Links to articles that inspired this piece listed at the end.
Time reaches across
cold decades of Decembers,
whispering of you
in me,
of me
in her,
of me
entwined
between
you and her
within those eight days
of December
containing
ghosts of ghost
cells
there dwells
somewhere
inside Time’s touch,
understanding.
He covers his sunlit towhead with one of his blankies and loosens glistening giggles.
And I remember what it is to hide. Hiding, a thing of childhood, joyful for this boy of three with his shining towhead appearing sprinkled with glitter in the sunlight and the bubbling raspy giggles he lets loose as he covers and uncovers his shimmering head with his beloved blankie.
I learned to hide from the monster who pursued me. At times, the monster was too angry, too quick, and I had no time to hide. Other times, there was only time to seek refuge behind rustling silk dresses, a molting mink, and piled up shoe boxes—only to be yanked out by an arm, thrown across a room before the whipping began. On rare occasions, there was time to make it to the small bedroom on the third floor where there was a closet over the stairs. The floor of the closet was raised and filled with boxes of junk. The boxes created a barricade against the monster my mother often became when she drank. Though she drank daily, always drunk by the time the evening news came on, the monster did not appear every day. On any particular day, if the monster’s rage began as a slow simmer, I would silently slip away to that closet, crawl over the boxes, and listen as the rage of the drunken monster began boiling below, hoping the stomping monster did not make her way up to the third floor. That third-floor closet never failed. I never allowed myself to breathe in the safety of that third floor over the stairs closet until long after the sounds of raging below stopped. Then, closing my eyes, enjoying the silence, my muscles beginning to relax, I would breathe in the safety found in the darkness.
By the time I was twelve, I had outgrown the safe haven of the third-floor closet. There was no way to crawl over the boxes without knocking them over and making noise. My hiding place lost; I had to find a new one. One I created—not truly safe or a hiding spot, but an escape. A way to stand and take the whippings of yardsticks, wooden then metal, without a cry or a whimper, to use my mind to create an escape, a place my body could not go, yet my mind could fly in moments to the safety of silent blackness.
This little three-year-old towheaded boy, finished with his hiding game, asks for cold, frozen, blueberries. Upon discovering there are no cold blueberries left, he wails. A grieving wail with fat tears. It is tragic, this absence of cold blueberries. And all I can do is find a distraction for him. But I smile and I am teary eyed at this dramatic switch from joyous laughter to tragic grieving loss of cold blueberries because he knows he is safe. He can go from laughter to tears because he does not doubt his safety here in this place among these hearts within this room filled with sunshine.
Later, when I hug and kiss him goodnight, I say a silent prayer that he never knows what it is to seek safety in darkness and only ever knows what it is to feel the safety offered in the warmth of sunshine.
The words, the words--
They rattle in my head,
louder than
the tail of a snake,
louder than
the breaking of stacked billiard balls,
louder than
the concussing jack hammer on a city street--
too much noise to hear distinctly
what must be written,
what must be said, screamed
into the foul fiery smoke-filled air
One word, one.
Just one, larger than the others,
louder—
settles against my skin,
a lash of fiery noise,
burning, burning deep--
betrayal--
burning away tiny scars
of other betrayals
a lifetime ago
This wildfire of betrayal
burns away
soul held beliefs
of common good.
Six bodies,
Six bodies—
Fifteen minutes later,
six bodies forgotten
in the collected dust
of memory upon the world.
Six souls passed away,
imprisoned from the light of God.
The sky shrinks away
from the edge of earth
as the six join 1139.
I did not know any of them.
Not one soul.
I did not have a friend, a neighbor,
a brother, a sister,
a father, a mother, a cousin,
an aunt, an uncle,
no son, no daughter
among them.
But I mourn them,
as if I knew them,
as if they were family.
I feel the empty spot
they left upon leaving the world.
You ask me why I feel their loss so…
My answer—because I am human.
In return, I ask…Why do you not feel it so?
No answers found
in the mocking caw of crows
who laugh at humanity.
