Persephone Song

Almond trees bursting blankets of bloom
Lark song whistling wildly gay
Daylight
Glistening water waves
Breezes teasing gentle tresses
Cold, dead-time’s gloom
Vanished in sparkling rays
In sight
Persephone stays
Seed burst forth
Brightening, rightening Mother’s ways.

– Urania
  February 28,  2008

Article: Persephone from Wikipedia

AMBER TRIPS THE LIGHT FANTASTIC

By Robin Jenkins

Chapter 3

The Garden

Amber walked amid the flowering bushes. There were rose trees and jasmine bushes and honeysuckle vines; there were mock orange bushes and lilac bushes. On the ground, she saw grass and patches of clover with tiny lavender flowers. The air smelled like a pot of wild honey.

As she bent down to sniff a rose, she noticed sunlight glinting through dewdrops. All about her, she heard the chattering of birds as they fluttered between branches. Rustling in the breeze were leaves the shape of silver dollars.

As she bent down to sniff a rose, she noticed sunlight glinting through the dew drops.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a huge, upside-down tree. The roots stretched up into heaven and the branches curved downward like an inverted cup resting on the ground. As she turned her head to look at the upside-down tree, it disappeared.

“Wow!” thought Amber.

Nonchalantly, she pretended not to look for it. She turned her head back to where the tree had been before, and stared into the distance. In the corner of her, there it was again.

“Geez,” said Amber, “That’s unreal, or is it real? It’s almost as strange as Ms. Phoebe getting old all-of-a-sudden.”

“Nothin’s old as dirt, Baby,” said a low, rocky voice.

“What?” replied Amber, looking up, down and sideways for the speaker.

“I said – Nothin’s old as dirt. Think about it.”

Amber jumped. “Who said that?” she demanded.

She picked up a rock and threw it at the ground so that dust was raised.

“Watch it, Pipsqueak,” groaned the voice.

The voice seemed to resonate from underneath her feet.

The ground began to shake and a rumbling noise grew loud. Amber watched a large crack open in the ground and move steadily toward her. Trying to get away from the crack, she ran first in one direction and then in another, but whichever way she ran, the crack followed.

Amber was locking herself into a bad situation. The pattern of her footsteps nearly cut a circle and if that were to happen, she knew her little patch of ground would sink into the bowels of the Earth.

“Oh, no,” she said, staring down into the chasm.

“It’s like a volcano in there.”

She closed her eyes and steeled her nerves to be boiled alive in hot lava.

“Ha-a-a, Ha-a-a, Ha-a-a-,” came a low, rolling laugh.

The laugh was low and drawn out. It sounded almost as low and as drawn out as Time itself. With every laugh, the crack healed so that finally not even a blade of grass could be seen to have been disturbed.

Amber gave her most suspicious look to the ground. She was known for her special, suspicious look.

“Who do you think you’re playin’ with? Kids?” The voice echoed back upon itself.

“I’m Earth,” said the voice. “Old Mother Earth and the Spirit of Time. ‘Dust thou art and to Dust thou shalt return. I can change this garden into a desert, a swamp, a mountain. I am the stuff of volcanoes, of dinosaurs and of rose petals. I am what matters. I am Mater.

Mater, Mater, Mater,” echoed the voice.

As if seeing a mirage, Amber saw a face, an old wrinkled face in the dust. As the face formed, the lines wavered like heat waves, and then they smoothed out perfectly. Where the face had been, a lily sprang up and bloomed. The white flower opened right up into Amber’s face and gave off a wonderful perfume.

“Who made you?’ asked Amber.

There was no answer.

“How old are you?”

“Ha-a-a-a, Ha-a-a-a, Ha-a-a-a,” laughed the voice. A tremor shot through the garden.

“That’s like asking you how many cells are in your body. Do you know what cells are? They’re me. The number is irrelevant. All that matters is Mater. Me-me-me!”

“She’s an opera singer,” said a sprightly little voice. Did you hear that? Me-me-me. An opera singer. Four trillion, 5,000 million. That’s how many trips she’s made around the Sun. Big Deal. Who counts. Who cares? The Sun’s more important. The Sun’s a Bigger Deal that she is.”

