from on high

Not on the goaded beaten hounds

But to crush the memories of another time

Older by far than his god hanging on a bloody tree

Whispered in the pulse of the timid quivering hare.

The moon and the dawn, love and life,

Death and resurrection, is this gentle hare,

Carrying in her bones the secrets he abhors

Who would tear the heart from all the wonder and the magic in the world

And make it echo with his hollow words.

The priest is satisfied with his muttered rites

Presses his scapulars of destruction to his lips

When with a woman’s voice she cries, the hare

As her heart’s blood seeps back into our holy ground.

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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