The Luniferous Gazette #16: The Odd-day Motto

 Today is not a day to make beds

  

 *Photo of our (late) first adopted elder cat, Baby.

 

 The Odd-day 
Motto

Today
is not a day
to make beds

(I knew it the minute
I woke up).

Today
is not a day
for the order of things,
erudition or ponderous
philosophies—

Today
I shall live
a mess on purpose.

I wrote this poem many years ago, and the older I get, the more sense it makes to me. Perhaps that is also why my grammie, Nancy Anne, pinned this silly little poem onto her fridge until it was nothing but a faded paper scrap. She understood that some days are odd days out. 

Sometimes life gets to be overwhelming, and smiling in person and curating sparklestars online feels painfully performative while cinders pile up in the mind and heart. This poem is a reminder to myself that it is all right to have days where you just don’t try.

You rest.

You let the bed stay unmade. Wrinkles and chaos are inescapable, after all! And while it might mean life is imperfect and messy sometimes, rest is a raft, and that is worthy of our effort, too. 

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #15: The Ancient Sparkle of the Herkimer Diamond

Everyone has a birthstone. But in my family, there is a stone that comes even before that in importance—a Herkimer Diamond. Technically, it is a type of quartz from upstate New York, regaled as the clearest and most lovely, a 7.5 on the Mohs scale of hardness instead of 7.0 like regular quartz as a local explained to me. This crystal is “doubly terminated,” which means it is faceted on both ends, and is strong enough to cut even glass. Fancy.

 

 *A Herkimer Diamond cut into a “Kiss Drop” faceted shape.

When my mother and father married, they tied their fates together with a Herkimer diamond necklace. My father grew up on the East Coast going on mining trips to dig up stones (including geodes and Herkimer diamonds) and had a lifelong passion for all types of minerals. My mother wore the solitaire crystal that he gave her on their wedding day and kept it in a little jewelry box even after its post broke. Years later, the little stone eventually went missing, which really saddened my mother. She was not a huge jewelry wearer, but that one pendant was special to her.

I stopped at Gems Along the Mohawk on a family road trip to New York earlier this month. In a way, it felt like a mini pilgrimage to the beginning of my parents’ story—one that would eventually grow to include my siblings and I, too. This large shopping and visitor center sits beside the Mohawk River. Now, if we had arrived earlier in the day, perhaps we could have booked a river boat trip. But we were there for a sole purpose, anyway: to bask in the concentrated, collective glory of Herkimer Diamonds.

My breath was quite taken away by this (I believe it was 5k?) Herkimer Diamond bonsai tree. If I were ever to become inordinately wealthy, I would be tempted to place one such bedazzling beauty in every window!

Now, one may go on mining excursions in Herkimer to dig up your very own prize crystal, but I’m over forty and was not in the mood for such a muddy expedition. I wanted the already curated sparkle experience—and the excellent pair of shop owners there certainly provided that for their customers and visitors. From them, I learned that Herkimer diamonds can only be found in this one single location on Earth.

When you hold a Herkimer diamond, you’re grasping something that is 500 million-years-old from “the shallow Cambrian sea that once lapped against the southern shores of the ancestral Adirondack mountains” (*Wisdom gleaned from the historical printout kindly provided at the shop).

When I hold a Herkimer Diamond in my hand, I feel like I’m marveling at that last little mote of light from Fantasia that the Child-like Empress cradles in her palm like a precious dream. 

The most flawless Herkimer diamonds are usually no larger than half an inch, a jam-packed glitter-fest that catches and holds the least slant of light in its facets! I guess that is what I like best about them: they’re tiny packets of gleam that refuse to be stamped out by time. 

I didn’t purchase the 5k Herkimer Diamond tree, but this thirty dollar version of crystal perfection will lend a most becoming spark to any windowsill: 

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #14: Here Are Only Stars

~*~ 

Here are only stars

There are no dandelions

The trees were saying.

As someone who is wont to meander into purple prose, I don’t write haiku often as I find them challenging to truly ink what I wish in a format of such compact elegance. However, this little poem from Tangible Creatures is one of my favorite attempts at capturing a single idea in a 5-7-5 syllabic structure. 

 

I wrote it in answer to a call for haiku submissions years ago, and while the poem was rejected, sometimes I find myself repeating it softly like a mantra of sorts—

Here are only stars . . .  