“Over here, Kid. I’m over here – on the rose bush. “No, no, not the one with the red roses – the one with peach-colored roses. Look on the label, it’s called ‘The Queen’s Cheeks.’ There you go, getting warmer, warmer – yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Amber found herself staring at a long, green stick-shaped bug.

“It’s a praying mantis,” said Amber.

“Twiggy. Just call me Twiggy,” said the bug. “Very glad to meet you. Say where’d ya get that blonde hair? How’s about I call ya Vanilla, Vanilla Manila Gorilla. Hey, you every been in Manila? It’s full of gorillas. Ha-ha-ha. What’sa matta, Cupcake? Can’t ya take a joke? Say, I know a real nice ape you’d just love to meet. Only problem is he’s chocolate. Your’re not one of them prejudiced apes, are ya?”

“I’m not an ape,” said Amber. She didn’t know whether to laugh or be insulted. Amber’s dignity was very important to her. She was used to being told how pretty she was.

“Oh, well, I’m sorry. I guess you’re not really an ape. Listen, Kid – that’s right. You’re a goat, aren’t ya? Listen, Kid – don’t you pay any attention to that dusty old egomaniac, opening up the ground and all. She does that for everybody – just try’na show how important she is, that’s all. There’s a lot more to it, to life, I mean – than some old piece of dirt who won’t even tell her age. Notice how she shut right up? Never says anything when you call her bluff. Never says a word. It’s like she can’t even communicate. She just is. She is What is. Say, Kid – Don’t let me monopolize the conversation. What ya doin’ here, anyway? Ya on some kinda mission?

Ya lookin’ for somethin?”

“No,” said Amber, “I don’t really know why I’m here. I just keep going from place to place and I don’t know why.”

“That’s what they all say,” said the praying mantis.

“All who?”

“All the souls – you know, the people, the bugs, horses, cats, dogs, elephants, you know what I mean. The souls that are locked up in matter, or are matter, you know matter, who thinks she’s so important? Takes ‘em a long time to figure it out.”

“Figure out what?” Amber asked.

“Where they’re going.”

“Where are they going?”

“On the path. That’s all I can tell you. That’s all I know. They’re all on the path.”

“The path to where?” Amber asked.

“Nowhere and Everywhere,” said Twiggy. “Listen, I have to do the Twenty-Three Skidoo, Bug Off. Ya’ know what I mean?” I’m hungry and I don’t eat when I sit around philosophizing with pretty little Vanilla Gorillas, Dig? Got to help Nature keep her balance.”

And off hopped Twiggy to another ruse bush.

Amber decided she was hungry, too. She took a stroll around the garden and found many fruits to eat. She thought of Mr. Diptera, wishing he could be in the garden, too.

“This place if just perfect,” she said. Wouldn’t he love it?”

There were bananas and strawberries and coconuts and rasberries and cherries and peaches. There were cashew nuts and almonds and peanuts and walnuts.

“I shall call this place the Land of Fruits and Nuts,” said Amber.

There was a waterfall and a pond. There were fish and birds and lizards. Amber thought she saw a deer scampering along a hillside, bu the animal moved so fast that she couldn’t say for sure what it was.

Brigit Bright

Lady of Flame and Forge
Bring rhymes, some hymns, good times and song.

Awaken minds
Our hands keep deft and strong.

Bring sparkle to eyes
And wit to tongue.

Little spark to flame doth rise
Old Year out, New Year
Young!

Script spells
Wills done
Bright Lady
Sing
Sun!

–Urania, February 01, 2008

Year rollin’ round
Ringing days, stringing lays
Ma and Pa Hornet lined the bamboo wind chime
With a rose petal quilt.
Wind flurries, leaf blurries
Knockin’ nest:
“Clunk, blunk, clackety-whak.”

Flamboyant Bird of Paradise raining
Yellow confetti, her lust
Stubborn. November crowns waving
In her hair – proclaiming their skinny Queen.

Rows and rows of fat, purple Mums
Bending in the breeze as the black bees
Dive and hover, dancing lovers
Cover the sunny discs with kisses.

Ma bendin’ needle through buttons
And brushin’ off cat hair from good
Old coat – fingers fattening, joints
Inflaming, quietly humming.  No use naming,
Blaming the numbing dark, cold coming.
Year’s rollin’ round.

