The early spring silent snow
Fits my mood.
It is a white dusting of truth
Accentuating every little branch and twig,
Making every little lie all the more obvious.
The silence into which the April snow is falling
Seeps through my eyes and into my heart
As if to smother and quiet its
Telltale beats.
It comes as blessing and a curse by
Prolonging the inevitable with maybe that one last chance.
But I know the sun will come out and
It will all be just a memory …
Once again.
It was just a game,
But it was all we had.
The rules were written as we went along.
He lead, I followed.
Everything changed from week to week
But always stayed the same.
The music played to fit the game and
Players changed with the tunes.
I never doubted in the moment,
Only in the absence, and it seemed to always be the time of absence.
The reality of the missing would come to me
Before the leaving.
I would rest my head on his chest
Listening to his heartbeat.
I would try to hold him inside me, all of him,
In each fleeting moment and then he was gone.
Once again reality would return to embrace the void, and
The long anticipated fulfillment became just another memory.
Then came the waiting for his
Footsteps on the wooden porch,
The rattling of the outer door,
And the bells ringing on the inside.
I knew it was just a game, his game,
But it was all I had.
(originally posted 3/17/17)
Snow flattened grass
Reawakens in the spring sun.
Snow banks dwindle and melt
Like arctic glaciers.
Crocuses brave the still icy winds to prove their faith in spring.
Still leafless branches sway and clack together in spring’s winds
While sap flows up from their feet and warms them from within.
Objects left outside since late October emerge from the snow, preserved as if having been in an altered state of timelessness.
Time stood still under the snow while the world and sky above
Flowed seamlessly from one season to the next, one viscous winter storm passing silently on to another.
Lawn chairs I last used in November have returned, appearing as if just back from vacation.
The chairs stand in a circle around an old, rusted fire pit with welcoming extended arms and empty seats. So I join them once again as a new season of light and promise begins, today,
Easter Sunday.
Easter is a day of great joy and hope to millions all around the world.
A day to celebrate the defeat of death and the promise of eternal life but
I see evidence of His promise every day, in early spring tree buds, in the yellowing of willows at the end of winter, in the greening of the meadow grasses and the songs of the returning summer birds.
Spring springs eternal in Gods promise to all beings, not just the human ones and not only through stories in a nice book written so very long ago …
So take a moment each day to stop and look outside and see that
Easter’s promise is everywhere, not just today but every day, in every being and
Every season.
| Coastal dunes slide and slip into the sea
As the storm rolls on to the north. Gulls scurry to grab unfortunate crabs washed ashore by the crashing waves. Seaweed floats and ripples with the waves like grass in the wind and Salty sea spray coats the disinterested windows of empty houses on the shore. The tourists have all left for the season Leaving the ocean and beach to carry on with their lover’s dance, Un-witnessed and unashamed, with freedom and reckless abandon.
(2/23/17)
|
There is a light in my words.
They possess a divine luminescence
That does not flow from me
But from a much greater source.
A source above and beyond me.
But the other ones, the dark words,
Where do they come from?
They take over sometimes, in spite of what I say I want.
Where does their power come from? Me, him, somewhere else? Someone else?
They seep into my soul unbidden from a place I don’t want to claim as my own.
They weave their webs around my heart and steal my light.
Their thoughts are dark, their meanings are dark, their hearts are black and broken.
I would feel sorry for them if they were not mine.
They are here to control me, to upset my basket of good and light.
They are mine to deny and disown, but mine nonetheless.
To deny their existence or my creation of them would be to deny a basic part of myself, maybe one I am not proud of but an integral part of me all the same.
So now there remains the question of what to do with them, yet again, or with the me that breeds these destructive thoughts and words…
I don’t know. To shut them out would be to deny a part of me, and maybe invalidate my good thoughts and words as there can be no light without the dark.
But they are heavy words and sink to the bottom of my soul where they lay neglected but never ever forgotten, and never formally put to rest.
