Mythology always, without fail, sets my mind to churn and my pen to motion. This morning, I read a poem that hovered about Olympus, so to speak. That poem, although topically unrelated, spark the piece I share here.

Happy Saturday!!!

Image result for tibet farmer


After an eternity of gripping lightning bolts,
his fingers are singed, his fingerprints
have crusted into black swirls of ash.

And Olympus lacks substance and form;
it’s far too ethereal. All those clouds –
thinner than the walls in a cheap motel.

There’s nothing to lean on,
nothing to bare one’s heft, one’s bones.
Rumor has it that the all powerful

abandoned his might months ago
and now tends a flock of sheep in Tibet,
reveling in the stench of wet wool,

how, after a rain, his stride sinks into the earth,
the tender hands of a woman who wants him,
yet has never feared him.


5 thoughts on “Zeus

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