Taking Nature Inland

by DynamicEquilibrium115

Rating: everyone
Tags: Random, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Princess Luna, Original Character, Other
Length: 4837

Widely varied poetry/short story collection.

A collection of poems and short stories based on a wide variety of topics and subjects.

Published 2014-04-24 02:20:02 UTC
Last updated 2014-06-21 00:58:19 UTC

Taking Nature Inland

The last stop on our journey to the coast where we loped along, deciphering the networks of signs and roadmaps, was where the farmer had stopped us to chat. The earthbound equine, turned out to be an artist, hard hooves prodding sleeping seeds in shallow soil as if to create life once more, moving from dirt and hoe to chisel and carving knife. We fluttered gracefully alongside him above the trail, hard stones and flattened loam denied contact of our bodies, the earthly trotter took little notice, his confident stride pushing him forward, the day passing on. The younger sister’s watch begins, the eye of Celestia descends into the landscape, gems of the great galaxy fill our view, put to shame by Luna’s luminous orb. The farmer keeps going as we prepare to break till the new day light visits our faces, he leaves but expects us tomorrow, our destination will receive us then, for now we rest.

Next day, passing the heavily overgrown spot where he’d said we’d find his studio, we parted the brush and found the sea. There lay exactly the fathoms of our imaginations, splinter wood farmhouse maintained only with love and determination, bare hoof restored with glass in places where wood had given in, all the better, he explained, to see the whales he could depend on, like treasure hunters seeking antiques.

In his studio, countless artistic works of oak and birch origin line the shelves and occupy each empty space, solidly sculpted chunks of lumber sawn off like slices of bread, lacquer glazed over them by hoof as they sit in the sun, new scents carried by the wind like a freshly baked pie and signs of the soul within carved lines, the mesmerizing patterns which one’s gaze falls over, lifting away with rhythms of one’s own choosing.

“They are imperishable,” he boasts, telling of souvenirs sold to seafarers whose vessel floundered in nature’s fury far out at sea, the mementos of the forest washing up intact on the shore days later like the treasure of a pirate galleon banished to the ocean floor many decades ago, uniquely present among a long lost wreck. The trees of this forest are special, he says, the body of a jungle encapsulated by ever expanding civilization, one of the last jewels on the land, his efforts a preservation of its spirit, immortalized in his works.

We buy two, one for each of us, and they have proved resilient, the intricate designs still clear, the smoothness of their finish undiminished over years, even now, far inland from the sea where salt air might be expected to provide a far memory of the whale’s siren and their faithful observer. Your focus lifting from a book, smells of the ocean filling nostrils as you admire, eyes circling above free as sky borne love, dense as a lover’s heart, enduring as the tide pulling me to you.

Luna's Soliloquy

To suffer in life or willingly seek one’s own salvation, the more noble of the two I’ll never know. This solitary brood of mine hath meditation mine dear and loving sister I have not imparted to, perhaps more out of grief than anger. For her actions I resent not, to take arms against my darker half is commendable, even when I so foolishly allowed it to overpower mine own self her decision seems a
blessing more than anything.

And now that prison that did hold me for what may have been innumerable centuries I enable. It responds dutifully to mine own command and to none other. Its place in the sky follows mine eye, its presence not a lie for otherwise I might very well die. It truly belongs among the glitter of the cosmos, a bright stone mixed within an everlasting beach of pebbles, its glow cast onto the land in mystifying beauty. Few others see such a spectacle for in the time of darkness little ponies are tucked away, in their dreams I see, their fears and desires come upon me in revelations clear as a new day’s light. I am told that many admire the night in the land of sleep, for them a refuge to garner thoughts in dreams. Indeed, their living focus is set solely on the sun, it is a necessity. Its glow of rejuvenation warms the land, feeds it, comforts it and the inhabitants, gives life and a feeling that the future holds better things to come. I have had such experiences but it denied me true assurance, the fruits of confidence held dangling in front of me as I gave chase. From that time forth, in plain terms, I would not allow myself to slander any moment’s leisure seeking safe haven. I gave no words to my sister nor any affection and now I have more offenses at my beck and call than I have thoughts to put them in. I could accuse myself of such sins it would have been better my mother not borne me. My pride, jealousy and ambition are such fuels to the fire till a burning forest resulted, charred husks of a former life left in its wake. So excellent a sister Celestia was in the aftermath that she might not permit the eye of heaven shine too roughly upon me, the sun herself bringing back to sense the lonely moon. Her influence, her countenance, her rewards and her authorities I did soak up like a sponge, be wary however good sister, for your counsel I believe I cannot keep. Every fair from fair sometimes declines, by chance or nature’s changing course, as I have thought but to imagine myself as fair in the beginning is a fool’s ideal. The glorious sun hath properties worth praise as does its enabler, even those actions which did banish me from this world. Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?

