Cary Briel

In the fiction of J. R. R. Tolkien, Moria (Sindarin for “Black Chasm”) was the name given by the Eldar to an enormous underground complex in north-western Middle-earth, comprising a vast network of tunnels, chambers, mines and huge halls or ‘mansions’, that ran under and ultimately through the Misty Mountains. There, for many thousands of years, lived the Dwarf clan known as the Longbeards.

According to Tolkien’s fiction, the city and one-time centre of dwarven industry was also called Hadhodrond by the Sindar, Casarrondo by the Noldor and Phurunargian in the Common Speech, all meaning the Dwarrowdelf. For over a thousand years of the Third Age it was widely known as Moria, “Black Chasm” or “Black Pit”, from Sindarin mor=”black” and iâ=”void, abyss, pit”.[1]

Reference:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moria_(Middle-earth)

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In ancient Greece, a moria was an olive tree considered to be the property of the State.

From Attic Orators, vol. I. p. 289:

Throughout Attica, besides the olives which were private property (ἴδιαι ἐλαῖαι, Lys. or. 7 § 10) there were others which, whether on public or on private lands, were considered as the property of the State. They were called moriae (μορίαι)–the legend being that they had been propagated (μεμορημέναι) from the original olive which Athena herself had caused to spring up on the Acropolis. This theory was convenient for their conservation as State property, since, by giving them a sacred character, it placed them directly under the care of the Areiopagus, which caused them to be visited once a month by Inspectors (ἐπιμεληταί, Lys. or. 7 § 29), and once a year by special Commissioners (γνώμονες, ib. § 25). To uproot a moria was an offence punishable by banishment and confiscation of goods (ib. § 41).

Reference:
Sir Richard Jebb, Commentary on Sophocles: Oedipus at Colonus, Cambridge. Cambridge University Press. 1902. line 705.

Goodbye my little mason jar
To fate I must presume;
The promise that she made that day
Within our living room;

And promise? Oh, she did that day
So believable;
She said that love in dark would be
as light, achievable;

So- grasp she did my pretty coins
When used to light they were;
She took them in her purposed way
To thus apply her cure;

She took them from their thickened glass
Corrugated bliss
From smell of pickles still between
Each coin- but now remiss;

To where you ask would her oath lead?
Perhaps to piggy bank?
Perhaps to safe deposit box
In neighborhood of swank?

Perhaps to QVC display
For coins collectible?
The type on mantelpiece displayed
To all respectable;

But destiny was not so kind
Not as one might think;
My coins were shifted to a box
Two inches toward the brink;

A pretty box it seemed at first
Fragile, breakable;
Out of sight and out of mind
My eyes could feel the wool;

So I forgot- oh, yes I did
Their beauty- singular
So that they languished in their hell
Amidst their mangled blur;

Amidst some keys and old SIM card
The once spectacular
Did glimmer only when the lid
Was lifted on the spur;

But even so- amidst the junk
Touching left and right
Inhibited the sunlight from
Seeming all but night;

Until one day in memory
I happened on my loves;
I rescued them from ghetto lands
My glimmering, sweet doves;

Though mason jar was long since lost
A search of cupboard land
Produced an old bar drinking glass
Of unknown make and brand;

The type of glass that once had known
A party- maybe two;
For whiskey, scotch had graced its rim
To chase away the blue;

But to my sweets this did seem grand
Since they–forgotten–too
Were buried at the brink of hell
By promises untrue.

Our eyes meet for what seems
Within the maelstrom of busy life
Just a microsecond;
Did you feel it too?
A moment of butterflies it seems
To me; Though not the variety of love
Nor of youth or age;
Just familiarity;
So before I risk to look again, I spin
The Rolodex of time’s pictures
Hoping that you appear
And that I remember where you conjured
Within the stir of space and time
Butterflies and flutter.