– Urania
Nov. 1979

Amber Trips the Light Fantastic

By Robin Jenkins

Chapter 2

Phoebe and the White Bird

 ”This is a tube,” thought Amber as she reached out and tried to touch the light bands of blue, violet, red, orange, yellow and green. The light could not be felt, yet it passed through her body, lighting her up like a rainbow.

“Was that a wind chime?” she asked as she looked to see what was making a tingling noise.

“Ah! I’ve found it!” she cried as she shut her fingers over a diamond-cut crystal that sped through the yellow band.

“Gotcha!”

The tinkling went wild. “Pling – pling – pling – pling – pling – pling– pling– pling – pling – pling!”

Amber opened her hand and out flew the crystal. Now the crystal was a snowflake, now a sphere, again a crystal, now a star, now a blob of light, now a tiny Milky Way Galaxy!”

“Pling!” sounded the crystal every time it changed.

Poor Amber. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes crossed. She was dazzled, delighted and dumbfounded.

Again, the white light took the shape of a diamond and tinkled a tune. The light snuggled itself into her limp hand like a kitten wanting to be petted. She held the light loosely and looked deeply into it. The rhythmic tinkling became a voice that said:

The primal sun of the mind is in Faerie:
O golden fleece of Faerie
Which never a hunter won,
For it cannot be got by killing.
All is man in Faerie,
And this is one of its secrets
The forest is a great nation
The still pool is a soul.
A prayer is a work in Faerie
And a moonbeam may carry it.

– Anonymous, from “Lineaments of Faerie,” Charles Muses and Arthur M. Young, Consciousness and Reality: The Human Pivot Point (New York:Discus/Avon, 1976) p.410.

The motion had stopped. Only Amber and the white, lighted crystal remained. The rainbow was no longer around her. Her body felt funny, like it was still moving through time while all else had come to a standstill.

It was very dark. There was only the light of the full moon and the shining crystal in her hand. She looked down into a still poool and saw the crystal’s reflections.

“M-e-ewling ma-a-ar-r-r-r-ve-lous ma-a-a-t-ters!”

Amber jumped and turned away from the pool. Her heart was in her throat.

A pair of huge, almond-shaped, yellow eyes glowed in the dark.

Amber held up the crystal and saw nearby a gray house cat as big as a panther. The cat stood on its hind legs and in its forepaws carried an arrow.

“Please don’t shoot me,” pleaded Amber.

“Mighty maniacal thing to do. I’m not in the mood,” meowed the cat.

The cat placed the bow around Amber’s body. After sticking the arrow into the wooden part of the bow, the cat dragged Amber into a circle of cypress trees.

“My minions,” meowed the cat, pointing to a row of faded, furry felines. Each had a pair of glowing eyes.

I mistook your light for the white bird,” explained the cat. “I’ve been miserable, a misfit, ever since the bird, the marvelous bird, unmasked me.”

The cat removed the bow with the arrow stuck in it and tossed them aside. She pulled out her claws and her fangs and tossed them to a minion-cat who laid them on a pile of hunting gear.

“What is this place?” Amber asked.

“Detaining quarters. Consider yourself hunted. You are in the Primal Woods. I y-a-am Phoebe, Goddess of the Moon. Gr-r-r-r-r-e-e-a-a-t Huntress. Mistress of Manxes. Mimic of males. Minister of Mothers. Minacious Mincer. Millions of Minds. I y-a-a-m-me-y-o-u-w!”

“Why did you hunt me – like that?” Amber asked, pointing to the discarded bow with the arrow stuck into it.

“Minimizes miscalculations. Mission isn’t minute steak anymore. Misplace a missile. Mistake a mole for a mouse. Must monitor mood of morbidity. Otherwise mourning in the morning.

“Never seen a glimpse of morning except for the white bird and your light. No motive, no mood to molest the motile since I saw the white bird in the still pool. Muscles moved to muzzle a mouthful. Mysterious mystery. Mystic myth. It flew away. Never even really saw it. It flew away. Only saw reflection in still pool.

“Ever since then my name a misnomer. No more misery-maker, me. Misreckon, misfire all my missiles. Mischief mixed with madness. Moaning, meowing, meandering, searching dark wood for white bird I never find.”

