where the writers are
Sky Wedding

May 25th, 2009 Sky Wedding

Dearly beloved, we gather together on this summer’s night to celebrate a union. Observe there are no chairs. The lawn is strewn with blankets. Please choose one which suits you. Lye back and view our natural lighting, black velvet glittered with stars. Listen, natures orchestra just arrived, frog bassoons and whippoorwill violins, flying from trees to hands and nesting there like wild poetry.

On our blankets, the world proposes. An onyx sky flecked with diamonds, the ring. Proudly wear your jewels, for you are now married to eternity. Until death do us part does not apply. Who’s to say when we depart we are not flung into the sky? Permanent jewels at long last.

Flaming up night.

And by day, lolling on soft cloudy beds.

Look at the billions of stars! Shall we not all gather there? The wild ones, streaking, bold blinking, meek, holding down sky as they held down earth. Finally coming into your own, you crazy, exotic stars.

On earth the lucky are flushed from obscurity, you embedding them on lavish settings, the self imposed coal admiring and polishing them. They sparkle and sparkle, yet desire more. When earth opens its mouth, there they are, rioting with gleam, you mesmerized.  Move along unaware jewel. Prepare yourself for unveiling.

The earth awaits your fanciful arrival. Sky sees your vivid hues and says shine. It knows who you are and has admired you for the longest time. Diamonds, like stars, belong to all.

I now pronounce you men, women and destiny. Night sky makes the declaration, stars sliding over.

3 Comment count
Comment Bubble Tip

Sky Weeding

The Sleepy Gardener wakes up from a full day’s rest. Again. He sits up on his cloudy duvet and yawns, a mouthful of star-studded teeth flicker and sparkle. He takes them out and flings them into the sky where they belong with his other discarded teeth. New ones grow back instantly. We watch, our own mouths agape in a kiss. Our own mint fresh stars stay stuck in our gums.

“Open wide! Say, Ah!”

The clouds part as the weeding commences. A strong wind blows from here and there. The earth tumbles in confusion as gravity hugs us fiercely. We hug back with our feet. As usual. The weeding continues as we lie back on our picnic blanket in the park. A gecko dines al fresco on a freshly-filled mosquito, proud and drunkenly unaware of the kamikaze nature of its last bloodthirsty mission.

“Bozz Mozee zed I waz za bezt of ze bezt! Zis geko iz nozing to me! I laugh in the faze of dangerz!” The last buzzing words of the mosquito. The spot on my ankle where she made the unwelcome withdrawal hasn’t started itching yet. We’re still kissing each others’ teeth. All bumpy and hard enamel. My tongue counts each tooth again like woodpecker without a beak.

The night sky is not a tabula rasa. Rather a Rosetta Stone of signs and symbols that we all read any which way we like. The Busy Gardener is continually weeding out the old, and the diseased, but the greedy black holes remain unseen and untouched by any of us. As star after star is moved or removed so too do the men and women feel themselves diminished or changed in some way. The garden of stars above is shifting and tilting. The garden of humanity has a different destiny. As star-weed and soul-weed are both plucked and pruned, they change places. We are no angels. We are old stars, died and gone to earth. Our soul family up there wink and laugh at our ignorance. We laugh and wink back at theirs.

The Sleepy Gardener is tired of all this weeding and makes his bed in the clouds of chance again. We don’t see any of this. Our eyes are closed, full of diamonds, full of neon dreams, and full of everything we want to be and do and see and feel.

My own teeth are unaware of the weeding going on above and within as the dentist removes tooth after stubborn tooth. I feel nothing as the drugs knocked me out earlier. That’ll teach me to brush my teeth more regularly. I wake up with echoes and absences. The holes in my mouth, the dead teeth in my hands. I fling them at the Tooth Fairy. She catches them and puts them back up there in the sky where they belong.

I am the Sleepy Gardener and it’s time to do some weeding. Join me?

Comment Bubble Tip

The great Irish poet William

The great Irish poet William Butler Yeats comes to mind - ''And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon The golden apples of the sun'' The Song of Wandering AEngus

Comment Bubble Tip

On weeding and great Irish poets


Enjoyed your spin. The descriptions were rain forest lush. Thanks for not only stopping by but leaving such pretties strewn around.


Love Yeats! His poetry is heaven sent. I would like to grow up and be a tenth of Yeats. Thank you for sharing that!