The time hath almost arrived when the moon be lowered from the sky, the sun peaks shortly and with it crowds of appeased before my sister. I cannot witness it, my feelings a maelstrom of madness necessary to put down and resolve, in good time. But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

“Hail to your majesty! It lacks a minute short of the sun’s rising, your duty commends you lower the moon shortly.”

Ah, there calls Celestia’s rooster, ensuring my job is done as to prevent another eternal night. I’ll follow the course of sensibility and not wax desperately with imagination. Nay, come, let’s go together.

Gourmet

The stove smoked and whistled. Searing flames from piles of wood surged underneath. The piping hot yet clearly cooked smell of marinated meat rose up and around. Rich and savory aromas cascaded across the old restaurant inside and out.

It was almost completely empty. One lone Earth pony was perched on a bar stool leaning over a glass of finely aged sweet Calvados, a bowl of fresh roasted almonds resting alongside him. He was patient but the hanging miasma of overwhelming scents coming from behind the bar pushed his limits. At any second he would gladly eat every single solitary morsel the structure had to offer but he knew better, the longer he waited the more it would be appreciated. Especially if it was actually cooked.

Opposite the pristine lacquered oak bar top, a unicorn chef was inspecting the wood burning stove and flipping the meat to ensure a well cooked meal. Simultaneously she reached out to a boiling pot of water and soup stock, countless ingredients stirred within, on top of a regular gas stove top with her magic and turned the heat down to let the soup simmer. The deeply condensed richly flavored steam plumed upwards and across the cooking area to gently greet the solitary customer’s face, the vapour caressed his skin and found a passage up his nostrils. It was soon after the customer discovered the endless flow of saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth.

The Earth pony lifted his glass to his mouth and let the pure luscious liquid slide down his throat. He popped a few roasted almonds in his gaping gob chewing slowly, the crunchy crispy outside with just the right amount of seasoning and salt closely followed by a soft but firm inside. The chef noticed the absence of food and drink at his side and replenished it with a trio of soft baked salted pretzels, a freshly baked baguette and slightly warmed bottle of Rainbow fruit cider. The Earth pony bit off a loop of pretzel and allowed the sweet flaky layers of confectionary to break apart on his tongue. He then tore open the baguette smearing the inside of it with a nearby butter packet and watched it melt and flow into the soft dough.

Seizing the cider, the Earth pony poured his glass full and immediately threw the contents down his gullet. A powerful alcoholic kick slammed into his taste buds but was smoothed over by an unequaled sensation of alternating flavours. First, fully ripened mangos, hundreds of them concentrated together in their sweetness. Then a sourness incomparable to lemon or kiwi fruits disappearing to accommodate the fragrance of smoked and roasted chestnuts. The taste would be expected to depart after that but once more even as it passed down his throat it still possessed an unbelievable existence. The taste travelled all over his body to complete one specific objective which it achieved in spectacular fashion. His eyes watered at the intense deliciousness.

It was not long before the baguette and pretzels were finished off, not a crumb left in their place. The Earth pony wiped his muzzle and licked his chops, a satisfied snort escaping his nose. But the true meal was yet to start and since his arrival, the pony customer had thoughts and eyes fixated on the main course. The chef’s masterful food work was nothing to sneeze at, she retrieved the two steaks from the stove, wafting the smell over to her only customer, and prepared the pot of steaming soup. He stared intently as the chef graced the meat with sweetly sautéed onions and boiled baby carrots fished out of the soup pot. A bowl was filled with the soup, another with steamed rice cooking out of view behind the gargantuan soup pot. Both main dishes lay in front of the Earth pony. Barely able to hold back urges to devour it all in one fell swoop he leaned over and took a delicate short sniff. Hundreds, thousands, uncountable ingredients leaped into his head. The image of perfect soup stock cooked together with the best possible ingredients for years was the only appropriate explanation.

The chef watched with slight amusement and beckoned for him to eat. Not requiring further encouragement he engaged the meat first. He had thought it to be regular beef but an infinitely more rich flavour corrected him, this was a prime cut piece of Golden Dragon grilled and seasoned to perfection, the onion and carrots providing an excellent aftertaste as the lean fat of the meat praised his taste buds. Hastily finishing up he turned to the soup. Uttering a quick prayer of thanks and nearly submerging his nose into it, the Earth pony admired the clear but full dish and took a sip. Utter bliss rained upon him, each specially selected ingredient merged together and parted in his mouth giving him an unforgettable taste of innumerable vegetables and meats and a rich stock all combined in a flurry of flavour. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “Haa, so good.”

