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Persephone will celebrate the Spring
and disappear in Winter's cold embrace.
Does Hades bring her flowers, does he sing,
or dance with her, with unexpected grace?

A kidnapped bride: does this myth show its age?
And if so, what? Does Hades have to go,
get cancelled, booed right off his hellish stage,
with Gaia, Zeus, accomplices in tow?

Is it a myth of love, or lust, or hell?
It's hard to understand through modern eyes.
The ancient Greek who sought to share, to tell,
of seasons changing, and of Hades' prize,

did he expect that someday we'll recoil?
He likely couldn't. I'll provide the foil.

Author notes: Image from Pinterest

Victoria falls
only to pick herself up
as the Zambesi

The sarong, in the breeze, becomes a wing.
Soon, she lifts upwards, and below, the sand
plays footsie with the waves as sirens sing,
until exhausted, she is forced to land.
Tomorrow, she'll be back here, for the dawn.
Apollo there to welcome her, and yawn.

Author notes: image from stock.adobe.com

What a bike I had  -- when chasing -- geese across a nearby field
I remember, my heart racing, gravity appeared to yield
and I'd take off, in formation, answering to every bawl
flapping hands in sheer elation.

Until mother came to call.

Author notes: image from vecteezy.com

she told me: I will not grow old, matter of factlly, distant, cold
I didn't care: those crimson lips promised eternal bliss
and now as my bones bend and break, I understand what was at stake
and as her eyes, unflinching, scorn, I beg for just one kiss

Author notes: image from cbc.ca

Why do monsters choose the attic
and the shade under your bed?
Surely there are more dramatic
places they could hide instead?
Some will choose an old broom closet
and I've heard one scholar posit
that the real monsters hide
not outside you, but inside

heads or tails
the coin is spinning
and refuses to commit
courage fails
just what is winning
probabilities are split

scripted chaos
but the future
is immutable -- the past
it betrays us
cut and butchered
and the coin, it rests, at last

Steep highlands trail. A giant thistle,
proud head, and thorny, purple crown.
I bend to look at it: it bristles:
"Who is this stranger in my town!"

"Beg pardon, Majesty", I utter,
and step back gingerly, transfixed.
The foxgloves, still seized of the matter
seek to evict me from their midst.

A bumblebee descends to hover,
and guard the monarch with its life.
Wind in its back, the jealous lover,
is dancing to the whistling fife.

Two, three steps back, the sunset beckons,
a hint of rain is in the air.
Time ticks again; its precious seconds
remind me: I'm no longer there.

"Stay with me", he begged. "Stay, for when you're gone,
I shall have to be man again, no longer at home in this
magical forest."
So she stayed with him, and the snow sparkled with her
gentle smile, and the trees lit the forest: eerie, cold torches.
And so he sang of his love for her. And the owl listened.

Author notes: image from tarotbycecelia.com

beg and borrow, said the sparrow
but I will not eat this worm
and the seagull, she's no eagle
though she's braver in a storm

both will eat your crumbs, and merry
while disdaining fruit and berry
catch you sitting, unawares
grab leftovers as if theirs

I will feed the little darlings
be they cardinals or starlings
keep an eye out for the hawks
and the squirrels they outfox

but the hummingbird, she hovers
foxgloves giving her a treat
when they kiss, like absent lovers
and the nectar, just as sweet

life is what happens
before death becomes a thought
rest is memories

When Satan tempted Eve into that bite
was Love his inspiration, or was Lust?
No stranger to sheer obstinance and spite,
did he rebel, or, doing as he must,
perform as God commanded? Old as sin,
the moral of the story hides within.

Author notes: image from owlcation.com longer version: https://allpoetry.com/poem/16533062-Original-Sin-by-Coolmails