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More Tender Mystery

By Rebecca Jane

PROMPT — Despite ...

He promised their minds would birth new stars then pushed her off the flight over the Eastern Abyss of Abuse. She landed on her feet, confided in a white mouse at a mountain monastery. The creature scurried away, making off with her élan and muting her mystery. She lived alongside sleepy sages who made up no small secrets to conceal.

Years later, her readers complained the poems she wore were too revealing.

She wore skimpy lyrics, hoping someone would ask what she longed to reveal, that nerves sent toxic missives, muscles tensed up a storm, cells simulated dead stars. O the life she could have lived but for the load of harm his arms forced her to conceal. Crowds leaned ears to a meathead’s infectious affection for pain-imbibing abuse. No one noticed a biosphere fading in the radiance of false mystery. If possible, she’d have made it a rule: only mice, no men, allowed in her monastery. Ages passed, insects and birds nested and hatched in the abandoned monastery. The poetess had since turned to stone, petrified by true beauty forbidden to be revealed. Wind and fire danced on altars without giving a flying fig for divinity-defying mystery. The dark night of the song’s last wail filled ritual bowls with a riot of stars. Where there was once human touch, there was mist and dew; there was no abuse. Or, who knows? Do forces of nature and light years have private disgrace to conceal? Earth’s love language turned high wind with eyes so silent they kept cores concealed. She liked a good tornado with enough strength to launch that crumbling monastery. Its walls flew off and rushed through clouds to mix with rain, rejoiced the End of Abuse. When dust settled, the sun stretched out its beams to tickle up ocean floor revelation. She laughed her ashes off and heaved more sacred sites, raged cyclones to reach stars. A new creature slept beneath the surface with primeval bloom and balm in its mystery. Without Latin names for things, without Sanskrit scholars, dust deviated from mystery. The planet grew thirsty, longed for the return of bodies with juicy secrets to conceal. What’s an Earth to do when she’s getting nothing but heat or silence from her Star? She quaked to awaken the new beings; sky called up a new forest green monastery. Now star-crossed scribes sit for hours, envisioning leafy longings only love will reveal. They pluck languages out of thin air, write as rain, no word foreign, no word for abuse.

Euphoria trees grow within pleasure blossoms on an Earth free of abuse. Cheerful monk-genies have golden noiseless bodies hooped in wonder’s mystery. Their air-born babes breathe aerated riddles that logic and magic together reveal. With one thousand ways to greet fresh air and spring dawn, joy is never concealed. When these weightless creatures die, sweet fragrances smoke out the cozy monastery. Every being knows the number and distance, the names and dreams of all the stars.

Light minds promise and deliver, giving birth to celestials, to suns, to moons, to stars. Soft creatures sway bliss love play, and their dances conjure a more tender mystery.


Rebecca Jane works for the Embodied Philosophy, an online school for contemplative studies. She writes poetry and essays from her home in San Diego, California. You can read Rebecca's work on her blog at


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