“Ah,” said Amber, feeling sorry for the cat.

“What do you cats, uh, eat nowadays?”

“No more moles, mousies, mongooses. Only moonbeams. Drink in moonbeams and pray find white bird.”

“Mighty morale,” meowed the cat.

Grandly, she arched her back. Her tail snaked back-and-forth behind her back. The cat carefully reattached her fangs to her gums and then her claws to her paws. She grabbed the bow-and-arrow and meowed, “M-r-r-o-o-ow, mo-o-ve it!”

“Many minions – stay here and pray,” she meowed to the many-eyed ring of fur.

“Oh-m-m-m-m, Oh-m-m-m-m, Oh-m-m-m-m,” purred the minions.

The woods shook.

Phoebe the cat and Amber walked a great distance through the darkness. There was no telling how long they wandered. Phoebe didn’t know what Amber meant when Amber asked what time it was. They did not tire and they were not hungry. They absorbed moonbeams and kept on going.

“Presently, they met a hermit sitting on a rock, holding a lantern.

“Excuse me, Sir,” Amber said to the hermit. “We are looking for a white bird.”

“Oh, yes. The white bird,” the old man replied. “Lives on top of that mountain. See that cliff – yonder? That’s where it dwells. High up.”

“What is the bird’s name?” Amber asked.

“The bird has many names. I call it Truth.”

“To whom are you talking?” Phoebe the cat asked of Amber.

“To the hermit,” Amber replied. “Don’t you see him? He’s holding a lantern.”

“No,” said the cat.

At that point, the hermit’s lantern went out. His shadow wandered toward the mountain and disappeared.

Amber and Phoebe the cat also continued toward the mountain. They walked for what seemed like forever toward the great, black stone.

At last, they arrived. They stood at the foot of the mountain.

Amber had noticed along the way that the closer they came to the mountain, the more tired Phoebe had become. The cat’s life was draining away as they approached the home of the white bird. Phoebe had lost her royal posture: her wobbling limbs could no longer support a regal stance. Her once dazzling eyes were dim.

Amber’s crystal lit up the entire side of the mountain, which was completely smooth.

The cat had fallen. She lay on her side, looking up, knowing she could never climb the mountain.

Phoebe the mighty huntress wanted more than life itself to catch a glimpse of the white bird called Truth.

Just then, Amber saw a white feather floating down, down, down. It landed on Phoebe’s eyes, just as they were closing.

“Truth?” whispered Amber.

“Many moments,” meowed the cat. And then she purred, “Oh-m-m-m-m, Oh-m-m-m-m, Oh-m-m-m-m.”

“Oh no. Now what will I do?” asked Amber. “This cat looks like Fred looked when he di-di-di … ,” she couldn’t say the word.

“Bird!” Amber shouted. “If you are here – give me a sign!”

Amber had to free her hands to try to make the cat get up and in the process, she set the crystal on the cat’s tummy.

“All of a sudden, a blaze of light lit up the whole countryside!

Where the cat had been, a fountain threw water toward the sky! The whole area was as bright as an August afternoon.

What a beautiful land it was – full of fruit trees and vines!

Birds flew from tree to tree and a great, white bird swooped down into the fountain, came up with the crystal in its beak, and dropped the crystal at Amber’s foot. The bird soared away toward the mountain peak and Amber stood, listening to the crystal.

It was tinkling again.

Then, from the crystal came a voice:

Here at the Fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some Fruit-tree’s mossy root,
Casting the Bodie’s Vest aside,
My Soul into the boughs does glide:
There like a Bird it sits, and sings,
Then whets, and combs its silver Wings;
And, till prepar’d for longer flight,
Woves in its plumes the various Light.

Anonymous, from “Lineaments of Faerie,” Muses and Young, p. 410.

(copyright 2007, Robin Jenkins)

Amber Trips the Light Fantastic

By Robin Jenkins

CHAPTER 1

The Spider and the Fly

A beam of sunshine raced through the windowpane and Amber watched the particles bounce and float. She shut her eyes and thought, “Nap, nap, nap,” as she watched spots of yellow and red and blue change shapes against the blackness of her closed eyelids.