“So then, what do you think?” The chef asked. “My special soup?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “even though lots of different ingredients are packed into the stock, the non-persisting feeling of it going down the throat is refreshing.”

The chef smiled brightly. “Glad to hear it, but I’m rather curious why out of all the gourmet seven star restaurants here in Canterlot, you would grace my tiny establishment in the first place.”

He returned the smile and breathed out heavily, “sometimes it’s good to get off the main drag, frequent some lesser joints, diversify.”

“Indeed, it’s the few customers like you that keep me running and let me keep doing what I love to do.”

“Yes, and on that topic I have one more request if you are willing.”

“Anything you ask… Well almost anything actually.”

The Earth pony held up his now empty bowl and grinned, “seconds?”

New Outlooks

The trip was swift, quiet villages and booming cities across valleys and mountains were passed in the moment of what felt to be a leisurely trot. It was me and her, that special pony that from which my eyes first beheld did not let go, that held a passion months of unsuccessful wooing could not undo. It was for her that I partook in this journey, an expedition of self-discovery by her words, making tracks across gleaming flat concrete to the soaked and battered edge of the coast.

We arrive as brave day sinks into hideous night, the summer star sent away replaced by tinsel of the Milky Way, hooves moving along unfamiliar ground till the purchase of lofty loam finds them. Next day we arise to coverings of dark cloud that a legion of pegasi could not hope to clear, foreboding dullness protruding towards us with rays of heavenly desire gracing small spots from here to the raging sea. Sprawling masses of vegetation lie to the east, and unforgiving torrent of salt wash dominate our view but interest lies in one small beaten off path into the brush.

Three hooves in and the forest changes, towering trees of ominous expression and an uncertain sense of one’s direction turn bright installing an unmatched confidence that our destination will happily greet our expected arrival. Flowers of a dark and thoughtful blue gradually morph into a jubilant and reminiscent red forming rainbows of life across the hard ground. As light makes its wonderful return, shining bliss revisits the green masses instilling all around us a grandiose display of nature’s prominence. The exit receives us shortly revealing a different world, not in appearance but in heart and mind, where one’s spirit is lifted and new outlooks created.

The lone lighthouse stood, stoic and proud, unfazed by rushing waves that assaulted its base, capable and strong, smooth stone untarnished by salty air. Memories and images of former lives lay chiseled into nearby rock, past partners and friends sharing happy
moments, each blank space open to new entry.

She carves two ponies, her and myself, with a crude but admirable imitation. She circles the work with stars and hearts and asks to be accompanied to the top of the lighthouse. Inside a musty smell overtakes one’s senses and cold air rushes in and out chilling our bodies as if trying to push us back. A glorious salvation embraces us at the top as the sun appears over the sea bidding farewell, rough tides smooth over and gently flowing currents pass by. She leans in closer and I put a foreleg over her as the blanket of stars cover us and the glow of the moon illuminates our view across the water.

We stay there for a long time.

Prelude to taking flight

He stops on the edge to ready himself, stretching wings reaching outward to their apex, front and back limbs shifted intensely pushing up mounds of soft loam, muscles and tendons sliding against one another until slowly falling back in place to match a rested position. Now comes the mental preparation, a time where one forgets their physical limits to embrace deeper consciousness, I should know, I have also stood on that edge, the top of heaven's staircase. Up here there are no clouds, they rest below waiting to swallow the courageous diver, thick ominous plumes that turn away the hardiest flyers, countless resolves left decimated. Hooves stuck on the flat lip, the decision is not yet made.

The events that transpire here could take some time. Years, centuries could pass and no conclusion reached. The white sea will shift and rage on like an unrelenting storm but it will not be known to the likes of us. The top layer gives a pleasant feeling but such emotions are swept away by the frightening realization of what could lie below. Cumulonimbus monsters waiting to strike or vast tornadoes, hurricanes, a typhoon, the above has no such knowledge, looking down beckons any daredevil before they realize it’s too late to pull up.

The landing will also be graceless, no currents or soft footholds of water vapour will offer a speed bump to the descending traveller as they plummet faster and faster till the orbed ground of Gaia meets them. Even with our wings and skills of navigating the sky one could not hope to heave themselves from the gaping maw of clouds, we are hopelessly suited to lower altitudes, and vaguely, mnemonically high flyers but never both at once. It is those who choose to go higher that reach the heavens, where Celestia’s charity kindly greets and caresses our feeble bodies, where one’s thoughts of the below vanish entirely.

