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.
The swallowtail paid a visit this morning, a flutter of striped wings, tipped itself in hello as we sipped coffee and looked up from our morning paper.
We smiled at the swallowtail then each other. You swear it is the transformed caterpillar we rescued from certain death as it hung from the dog’s lip and then tenderly placed in safety on the gourd vine leaves growing by the wood pile.
I do not know. It could very well be. It is beautiful in its flight. Its morning joyful greeting of belonging, of having found its place.
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.
Nonsense things of twisted rhetoric
hang around the neck of a nation.
Words braided into twisted doctrines
of red and black and white.
Hatred fought so long ago
blended into now
with a new pandemic
in the wake
of aberrant dreams.
Here where truth once
swayed and danced,
offering humanity
a grand romance
of belief in a thing
the world had never seen--
Golden rules made real.
We knew our daughters and sons
would serve as the sacrificial lambs
to keep our rules golden
for all generations to be free.
Though freedom be washed
in the blood of our lambs,
we still believed
in the grand romance--
And oh, how we did dance
For over two hundred years.
Then the roped nonsense came,
tarnished the shine of our romance,
interrupted the rhythm of our dance.
The twisted rhetoric strangled us
as a new sickness spread.
No ease given; no treatment sought.
Pockets lined with gold
more important than golden lives.
Hatred and apathy listened
to the new prophet,
who said they were right--
Everything wrong was
the fault of others:
The poor in spirit are just lazy.
Those who mourn make excuses.
The meek are just weak.
Those wanting righteousness want it all free.
The pure in heart want to give your gold away.
The peacemakers don’t want us to be strong.
Then the new prophet claimed he was the persecuted one,
promising vengeance for his own sake.
His apostles believed his sermons,
proclaiming him their chosen one.
Order is all,
He said.
Law is all,
He said.
He would teach them
by putting all people
in their rightful place.
Justice lay raped,
bloody, raw,
beaten and gassed,
in the streets
as his disciples cheered
while the petty false prophet smirked,
holding a Holy book.
Re-forge the chain of Liberty’s shackle,
he ordered.
Then Truth
stopped swaying,
stopped dancing,
offered us nothing,
flames of romance dying.
Edited image courtesy of claystorm.livejournal.com
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.
Photo by Yiu011fit KARAALu0130Ou011eLU on Pexels.com
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.
Leaves tumble like years,
never what they once were,
drained, lost in their way,
trembling in the cold
chill of damp night air
after a day of rain
until the warmth of sunrise
touches them.
Delighting, the leaves find
the strength to sigh.
Were it in the realm
of possibility,
I’d collect each leaf,
restore it to its spring beauty,
bundle them into decades,
and gift them to you.
But it is a silly
before coffee morning thought
as we both know leaves like years
cannot be reclaimed and restored
and smile at the thought.
I have always had rose bushes.
My mother’s rosebushes
so overgrown, hedges really,
filled with beautiful red blooms
and thick inch long thorns,
waiting for a chance to shred
away skin.
Then my own
before I was twenty-two.
White ones.
Planted on either side
of the front door
of a house in Baltimore.
I let a piece of me die
in that house
yet the roses thrived.
Then, in Texas.
Yes, roses there too.
Puny things. No lush leaves.
No huge blooms.
Black spot, fungus, rot
always a battle.
Vine like branches,
filled with thousands
of razor slicing thorns,
thirsting for my blood
when I came near
to fertilize or water
or with pruning shears.
But today,
in the high mountain desert,
I took a chainsaw to the rose bushes.
Buzzed them down
to nothing but nubs.
Roses do not belong here
in this dry terrain.
Thorns and a waste of water,
the price to pay
for no real return.
I placed their thick,
disconnected thorn filled limbs
into doubled up lawn bags,
and their thorny weapons,
still thirsting for a taste of blood,
stabbed at me as I carried the bag
of bundled limbs to the trash bin.
Some, of the toxic smiling kind,
might say, “Look to the blossoms
Not the thorns.”
Easy to say
if you’ve never seen,
never felt the shredding thorns can do.
Thus, I remove the shredding beauty
here in the mountain desert,
choosing beauty of a better kind.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 