On the plains the bees hang,

hovering in the morning,

as they fill themselves with light,

their wings whirring as the warmth and whiteness rises within them and 

when full,

they fall gold and shimmering into the sky.

And silver scorpions march clicking and flaming arrow bright into the lava springs,

softening and spreading out,

back into the rills underneath,

resting in quiet and in deepness until prised out by the miners

and formed and polished into new life…


And fish with eyes of beaten copper do tail dances across the surface of fountains,

and tigers sing in the tops of tall trees to cajole them into swaying,

and coral eyed crab hatchlings scuttle for rock cloisters, 

where they can spin and dream in the cool dim light and remember what it felt like being a god,

ruling your whole world with claw and carapace.

While the clouds dream of being anchored,

and the cold blooded lizards call to the bees and beg them share the some of the light…


And through it all the skies,

the skies,

drape and billow high above,  

and the moon all hearty and round

fat with night revels,

coaxes the shy sun above the rim of the horizon;

“It’s time my dear…

It’s time to shine.”

And the talekeepers sing out,

“One copper! One coin of copper for a golden tale…”



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. Not.....me. 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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