Image is my own
Sitting here in New Mexico and looking at these mountains, I wonder if my mother ever heard the mountains of Appalachia sing as I do these.
The mountains sing their history--
of when they knew only tranquility
in the land of their ancient salt seas,
when the sun could not touch them,
when they were virgin still--
safe from the rough hands of the wind,
long before the rise of humanity.
Their song holds the rhythms,
the bars, the layers of the time before--
before an angry molten core,
containing not a single drop of mercy,
drove them from their ancient, peaceful home,
forcing them to be refugees in the kingdom
of sun and wind.
Their song holds the rhythms
of all they grieve
in witnessing humanity’s rise,
dripping in eternal inhumanity.
At the feet of the mountains, the lilacs,
nourished by snow melt tears,
bow their heads and dance in the rhythms
of the mountains’ song—
A dance of homage
to such ancient ones.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wITB_k8gX78&list=OLAK5uy_nKHcHbv67IP6facZWpq6ZwAhVrhAxMwQg&index=5
Forgive me, I ramble,
telling you of life at sea level--
where a steady pour of hours stream,
and minutes bead against the windowpanes
as the seconds mist into fog--
decades of earth and rock liquify--
A mottled mix of flowing colors and viscosities
defiant and devoid of any beauty
to ease a slippery sharp-edged flow
carving out an emptiness
within this near ghost of a soul
waiting in unacknowledged darkness,
while asking for a way to the light—
before waking in the softness
of morning at altitude.
morning wakes
while a warm stretch
of sunlight crosses the room
to sweetly caress--
as morning sighs
a sleepy breath,
flowering in its soul.
A gray morning starts the day.
A light dusting of wet snow
greets me and the dogs
before my coffee and breakfast
can have a say in the matter.
And you are no longer
in this world
to see the same sky
or to visit me here.
The last twelve years
we made up for
the lost years of the forty-eight
we’ve been friends--
Our marathon talks about our kids,
our hopes and worries for them,
the birth of your grandchildren,
the death of my wife,
the blasphemous betrayal of aging--
all our griefs and our celebrations.
Sharing, as adults, the things
We could not share as kids,
how we survived the fog bank
attack of our mother’s hearts
upon our own to live our lives
in the sunlight of the earth.
You were the one to word it best-
Like the little girl with the curl
in the middle of her forehead:
When they were good,
they were very good
and when they were bad,
they were horrid.
How often, always it seems to me,
you bested me in our repartees of humor and wit,
until I did cry, Uncle, I give!
The two of us laughing,
fighting hard to catch our breath.
In the end, your body betrayed your spirit.
I would rewrite your ending if I could.
I’d write you healthy for years to come,
running and playing with your granddaughters,
seeing graduations and weddings—
Of course, selfishly,
I’d write you many visits
to see me here in this mountain paradise
of a place where I am blessed to be.
Where we’d sit—
you sipping your Jameson Irish Whiskey
and I my glass of wine,
as we laughed and teased each other
in our merciless way.
Then you’d talk of your son
and I my daughter,
what motherhood meant,
and how we survived our own mothers.
I’d write you happiness,
finding love with an Andy Garcia
look alike who would worship you.
I’d write your ending
with a pain free body,
sitting in the sun
while you watched
your great-grandchildren at play.
Finally, selfishly,
I’d rewrite feeling your absence
from this world.
Though the mountains shroud
themselves in snow filled clouds,
a warmth spreads
as if the air contained
no freezing chill.
There is a light here
I’ve not found before
in this early morning
of snow cloud
shrouded mountains,
filling me
as if a sun lighted spring
prodded the mountains
to shrug away their shrouds.
At the edge of a known world
where sapphire sea meets an emerald surf
seals emerge in greeting
just feet from where I stand.
I did discover an absolute
in a moment of childlike wonder:
All things thought unattainable,
never to be found--
perhaps, even undeserved--
exist in the joy
at the edge of the sea.
undone in spectacle
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