 ”Nap is almost over. Time to get up … in five minutes or seven or ten. Why do grown-ups make children take naps?” she wondered. “Are we supposed to be sleepy in the afternoon because we are small (which I am not)? Two minutes, three minutes, eight minutes. When will the nap be over so I can stop wasting time – get up, get up and live? If we were supposed to sleep in the afternoon, the Sun would go out for twenty minutes or forty minutes or whatever it is that is a nap.”

Trying to stay awake, Amber looked at the golden elephant clock on the wall. The time was exactly 2:37 in the afternoon.

The clock was from Thailand and Amber had it in her room since Christmas because her mother said it was too gaudy for the living room.

“Mom thinks you’re a piece of junk because you’re only gold plastic, but I love you,” she whispered to the clock.

There was a butterfly on the second-hand that noisily ticked away the seconds. Listening to the ticking of the butterfly was making Amber sleepy. She rubbed her eyes and saw kaleidoscopic patterns in beautiful colors behind her eyelids.

I wish I could turn into something different, the way the caterpillar turns into a butterfly,” she thought. I would travel through time all around the world and turn into a girl on the other side of the world.”

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,” said the clock.

“I could turn into anything,” whispered Amber.

The eyelid circus began to slow down and Amber felt dizzy, as if she had been spinning in circles.

Just then, a fly buzzed near her ear and she was going to turn over with her eyes shut and spin down the tunnel of sleep, when she thought she heard a very faint voice say, “Hey you – don’t go to sleep – B-Z-Z-Z-Z. I wanna show ya sumthin’, show ya sumthin’, B-Z-Z-Z.”

“Okay,” whispered Amber, “Show me,” and suddenly she was bobbing around on a little piece of dust, bumping into other little pieces of dust, just like the bumper cars at the fair.

She heard a loud noise like the noise the airplanes make when they take off. She looked around and saw a fly as big as a helicopter. It had two gigantic eyes.

 ”O-o-o-h!” she cried and fell off her chunk of dust. But the fly simply slipped his beautiful, translucent wing underneath her falling body. Then, using the same wing, he flipped her onto his back, so she was riding the fly as if it were an elephant.

“Hang onto my hairs,” he said. “Hold onto them like they were reins and you won’t fall off.”

“Yuk,” Amber said, but she did it very quickly, wrinkling her nose.

“Predjudice,” said the fly. People ride elephants all the time and they’re hairy just like me, but nobody has ever squashed an elephant in his hand, or smashed him to mush with a rolled-up newspaper because he or she thought the elephant was dirty – even when the elephant was unbathed and not smelling very fresh at all. Can you give me one single example of elephant-squashing ever having happened?”

“No, Mr. Fly,” Amber said thoughtfully, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing. But now that you mention it, elephants do have a reputation for being clean, since they shower themselves with their trunks.”

“You may call me Mr. Diptera,” said the fly as he beat his wings rapidly while buzzing around a garbage can.

“Diptera is how the educated of your kind classifies my kind. Diptera is my class. Class is the opposite of crass.

“Anyway, back to the elephant. An elephant, due to its size, is bound to be dirtier than I am,” Mr. Diptera said proudly.

“The elephant may shower, but only if he gets the opportunity. The elephant is considered a beast of burden because he is large and carries packages for mankind. But I am considered a burden of a beast because I am small and annoying to mankind. I live in places mankind does not like and eat the food that mankind hates to smell.

“So my kind is despised, persecuted and trapped on fly paper; whereas the elephant is made into a hero, even into a god called Ganesh in India. It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair,” Mr. Diptera said with sadness and conviction.

He buzzed around a vine in bloom as if searching for something. He landed on a big, white flower and said, “This is my home. Welcome.”

“Oh, what a lovely place to live,” Amber said.

“For a fly,” said Mr. Diptera. “Come on, tell me the truth, that is what you were thinking, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” Amber said, “I’m sorry.”

“Watch out for the spider web,” said Mr. Diptera. “It’s very sticky.”

“Oh–oh–oh!” Amber cried. “Spiders? Oh, no! Flies are bad enough! Excuse me, Sir – but spiders – I just can’t stand! – I’m so little – what if it gets me?”