Eventually he leaps, legs and wings outstretched, his face forward as the purchase of the earth is left behind. I watch as he falls keeping a slow velocity as if savouring the moments before true test of ability begins. I catch the acceleration and the last sight is that of another body disappearing into the void. The one perfect, reckless moment, from which there is no turning back.

Sunset Sonnet

What do I think before the setting sun?

Celestia’s work over, nearly done?

Do I fear the coming storm of dark night?

And in defiance stand sturdy and fight?

Or admire and reflect upon life,

An endless toil of struggle and strife,

The burdens of which are heavy and strong,

But not something to fret over for long,

Although Celestia’s presence leaves soon,

The night sky serves host to Luna’s bright moon,

And beaches of stars dot the Milky Way,

Among the endless sea raging waves sway,

Whether it be a time of light or dark,

Always present will be the royal mark.

Luna's Lament

When I do gaze upon the two hands circling the teller of time, my senses are dulled by a depriving realization. This world, galaxy, universe and everything beyond the stars of the Milky Way, are not forever.

The passing of time is swift. It is one thing that never loses the faith given to it by us mortals, like death and internal affairs it is one thing to count on. Many say me and Celestia are to last to the end of time itself, till entropy, that ravenous hungry beast, devours all which inhabit this inherently odd reality. But they know little of the nature of the beast. Our end comes when it comes, all we can do is silently march towards it. But the inevitable is not the conclusion of some being’s decision, whether or not life or existence came to be at all it would happen regardless. And what, when reality comes to an end? When my moon falls from the sky in disgraced discharge and the star of my sister fizzles to a dull husk, what next? It is a question needing no answer, the following events are of no concern. If all were to permanently cease there would be no time. No passing to measure how long, in which case the cessation of everything cannot be said to have happened and until a new spark ignites the end never existed just as nothing existed to have begun with. With moments in this world going forward bestowing an unrecognizable illusion of time, one starts to imagine, to remember before. How things might have gone differently. How maybe somewhere there exists a plane of reality in which an alternate chain of events occurred each one enacted by unique versions of one’s consciousness. How maybe in the prelude to death there once was a younger soul, no longer, the poison of time sapping strength with unrelenting precedence. In dreams I see, ponies die and live, are born as fast as others fall away, generations of new to replace the old in nature’s cruel cycle. There is no defence against time, when its scythe comes to reap no opposing power can defeat it. To save oneself there is only the ability to conceive, to pass down a part of oneself so that even till the fires of doomsday time has not scored a complete conquest.

This mood of negative conjuring is not well-received by those who cannot understand. It is to be kept away and supressed, not enough words exist to adequately explain. It is that clock of time which reminds me of such harrowing things. I must not look at it.

Never again.

Looking out a coffee shop window

My name is called, I go up to collect my beverage. That hot sweet liquid which serves as a soothing juxtaposition to a cold bitter day. I take a seat behind the window and gaze through the clear panes through which the marvels of Canterlot architecture grace my eyes, sleek refined marble and dominant towers with a surprising archaic charm, cobblestone streets that endure the stamping of many hooves year round and countless shops each with colourful displays to attract the antique hunter.

Some ponies go by, unicorns mostly, with extravagant attire, hats that outmatch an entire flower garden and enough makeup to make them indistinguishable to a circus performer. I dip my nose into my cup and an artwork of aroma is expressed, other ponies drink and go in the same amount of time it took them to get here but I stay for a while.

After a short adventure on street level my eyes turn upwards to the royal palace, giant gates and guards stand above us and above them the sun and moon. Do the princesses ever take the time to just look out the window once in a while? To see the hustle and rush of passing crowds, masses moving through structures and across the ocean over our heads, the time of day valued only as a reminder of a party or social gathering.

Thoughts and opinions do not run free like the wild buffalo of Appleloosa Junction or the dragons of Scale Valley, satisfaction comes from following the herd, like sheep. Few to none consider taking some time to be alone with one’s thoughts, to embrace deeper perception, to feel the emotion of the environment. As I sit here sipping away slowly, tables and chairs are abandoned like desolate islands, food and drink not enjoyed for flavour but as a way of passing time, to stall till the next appointment and drown out boredom. I feel differently but the store is closing and I must go.

