Let me go into the mountain’s depths away from the light. The sky holds nothing. Neither does the sea. Only the rock, the granite, the depths of mountain provides for me. The mountain carries me down and away, away from this light, protecting all it covers as I cover myself with my grandfather’s coal dust. I will carry this canary with me, if you think I must, as I travel deeper, ever deeper, into the mountain.
A scribe dips a sharpened quill into the red ink well, addressing the naked need for barbed wire fences of words to create barricades in red. Next, weaving starts. Words to cushion, Kevlar words, preventing of any element from penetrating and thus, creating need want desire-- For such things burn,,, dangerous when they trespass the Kevlar of red ink the Scribe fashions with her sharp quill— Words of arm’s length, only so far, no farther, Step back Back away Turn away Words of red to always protect-- Woven into blankets, vests, a house, never to be a home.
Inside a sarcophagus of stone, I have dwelled, a hard place in which to learn to live, no breath taken, heart stilled, where all living shrinks down, behind skin and soul, to be bound in hieroglyphic wrappings designed by others. Onlookers believing the pretense they wish to see-- as I stopped struggling for air, a mimic of the beating rhythms of life, accepting the coldness of the stone. Any warmth transitory as the sun in its travels from season to season from rise to set, in these years I have known only coldness after any fleeting glimpse of warmth. Such a bitter coldness-- though none would think I lived encased within stone, so life-like my hieroglyphic mask, a masterful mimic I had become. Until stone cracked, by mountain winds and sun, falling in splintered shards, crumbling to dust ‘round me. My tattered, faded wrappings torn, hanging loosely. Until a hand, as if in possession of long forgotten, ancient magic, should touch long dead embers, and in touching rekindle flame, swirling within, spiraling outward warmth that does not die upon the withdrawal of touch. A heat lingering, warming still, stirs hunger once thought dead to life. Sweetness pounds a rhythm out— starting a heart to beat again, blessed breath returns to deflated lungs, the shallow breath, the weak pulse hold ancient power, leaving flesh and blood and bone to move in life again, a life reclaimed from the stone of gray filled years. Cautiously, hesitantly, I step over the dust of shattered stone, making my way toward the touch that carefully, tenderly removed my tattered hieroglyphic bindings, allowing me to move freely within my own skin. There trembles within, a longing I never sought to find. Hope rises and takes Fear within its embrace, transforming it to joy, as I extend my hand to the warmth of you.
Here, beneath the trees, we sit in the peace of a sunlit afternoon. My words, my pale pathetic words, fade in the light of you. As the words I grasp at as possibilities to say all I mean evaporate from my hands and mind like the water in this drying arroyo shrinks away from its banks before us, I am left wordless. For no words can stand in the light of you and the gifts you bring to places where I discovered pieces missing in light of you.
I would sing melodies
of healing to fade the scars of yesterday’s pain.
I would sing tales
of velvet nights to cushion any regrets.
I would sing the notes
of the forests and mountains for the joys of today.
I would sing songs
of promises made and kept in the morrows to come.
I would sing hymns
of praise and gratitude for you.
no gulf across time no forever in forever promises of time that drips still as if the eternal existed in the binding of souls and yet-- and yet— breath stops in hope-- with my final breath I will soar into the sun to wait for you, or should it be-- find you there waiting for me, then we will fly beyond whatever magic of spirit there exists, mingling and joining with the elements-- of air of earth of water of fire merging and separating and merging again for an eternity. then should we, in the beauty of condemned blessings, fall to earth once again, no matter where, no matter when, I will find you yet again.
In the early morning hours of January 3rd, 2015 my wife, Karen passed away from ovarian cancer. On this day, the eighth anniversary of her passing, I decided to repost this poem. While no relationship may be perfect, I’ve come to realize perfection is found in the things people share. Karen and I shared our love of dogs, so of course, in a dream, I met her as I walked the dogs, and one day I’ll meet her again, but when that happens, she’ll be the one walking all the dogs.
I thought to find you on the path between the heather patches. You were not there. I thought to find you along the roads from here to other places I traveled, but there were no traces. I thought to find you along the routes where I walked the dogs. Of course, there you were, ready to laugh and say they loved you best-- as you always did. Taking treats from your pocket, you fed and petted them. Looking up at me, you said I had more grey than last you saw, but it didn’t look bad. Your idea of a compliment, I know. I killed the weeds of anger over things like that. Now I must learn to trim back the hedges of grief. Get electric hedge trimmers, you laughingly said. Then whispered I should learn from the dogs and you’d meet me along the path between the heather one day. And that was all. You were gone.
Image courtesy of depositphotos.com
Before morning, she wakes, adrift still in half-remembered dreams, dirtied by ghost footprints upon the waking to muddy tread marks ever present, no matter the hours spent in scrubbing— the marks indelible— tattoos of mud. Leave her to the simple tasks of morning, to her daily reckoning, preparations of covers and cases required, all the hiding away, layering as if for winter, this bandaging of tender spots.
Since I drove right by it
on my GPS selected route
on my way to dinner
with friends,
I had to stop:
Here now— pulled over, paying reverence,
to time, youth, innocence, tragedy
When we loved each other
in this home we made together.
Here— this moment of reverence paid
unlocks the door of a room
where you are kept
preserved in perfection,
untainted by guilt
by tragedy
by the judgement
I rendered upon you
in my innocent ignorant self-righteousness
and so unleashed our tragedy upon us.
Now— could I travel that twisted high wire of time
back through the forty years
yet keep the wisdom of lessons
learned of forgiveness and judgment—
we would be young lovers
starting out again
and I would gift
you treasures of ancient gods and goddesses—
olive oil, an olive tree to plant,
casks of rose water,
roughly hewn amber, the mythic tears,
in which we could be captured.
I raise my head, turn my eyes to the road ahead,
locking the door to that place
where you are kept
preserved in perfection:
Sitting in the window seat,
your head tilted to the light,
sunlight glistening off your copper color hair,
smile wide as you lift your drawing pad
and pencil,
and begin to sketch,
your thin lovely hand floating
in movement above the page.
There,I leave you once again,
As I drive away.
dry, drought ridden earth
riddled with cracks inches wide
forms chasms decades deep
layered in dry dust
rising as rain pelts away,
determined to flood
chasms, erasing all cracks
but this earth is too hardened
unyielding to any rain,
seeking to soften hard soil
undone in spectacle
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