“Don’t be afraid, Dear,” Mr. Diptera said. “The spider can’t hurt you. Nothing will harm you.”

Amber had run to the fly and he comforted her, just like her mother did when she was scared at home. She stood, shaking, beneath his wing and he said, over and over again, “Do not be afraid.. There is nothing in the world, in any world, to be afraid of.”

“Any world?” Amber asked, “What do you mean?”

“First, let us have some refreshment,” said the fly. “Would you care for a flowerful nectar? It’s very sweet and refreshing.”

He rolled his big eyes and Amber noticed they were made up of many little eyes. She thought he must have been able to see an awful lot.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, looking in every direction.

Amber stared. Were those the eyes of a trustworthy fly?

“Who saved you from falling off the dust particle?” asked Mr. Diptera.

“You did,” Amber said.

“And from taking a nap?”

“Oh, yes,” Amber said, “A fate worse than death.”

“Not necessarily, My Dear,” said the fly. “Whether sleep is worse than death or death is worse than sleep, I cannot say. But I can tell you this – Everything is good. Can you tell me if you are asleep or awake right now?”

Amber squinted her eyes and turned her mouth upside-down. If she were asleep, how could she be so much awake? Yet, if she were awake, how could she be talking to a gigantic fly?

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“So you do trust me,” the fly said.

“What else is there to do?” Amber answered.

“You’re a very logical young lady,” Mr. Diptera said. “Do you know how to spell my name? Look it up.”

Amber sat alone on the big, soft, white flower petal that smelled even better than her mother’s perfume. She saw some ants in a caravan, carrying huge bread crumbs. “Ants,” she thought, “Oh, no – ants sting!“

She was just getting up to step on the ants when a breeze knocked her down and she realized – to her astonishment – that the ants in this world were as large as the truck that had held all the furniture in her family’s house when her family had moved from Brick Street to Rose Street. Step on these ants? No way in this world! Why, she wondered, as she smiled at them and they waved their antennae in return, had she ever wanted to do such a thing in the first place?

Then she remembered she had been afraid of their stings.

Maybe Mr. Diptera was right when he said people respected elephants only because they were so big.

The air around her started to vibrate and roar. Mr. Diptera was landing. The flower petal shook and her hair blew in the breeze.

He handed her a flower half-her-size. “Pull off the bottom,” he said, “And drink. When you’ve had enough, just plug it up with the stalk. It’s honeysuckle. I had to look all over to get one small enough for you.”

After their refreshment, they sat and gazed at the sky and clouds, the big, green leaves, the flowers and the dirt below.

“Mr. Diptera,” Amber said, “I am wondering what you meant when you said there is nothing in any world to fear. How many worlds are there?”

“Good question, My Girl,” said the fly. “As many as you can imagine and more. There is no end. They never run out. But, in the universe, all worlds turn toward one. They’re all made up of the same thing.”

“What is that?”

“What are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“When you know what you are, then you will know what all the worlds are. There is the world of mankind that you already know a little bit about because you are a little girl – now. There is the world of insects that you are learning about – a little bit – because you are now in our world. There is the world of the elephant (Mr. Diptera sneered slightly) that you probably have known but don’t remember. There are the worlds of the fairy and the tree, the worlds of dirt, water, air, fire, and light – the worlds of birds, the worlds of metal, and the worlds of stone. Fish have worlds, too.”

“These are earthly worlds so you can understand what I mean when I mention them. But there are many, many others. The important thing to remember about all these worlds – and all the things in each world (and each thing in each world is a world unto itself) is that everything is important. Each has its function.

“Flies, for example, do very important work. We clean up your world, which is our world, too. Ants do the same in a different way. Then there are the smaller bugs – if I may use the term – that are about your size, and some even much, much smaller, that clean up worlds ever-so-tiny.

“We all work and live and die together and do it again and again.”

“Really,” Amber said, wrinkling her brow.

“Take this flower, for instance,” continued the fly. Soon it will turn into a ripe, juicy melon. Then a big human will come along and pick it. He and his family will eat what is left and some of it will go into the ground and the other bugs will make soil from it.

“Then it will be autumn when leaves fall to the earth. Those leaves that haven’t been eaten by bugs will become soil, and eventually so will the bodies of the bugs.