As skylight falls into darkness signs of neon burst to life and the night scene is initiated. Looking down I find an empty void where that hot liquid used to be and feel the urge to return home. Maybe tomorrow I’ll bring a friend or some family and show them the world through a coffee shop window, maybe they'll feel the same way.

Pastoral of the Earth Pony

Praise the sun! Praise its gifts of infinitesimal gratitude and it praises us with warm revitalizing light touching the ground in spots before fully allowing itself onto our bodies. In a world of many forms it is the solitary thing from which nourishment comes in endless supply, from its caressing unprejudiced eyes. For in this world, the terms of class perceptions deem us as mere peasants, at the beck and call of the noble demand, by fate tilling the land, overshadowed by the higher class presence, by nature’s cruel hand. Cursed with backs bare as peeled potatoes and foreheads just as bland, this form doomed to stay with us for all eternity, the high ones sparing nary a glance, filled with utmost contempt to what their eyes behold.

We work, diligently with confidence ploughing endless hills and fields, individually planting each seed by hoof, fertilizing with the hope that from each small capsule new life will yield. From each to another they grow, by tender loving hooves, by miles of prepared land, by the faucets of the sky and by the sun. Not all will come to be, despite the tireless work, sometimes there is not much to see, by nature’s curious quirks. A full bearing tree of ripe fruit? The soil was too poor. Crops of the finest corn and wheat? They died of thirst long ago. The sun? Dependable as always.

The ones that feel little concern of earthly matters, turn to teacups like bees to honey, carefully constructed pastries their lips do grace, not a centimeter of frosting out of place for a noblepony deserves no less. And from shaded views into which the sun’s reach falls short, idle chatter of the new trend each sheep of the herd is bound to follow, with weak minds frail and hollow, all beneath Celestia’s resort.

On the farm, simple lives are led, fields are planted and harvested, each year’s crop bountiful. The soil is not always perfect, the weather is erratic but the sphere of the sky is reliable, fueling life, happiness and hope. We dwellers of the earth seem rash and foolish to the opinions of prejudiced ponies, primitive in our ways, lacking upper class sense, thought best to stay in the dirt and hay. But among our kind there breeds creative and thoughtful minds, not prone to greed, simple entertainment easy to find. Though our lives are filled with endless toil, cantering about prodding cast off soil, we remain strong proud ponies of the earth, the sun reminding us of our meaningful worth.

A Summer Song

It was a lover and his love, with a ‘hum’ and a ‘hah’ sung, that over the fields of green passed in the midst of summer. The only time through a year of four cycles did nature flourish, the flowers bloom and clouds hang high, the eye of Celestia overhead in the sky. When sweet songs of birds do come and serenade lovers ears, propelled through air as if it were not there, through thick shades underneath looming trees, reaching out to be heard. Summer is the time of love.

Across fields of rye, the troubles of life not close by, the pretty country ponies would lie. And the song would be heard, chirped out loud from the soaring bird, the folks feeling of woe and turmoil would be cured. With that graceful gallop and trot of truth, the lover leads his love past the cold winter and brief spring, like the winds of heaven brushing along, grassy fields swaying in its embrace. Summer is the time of love.

At the hour, when into Neptune’s salt water and Gaia’s orbed ground the sun descends, their carol begins. Mighty forces push stellar bodies across the vast gap between this world and the next but pale at the song of lovers’. Words of deep understanding from one heart to the other transmit, an immense burning passion lit, undeterred by spirits of the night as in each other’s presence they sleep. Summer is the time of love.

In the midst of dreams, sweet visions reside, and the joys of living are renewed in peaceful slumber. Currents warmed from the day’s shining sun, over hills and plains do they run, to caress those stranded in dark, not touched by the moon’s mark. Just as bright does the luminescent body of the night shine, an ambient feeling is brought through its rays, for the song of summer does not end there, a tune still carried along flowing air. The whistles of wind, the hoot of the owl, the crickets chirp, the hem and haw of a settling land. Summer is the time of love.

To a sweet and merciful shining do they wake, still wrapped in love’s embrace, the cherishing glow from which unending nourishment is cast, strengthening their resolve to make their passion last. Once more, against rough winds and the passing of time do they rush, over dirt trails enclosed by thick green brush, across fields of wheat and corn, a deeper existence during which is born. Summer is the time of love.

As their minutes hasten to their end, in sequent toil all forwards do contend, the fire of love is not extinguished. Be not the wreckful siege of battering days that wear out summer’s breath, let it not be cold grip of encroaching death. Let them take the present time, and crown their love marking its prime, to bind hearts together for all eternity, never a stronger bond will there be.

Summer is the time of love.