Crescendo, sun rise,
Swells an upsurge of color,
Fades too fast for me.
Ever loudening,
The business of the day trades
Scenes of memories.
Diminuendo comes,
An end, a small death of colors
As day slowly fades.
( An older poem written in 2015 while in Provincetown, MA. Revised for this week’s writephoto challenge.)
At sunrise over water,
Remembering as if in a dream
The child and you and me
As we stood by a sea
Half a world away.
Both of you now baptized differently by my tears.
And for and from you,
I am left with things neither given
Nor felt in years,
Linked by all the fears
To form over a decade of a life
Lived like a stranger
In my own shrinking skin.
I have stood
Since the dawn
At this ocean’s edge
Waiting, waiting.
And now at noon
The rain begins.
Fierce pelting blows
Washing me clean
Of all I know
Or dare to dream.
For living continues
Within my own skin
In the stillness of days between,
The willows long to reach across the stream,
Breaching distance impossible.
Without the breeze,
Their branches hang in solitude,
Their leaves nearly tears,
Longing drips with want heavy in the air
Until finally—thunder—
Lightning— A breeze teases,
Limbs reaching,
Almost, nearly touching—
And then the wind begins,
Whipping one direction,
Then another, almost swirling,
Limbs, leaves touch
Across the stream
Solitude breached.
Restless roses
climb skyward
toward the eternal
their grace defeated
as winds thrust
them downward
toward dirt
they escape.
The words—
It is the always—the words—
I have always been
Searching the sidewalks, paths, trails, highways, the sky outside
For the words—
Combing gently through those I love
For the words—
Hunting the faces of strangers, my own face, my dogs, my friends
For the words—
Scouring the hearts, the souls of those I observe
For the words—
Ransacking restful, peace giving nature
For the words—
Scourging even, in the chase, my faith
For the words—
And they are never perfect.
angels call, singing for a while,
watching us,
aping things they’d heard, saw,
obsessing over things
we tossed away–
time, primarily–
angels lost feathers, attempting to understand
our tossing away time like used tissues, soiled food tins–
when we held little.
Accidently linked to Sundaymuse Please go to https://aikalandros.com/2021/08/02/the-vines-of-a-tiny-truth/
Staring deeper into the center of the pool,
The wisdom of a street wise Athena
Forgotten, ignored, stripped away,
She stood readied for the flow of molten metal
To form customized links of chain, binding forever
Spirit and soul into a trophy of destruction.
Thus, she stared even deeper,
Praying for escape,
As molten metal seared her wrists,
Her ankles, her soul,
Chaining her forever to the stone,
Making of her a possession, a trophy of destruction,
Displayed for an ego never sated.
Wish I could rest beguiled–
Believing willingly in soft whispered lies
If only for this little while of rest
As if slipping easily between
The waxen petals of lilies
And curling round the sweetened smell
Of wonderous blossoming softness—
Yet the price, the price of choosing
The rest of such beguilement
Factions of the past
Still here–
The many monsters,
Gods and Goddesses all,
Worshiped and created
By a thousand wars
Humanity fought
Against itself
And fights still
Against the poisons
Standing on the battlements
Within humanity’s own
Bloodied heart.
As winter whispers
The longing starts
For warmer days
Of a warming spring
Leaking slowly
Into a sweltering summer.
As winter whispers
In pretense of knowing
Warmth and cheer
Of holidays it cannot contain
In its freezing coldness,
We are left untouched
For far too long—
Our souls grow grey
In these winter days
And leap at the hope
Contained in striking colors
Of Winter’s sunsets–
Only to have hope
Bashed, broken, bleeding
Against the frozen Winter
Ground. As Winter whispers,
Chuckling at our fragile humanity.
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