“Then the spring will come, with the rain and the sunlight – and the vine will turn green again. The vine will be fed by the air, especially the air that humans breathe out of their noses and mouths – it is rich in carbon dioxide. (Look up carbon dioxide, along with Diptera.) The vine will be nourished by the water and by the soil.

“In the summer, the human will come along again and pick the melon. The man and his wife and their children will get strength and life from the food, and will the bugs – the insects and the microbes.

“And the Earth will go to sleep, so-to-say, again in the winter and wake up again in the spring as the Earth turns around the Sun, on which we all depend.”

“What about the world of sleep? Amber asked. “I hate to go to sleep but here I am. If I’m asleep, it’s not so bad – but I’m not sure I’m asleep.

“Is death like this? My cat, Fred, died, you know. And I was very sad. Do you think Fred woke up in a new world, like me being here now?”

“Can’t say, My Dear, exactly what happened to Fred. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be sad. As I said before, everything is good.”

“What if it’s scary, like a tarantula?”

“Fear is just another gate you walk through. After you’ve traveled a little more, you’ll know what I mean.”

“Another gate you walk through?”

“Yes, and every world you walk through is a little bit of you, just as you are a part of every world.”

“My word,” said Amber. She stood up and paced around the flower, each time moving closer to the center.

“Fear is a gate we walk through. There are many worlds and they are one and I am them. Am I sunlight or am I night? Asleep or awake?”

She said this again and again as she walked closer and closer to the center of the flower where the flower sloped down, and in she slid.

When she hit bottom, she fell on something shiny. She looked down and saw her own reflection. She stood up and looked for a long, long time, putting her face closer and closer to the mirror until she fell through and started buzzing around.

She looked up and there was the mirror – but she was a fly!

After a while, she calmed down. Having not much else to do except to fly and buzz and beat her wings against the glass, she went back to look at herself. After due consideration, she decided that for a fly and to a fly, she didn’t look half-bad.

“In fact,” she concluded, “I am a rather attractive fly. What pretty fly eyes I have.”

As she pressed her big, fly-eyes – made up of all the little eyes – against the mirror, she fell through again – and was a little girl again.

She looked into the mirror and saw two selves joined at the fingers and the wings: on one side, the little girl, and on the other side, the fly.

The little-girl self began to grow large while the fly self grew small.

The tiny fly self, all-of-a-sudden was caught in a rope!

Something, somewhere was tying up the fly in a rope. She saw a fat, white garden spider move in for the kill.

“Watch out for the spider web,” echoed Mr. Diptera’s voice. “Don’t be afraid,” she heard him say. “The spider can’t hurt you. Nothing can harm you. There is nothing in the world – in any world — to fear.”

“What about scary things, like tarantulas?” she heard herself asking as the spider legs clutched the fly.

“Fear is just another gate you walk through. Do you trust me?”

“What else is there to do?”

The mirror shattered as the little girl grabbed the fly from the spider. She fell again through the mirror and traveled a long, long way on a stream of light of many colors.

Robin Jenkins (copyright 1988, 2007)

Back in 1988, I wrote a piece of children’s literature that I call Amber Trips the Light Fantastic.  It’s a fantasy novel done in the old dream-vision format.  This story is not just for children, but also meant for adults.

The main character Amber is about the age of seven, when children may become aware of the concept of mortality upon losing a beloved pet. 

This book is written for the young adult audience, from the age of 12 and up.  It’s also for adults.

I will publish Amber Trips the Light Fantastic here at Brigits Well in installments.  I reserve all copyrights.

Magical Language of Birds

He insults and yells.
She tunes him out and learns to hear
The magical language of birds.

He screams, turns red, spittle flies
As she builds walls to shut far from near.

The King of Swords rings bells, death knells.

She learns to see kaleidoscopes in trees
And balances on beams of equinox light.

News comes he’s fallen on his sword
While she’s become adept
In the Mystical Language of Accord.

 

Summer Rain

Earth tight and dry
Pressure squeeze down low
Been up way high.

Stuff in seeds and frogs that ain’t been
Go movin’ round.

Man and woman be sweaty
And he look at her and gleam. She know.

Big Sky Roar.

Cats be scatter.

Summer
Rain
Pour.