 

For like the shadow dapple of light on leaf, our perception can suddenly shift. A seemingly dull reality startles our eyes with hidden gleam—

There are no dandelions
The trees were saying . . . 

And so a humble weed may reveal an innate star, moon, and sun bound together in one, wondrous lifeform. A singular timespan in “The Teeth of the Lion!”

Dandelions have been alternately used, prized, discarded and despised by the human species for thousands of years. Yet they persist despite our various opinions of their worth, radiant in their own vivid purpose. 

As a dear friend recently reminded me, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” The wisdom of Eleanor Roosevelt blooms boldly in the dandelion. 

I would live with such stubborn rays of courage spilling from my being and escaping my fear-bound silhouette. What a thing to be free as a filament! Even a quavering wish seed dares to dream sometimes, too. 

*Fantastic wallpaper from our favorite brunch place that has me rethinking my dislike of such adornment.

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #13: Message to a Poet I'll Never Meet

 Thank you, Carmen

My very first published poem was in Inscape Journal. I remember I was terribly disappointed that the journal switched from print to an online format only with my issue as this meant I would have no physical copy to treasure and share with others. 

However, I’m grateful that an online archive has been maintained, because that is how I am able to discuss this marvelous 2011 poem by Carmen Sophia Cutler, “A Wider Universe than Yesterday.”

  

The poem opens with a cosmic bang with the sudden personal revelation, “There are, now, worlds coming into being” in the same amount of time it would take one to consume “a peach.”

According to the Almighty Google, the Earth is “181,944 times larger than the diameter of an average peach.” Yet this poem explores how even the mundane act of eating this small golden orb can spangle the human imagination to the edge of creation. 

The playful juxtaposition between a humble fruit and the birth of planets spurs Cutler to declare, “What immeasurable options knitting the stars.” The sensory overload of this sidereal realization elicits a more jubilant cry from deeper within—

“alleluia, alleluia
in voices too sweet for sound.” 

Then, the poet adds a single italicized line that reminds us of Mary’s timid, but hopeful inquiry in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s beloved work, The Secret Garden: 

"may I have a bit of earth?"

The reader is drawn back to the garden, to stellar nurseries, to beginnings, as Cutler reframes her mortal journey in a fragile dance of human limbs:

“because I have been practicing—
balancing books on my perfect princess head.”

Aren’t we all practicing, too? And dropping books right and left! Yet still, we pick up the pieces of the day, the shards of ourselves, and try again. 

Maybe I’m overthinking this poem. Maybe I’ll never catch every facet no matter how many times I roll all the lines over in my head. I’m just glad I stumbled upon such a jewel in the ink! And I hope more people will read and love it now, as well. 

I would be grateful to one day send the author a note of thanks for the lasting impression their poem has left on me after all these years, but so far, I have been unsuccessful in that regard. 

It’s a curious thing in this digital age to wonder just how many humans cast their most precious words out into the online ocean, never knowing who will find their fragile bottle of soul glass. Or who will unravel the coiled scraps tucked inside and read each glimmering syllable in quiet wonder. 

It’s also strange and unsettling to think about just how easy it is for all these cyber ribbons of brilliance to vanish when an online publication shuts down. I’ve lost more than one published poem to sudden virtual death . . . . 

Life is still shockingly ephemeral despite the powerful digital glow that lulls us under its trance with promises of eternal recordance/remembrance. Nothing is forever in the entire universe. The last luscious bite of a peach, the wide orbit of a world, the implosion of a star—the whole of every experience is bound by linear time. 

And the random gift of words from one complete stranger to another who will likely never, ever meet on this Earth? Pretty amazing. I hope I never take for granted that we live in such an Age of Astonishments! So thank you, Carmen, for the gift of your stelliferous poem. 

Work Cited

Cutler, Carmen Sophia (2011). “A Wider Universe Than Yesterday.” Inscape Journal.
<https://inscape.byu.edu/2011/11/16/a-wider-universe-than-yesterday/>

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The Luniferous Gazette #12: Lessons from a Faceless Cameo

 When the Stone Bent the River

“One Thought, Fills Immensity.” –William Blake

I live by a river that isn’t quite ten thousand years old yet. Periodically, it floods its banks and leaves behind debris in the cracked earth. One year, the water receded and left behind a curious marvel locked in the mud like a homely gem: 

A single stone had carved a rippling wake of dirt behind it, refusing to relinquish its spot to the raging currents. This drab lump of rock would hardly be noticed nestled in the soft and tender grass blades. Nor was it the least bit dazzling by human standards of mineral glamor! 

