How the Peacock Got His Tail or The Night Has a Hundred Eyes, a Hundred Eyes, but None Do See

In mythology, the story of Zeus, Hera, Io, and Argus is a tale of lust, trickery, death, and honor.  In brief, jealous Hera turned Zeus's lover Io into a white heifer and set the hundred-eyed watchman Argus to guard her. Hermes, a god known for trickery, lulled Argus to sleep by playing music on a reed and by telling monotonous tales. Zeus was able to recover Io, and Hera placed a hundred eyes in the tail of her favorite bird in tribute to Argus.

This tale of the tail is written for the April 1 d'Verse prompt to write about an animal. That's my recently created artwork up there, so I have peacocks on my mind (obviously). Why? I don't know. Why not?

How the Peacock Got His Tail

or 

the night has a hundred eyes, a hundred eyes, but none do see

One hundred eyes to guard the prize,

But every eye did close.

As Argus fell to Hermes' spell

That lulled him to repose;

And Zeus did laugh to take the calf,

Sweet Io, from his queen;

The watchman gave his life to save

Hera's pride supreme.

And Hera, moved by gratitude,

Although the fight she lost,

Placed the eyes to memorialize

Poor Argus and the cost.

The peacock's fan, to modern man,

A thing of rare beauty;

In ancient days, a tribute made

To eyes that no more see.

C is

C is


The worm in the apple,
A poison blooming,
Anchored, spreading roots.
I am become Amazon,
Shooting down the fruit.

Prune this garden;

Slice and shrink,
Burn everything away!
Burn the worm from his house.
Burn all except the wood
And the spirit of the wood.

Leave the spirit of the wood
For future fire.

A is for

A is for


Low hanging, ripe
Congregation of seeds,
Pulp and skin.
Maligned, medicinal,
Sultry, drowsy
Sweetness.
Sticky nectar, rolling
At the feet of the gods.

Demeter Mourns Her Loss

DEMETER MOURNS HER LOSS



She spreads her hands
where she stands; treads
through sands that shift
beneath the drift of Time's
lifted breath; she sifts
for gold -- for days of old --
but finds she holds only chaff,
chaff that is damp and cold.

winter tarry

Small creatures
shoulder stones
of sundered sky;

even Atlas could not try

the weight they carry,

nor Zeus himself

nudge Gaia’s fertile thigh

to set in flight

their huddled winter tarry.

Before He Fell

But still, he blames

The Flemish

For the reviews –

A splash unnoticed,

Not even front page news,

Just drama in an empty house,

Tragedy undetected.

While ploughmen

Plod along the pit,

The player is neglected.

His ears still ring with hisses;

His neck still feels the cane.

In muffled wet soliloquy,

He soggily declaims,

“Remember, master Bruegel

And your ilk, before you

Stroked me dead to please a guild,

Before you made me food for fish

And fixed my legs in blue,

Commanders of opinion, think on this:

Before I fell,

I flew.