If you can see
Past parting clouds and lowered masks,
Don’t wait for the lull to pass-
Repeat forever, blow in and out,
And sever the lines of communication
A seasoned eye discerns
A word rightly spoken
Can lift the fog of interaction
And expectation to wind;
To see what’s broken
Is to mend.
Half the pleasure is in the hope
The child awake on Christmas night
Envisioning some unknown heights
Of bliss, awaiting first light
To awaken their scope.
Half the agony is in the fear,
The woman on the edge of labor pains,
With everything to lose, or to gain,
On the other end of unsustained,
Unmeasured anguish drawing near.
All that we anticipate
Always becoming half our fate.
You are God of the wind and the root,
and I, a flag between the two;
tethered to the Truth,
bowing, blowing, windstrewn.
No roots of my own, but a tangle
Of knot and cord
And held secure.
Falling flat, stretching unfurled,
And always clinging to my stake
In the ground, in this world
I pray You remake.
Unyielding in my doubt,
Compliant with each gale
Rippling me throughout.
You who never fail, don’t fail
Never release, nor relent,
Even when I fall,
Even when I fail to repent.
For remembrance of the nearly lost
Are pangs severe to feel,
But there is payment for the cost,
It clatters through the coffer seal
And echoes whence it has been tossed.
How alike we must have been,
Two fraternals in our mother’s womb
Which is the watered earth that spins
‘Til parasites of sin consumed
The features we once shared akin.
We pause on our reflection:
The dam of time.
I flinch at your inflection;
I see you glare at mine.
We pray in different directions
And the sublime quality of similarity
Is strangled with our spacious disparity.
Oh the heavy history of man
Who collects his wars
Long after the land is divided again,
With nothing left to explore,
And the plunder has spoiled
In the storehouses.
All these years of ink and page, and
How can these habits come to gain
Reflecting with the written word,
But that brothers in ink still have their names
And some crude caricature of who they were
Ever still remains.
We walked along, side by side,
You, following the path, and I
Leaning to peek in the canyon.
Glancing to see my presumed companion
Has run ahead without me.
You pursued the course,
And I lingered to gaze at remorse
Who is lovely from behind
While blind, while disinclined
To turn on me, to see
What I put myself up to some days.
He is cruel when he returns my gaze.
I wander the fringes of our route,
Do you go on without me, or wander about
To find me again?
I am aimless. I cannot wend
Through these dark woods,
I cannot find my way to good,
Without you as my guide.
Will you walk again, side by side?
I have no more words to understand,
They have slipped and tripped and
They are foreign sounds.
I have lost their definitions,
No more premonitions
Of tangled webs of words
No more using the absurd
To illuminate the apparent.
I once thought them inherent
Not some scheming enterprise.
These efforts do not energize
Under the weight of exposure.
I have lost my literary composure,
And my dear, long friend.
I cannot pretend
I know what I’m doing.
Oh pale moon, swimming
In the inky black, spinning
Always around, and again around
Your gravity’s weight strikes my ground
Forming tides to push and pull
This twirling sphere, swirling full
Of water, earth, wind and flame
While you cower sterile, tamed
Dust and rock and voicelessly
Pace and fret so noiselessly
Mostly covered in shadow, undetected
But only known by light reflected.