But lodged squarely in the muck, this stubborn stone took on a metaphorical glimmer that my mind could not ignore, reminding me:

Hold your spot. 

Sometimes when the news smacks me with waves of inescapable doom and dire forecasts of future gloom, I feel like it won’t be long now before I crumble into a pile of cowardly pebbles. Pftt! AGAIN? I disintegrate into melancholic particles with the dust of the day. 

The same day that my mother unexpectedly died about seventeen years ago, I was feeling grumpy and out of sorts. She hugged me, and said, “You’ve got to have a firm mind.” Those were her very last words to me before she left for dialysis and passed away from a sudden blood clot. 

Mom, I’m trying, but some days—

No human can escape this feeling in life, because it’s simply the pain of a mind taking up space, form, and breath. But this muddy little stone? Such a dull gray jewel—ungleaming, and yet unyielding. It held its own spot against the impossible eddies, anyway. 

And maybe, our own spot feels very small and buried under smothering layers and fierce currents sometimes. Hold out anyway, Little One-off! There will never be another clump of carbon shaped exactly like so. Like you, star dustling. 

And while one may never feel shiny or steadfast enough to face each day, even the quietest presence does not go unmarked in the world. Our track is wider than we will ever fully know under this mortal spell—wider than wings.  

 

Faceless cameo,
You never needed a name.
You hold your true worth.

 
~*~

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The Luniferous Gazette #11: Thirty Earths Away From You

 Moon Above, Me Below 

Moon above,

I know you’re just

a dead pearl

orbiting the earth,

no life in your dust,

only frozen water

pockets and craters

deep as oceans

of stone shadows,

and yet—

We humans give you

a thousand names

and legends, we whisper

our wishes to you in

the night and imagine

you blessing them silver

in your heart before

sending them back to us,

here on Earth—

But I know

we ground-bound beings

will never match your

airy purity, even if

we seize your matchless

cool heights in the heavens,

we will always remain

doomed by the gravity

of our own thoughts.

I would ask you

how blissful it is

to float free and

unencumbered

by blood, brain or bone,

but you have no mouth,

no lunar maw for hunger

or celestial hate, only

the quiet serenity of a crisp

and uncaring, ultimately

unknowable orb.

Thank you

for shining down

on me.

You don’t need

to say anything—

merely, beam

as you were,

sheen as you are,

moon above,

me below. 

Sometimes you can feel a poem coming on like a storm front. Every bone in your body aches with tectonic weight. All the things you truly want to say garble and gravel in your mouth. You feel like your heart might wrench and shudder to a stop in your chest with just one more beat. And then the ink gushes onto the page in keenest relief, the most sacred words racing free first—

Moon above. 

I’m forever grateful for the moon’s companionship, a shining constant throughout humankind’s earliest memories and records. Technically, our lunar satellite is ever so slowly slipping away from Earth’s orbit at a rate of about one and half inches per year (*until it becomes tidally locked some fifty billion years from now). But I know that at least for my tiny blip of a life span, the moon will always shine with familiar closeness as it tugs at the sea foam like a blanket—tugging free secrets that lie deeper than marrow, too. 

 

In gazing upon this imperturbable sphere, I subconsciously give it my calm; the peace I cannot always carry in my mortal frame. For sometimes, when pain is reduced to its basest form, only a shivering silence remains—a quiet that the silver rays of the moon purify beyond even the gentle gravity of tears.

The full moon rolls across the horizon like a pearl, and really, these two orbs are not so unlike. A pearl exists only because of damage when an irritant is trapped and layered over with a relentless aura of iridescence. The moon, too, is the product of an incandescent synestia sparked by the violent destruction of a young Earth, a visible wound just wider than a thousand miles. In their essence, both the moon and a pearl are identical twins, damage-born.

