Traveling

I sometimes forget that I’m only

traveling

in, through, over, and eventually

beyond.

 

And every hour

of every day,

that journey is subject to change

in a variety of ways.

 

There have been stops, stalls,

detours, and dead ends,

all distilling down into

this moment.

 

The rain falls,

and weeping sky

joins weeping heart,

as I’m

alone, aloof, apart,

and eventually

gone.

Only So Much

I have, to my horror,

self-imposed this self-consuming

solitude and silence

far too long,

confusing it for peace.

The restlessness within me

is like a grin of uncertainty

in the face of possible danger.

 

How many more times must I start over?

How many more opportunities to rise

from the ashes of my explosions?

 

The sword of my life grows heavier

with each new lifting, each new slaying

of battling spirits in the lengthening shadows,

exacting its terrible, inevitable toll.

 

There is only so much more

to take, to give, to become, to discover,

and to enjoy.

 

And yet, in the darkness that precedes

paradise,

we are reminded

there is so much more.

This Rain

This rain
falling from grace
doesn’t cleanse.

It is an
acrid, acidic,
biting, bitter thing,
searing my soul,
leaving blisters as it
burns.

It is neither
purging nor purifying,
just a rage that caught
the dusty detritus
of a life lived
alone,
aloof,
apart,
yet with a longing
for vibrant passion.

A life weary with isolation,
abandoned tradition,
and sad resignation.

Unable to rise
from its own ashes,
it covers itself in them,
and tells me everything
will be fine.

Crystalline Quiet

Snow-swept,
these softened crags
belie their lethal silence
with a peaceful scene
of still and silent lakes
of ice, and mournful windsong.

The cold tranquility of the whole
speaks to something
inside.

A longing for beauty unattainable,
love yet unrequited but holding
a glimmer
of hope.

*************
An explosion of spring!
Life in hiding
resurging with new energy
of colors and songs

The crowning note
in the music of
our spinning world
among her sisters.

We welcome now
the challenge of a new
slow-dawning day.

Cobwebs & Raindrops

Those ideas that drift

down

into your mind

in the small hours,

 

The images come

like refracted light

in raindrops on cobwebs

after the storm is passed.

 

These mental photos

etched in words,

but no less

an essence

of captured time.

 

Caught like raindrops in cobwebs,

a symbiosis

of water and silk

that slip away from your mind

in the

light of dawn.

Ethereal Thread

All that holds me

to this earth,

bound and abandoned,

are hope, dreams, and love.

A threefold cord, they’ve told me,

is not easily broken.

Nor should it be,

but the struggle

unravels

the way we’d like this

to end.

Clinging to life

by ethereal thread,

I hope it holds my dreams,

and love not sever it.

They Will Answer

In the flurried, frenzied madness

are the words that never come.

There’s a sorrowful, silent sadness

like a rain soaked, broken drum.

 

When your spirit’s badly broken,

when the mocking page stares back,

and you’re reaching, reaching, reaching

down a hole that’s cold and black,

 

When the thirst is quenched within you

and imagination dies,

And the fire’s banked inside you,

no one’s there to hear your cries.

 

Go and order a tequila.

Go and throw a ball or two,

and somewhere between the sun and moon,

the words return to you.

 

For they never really leave you.

You’re a writer, after all.

When you give them life and purpose

they will answer to your call.

 

In the frenzied, flurried madness,

they will answer to your call…

Pilgrimage

A solitary torch, a solitary man

who led a solitary life,

wondered what the world held

that all the people moved about.

So he wandered

beneath the stars,

and found an alcove

arch of stone,

supported by a wall

with two entrances

on opposite sides.

Did they lead to different places, or meet again?

He stood there, now knowing which way to go, unable to choose.

He is there still, but the fire has gone out,

the stars no longer shine,

and within his never ending

quest of questions,

treasures of answers

remain gathering dust.

The Child and The Drum

From behind the curtain

her voice

holds tremolo and vibrato,

high and clear,

sweet and lilting,

with a hint of poignant sadness.

The drum pushes, pulses

her ululations from underneath,

building the bridge

that connects

the world to the origin

of its song,

evolved,

forgotten, debated,

documented, erased,

burned, rescued,

savaged and salvaged,

but ever

created.

The child and the drum.

Two become one,

and the heartbeat

keeps the time of memory,

even now.