The moon mirrors the daylight in softer hues. Yet it also draws the wildest whims from humans by reflecting our mind’s light, illuminating all our wishes from the inside-out—even the ones we’ve forgotten how to speak aloud on Earth. 

According to NASA, the distance in miles between our planet and the moon is roughly thirty Earths. Yet sometimes, that incredible distance seems almost bridgeable by foot!

Perhaps my favorite memory of the moon rests in a one-hundred-year-old farm in Utah. My family only rented the home there for one year as the owner later sold the property to a company that bulldozed it to make shoddy subdivisions with high plastic white fences. But between the ages of 12-13, the vast field with a gnarled orchard behind the house was my favorite playground. And one night, the moon rose purple as a magical amethyst over this childhood field of dreams.

I didn’t know then that atmospheric conditions were at play with this ethereal trick of light. It seemed as if a portal to another dimension was opening overhead, perhaps to Narnia or Middle Earth! My sisters and I ran like feral ghosts through the field, howling up at this strange purple moon (*The sugar rush from A&W Root Beers might’ve also contributed to this sudden spike of euphoria). There was no one to tell us to be quiet. No one watching but the glowing orb above. Cloaked in the moon-bright night air, it felt as if one mighty leap would take me all the way to this mysterious jewel in the sky!

And if one day, humanity ceases to exist on Earth whether by our own catastrophe or the random sidereal whims of the universe, perhaps the collective psychic imprint of all our wishes and dreams will linger in the selenic dust. Perhaps some other minds will read these whispers, and cherish everything we once loved and lost, too. 

 

*If you enjoyed this poem, you might also enjoy the ink scribblings 

in my debut poetry collection, Tangible Creatures. 

 

~*~

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The Luniferous Gazette 10: A Substack Party at Cinderella's Corner

You are Cordially Invited to Attend . . .

“In my own little corner in my own little chair
I can be whatever I want to be.”

Lyrics By Oscar Hammerstein II 
Music By Richard Rodgers

I grew up listening to Brandy sing Rodger & Hammerstein’s Cinderella melody “In My Own Little Corner” on replay. There was a familiar comfort and magic in watching her dream-croon beside her little corner chair. Tucked away from the wide world, Cinderella was free to imagine every adventurous impossibility with full glitz and glamor.

I’ve come to realize that Substack is my little corner chair in cyberspace. I’m truly grateful for this platform, which allows me to drop a multimodal smorgasbord of random audio-visual elements, and PDFs like I’m the Crown Princess of the Greater Pedantic Empire! And let’s not forget the fancy formatting for prickmedainty poetry: *(See my Substack Post for all the extras)

Starry Untold

Shy star, quiet star, beaming in the dark!

Don’t shadow and dim even when
none marvel under your light,
Don’t cry if no gaze ever
catches your secret
blaze and slant—  

You are the starry untold,
but not unwritten,
the story bleeding
bright ink wishes
without a wisp of
gathered glory— 

So trail your embers
far and wide as
wings dare
take you.

*

Pure ink fun however I choose to share it. While I’m not the most tech-savvy person, I’m enjoying experimenting with the many features available on Substack.

And today, I’m celebrating the first ten posts of The Luniferous Gazette! Perhaps an entire cake might be a little premature, but a petite crystal slice seems an ample treat for my efforts—  

Mmm, just a subtle hint of Swarovksi sparklestars. 

So far, this weekly newsletter challenge has pushed me to dabble in such disparate subjects as ash diamonds, synestias, errant drops of cream, and holographic beasties. I feel like I’m getting back in touch with a lost spirit of curiosity that was finely ground to cinders by the weariness of adulthood.  

My mother homeschooled my sisters and I for much of our childhood education, requiring us to turn in a short story and a poem every Friday. Unfortunately, the only surviving material that I could locate was a water-logged booklet that my father compiled and gave to our grandparents at Christmas:

*Purrito graces this photo with his fluffy paw.

Clearly, I am no Judith Shakespeare (nor am I sure why I considered myself such an authority on the athletic activities of spirits). But while my creative ink might’ve been a mediocre mess, I still credit these weekly assignments for getting me thinking. Inking. Dreaming—

And in the spirit of trying new things on Substack, I present my very first comic:

Whatever your dream, I wish you brightness in your little corner of the world. Oh, and a pixie’s wishing penny for luck! 

 

 

~*~

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