Their dark lingers in my mind as it is familiar and known. I know the depths to which they will take me if I let them, as well as the indifference they feel for my heart and soul.
I should stay away from them as they are cruel in their relentless pursuit of my mind and thoughts, in their attitudes of sorrow and despair.
I think I’ll tuck them away in a folder at the bottom corner of my desktop. Out of the way but not forgotten as
To ignore them gives them power, a power over me that unattended can take me to places I would rather not go, bad places,
Their places,
Dark and heavy places,
But still they remain
Mine to claim.
I sit on the stage.
Darkness surrounds me.
The audience, if there is one,
Is silent.
There are no props on the stage
Only layers of black curtains.
Although I don’t remember auditioning for a play,
Here I am.
It’s odd that there is no music or
Other players.
So I sit in my darkness for what seems like forever
But there is still no sound, no movement, no life.
Just stillness and a mild sense of confusion.
I feel the space in front of me more than see it.
I sense it is there, curtains in a circular shape
A boundary perhaps but between what and where?
The other side is unknown and unknowable
Until the show begins.
But will it begin? Still there is no script or other players,
No music or lights.
I run my hand through my hair to prove to myself that
I am still real in this sensory deprived place.
But what is real about an empty stage, a wordless play,
A playerless story?
I begin to realize that
None of those things matter.
All is stillness and non-duality.
The “show” never begins and never ends.
The circular curtain and empty stage contain eternity
And this space is an empty place within me.
There will be no play, no script,
No lights, no audience.
This story is mine, the darkness my stillness,
The only witness, me.
Just me as part of the universal consciousness
Acting out a play of well-rehearsed lines without ever saying a word.
Each player a part of the whole
Never separate from the others.
All joined in the cosmic drama
Of existence.
The curtain rises on one story, one actor, one consciousness
In an act that never ends.
| I think the words are on strike, they are not working…
They have left me, again. Are they all on vacation? Or maybe just sleeping in… They hide beneath my bed and try to trip me when I get up. I hear their giggles under there But they are too fast, I can’t catch them! They refuse to come out and play but stick their little feet out from under the door Just to tease me! I caught a glimpse of them outside early this morning, Sneakily running through the garden heading for the woods… Those little rascals, I’ll have to take a walk to the brook later And round them up and put them back to work. They can’t hide from me forever, although sometimes it seems like they can… Silly words.
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Grief comes over me like waves on the ocean. Its waves roll me under and then shove me back to the surface for air,
but only just enough air to keep me alive Before the next wave breaks and drags me back down again.
It is a rhythmic dance of hope and despair, Of light and dark, of breath and suffocation.
The rolling waves of grief grow weary with time and come more infrequently and so seem to rest for a while.
But the pain lingers, subdued at the back of my soul until A sound or scent revives it and it comes thundering back.
Back with an attitude of indignation to have been Left where it was, not looked for, not missed.
It seems to think it has a right to occupy my mind and heart and Sometimes it does, but only because I let it.
The song that grief sings to me makes my soul hurt and my heart ache Until my body once again feels his against mine,
My head resting on his chest hears his heartbeat and my senses take in the scent and Taste of his skin.
My soul feels his touch once more and the potential of his being mingles with mine In the beauty and magic of oneness.
I feel the oneness deep in my heart until the inevitable happens and our song runs out of rhyme once more.
With the rhymes gone the waves of grief for what could have been return to remind me of the empty shell I loved and held in my arms and heart.
The liquid suffocation that I thought was losing instead gains strength without my permission and
Sucks me back down,
Again.
|
| Evening shadows shift
Through broken windows.
Chimney bricks slide down the roof Puddleing under the lilac bush.
Weeds spread into the driveway Reclaiming it for themselves.
When was this house built? Was it ever new?
The yard and doorframes bear witness To the families who grew here.
Long forgotten toys and broken swings Hide beneath the matted field grass.
A broken clothesline flaps in the gray autumn breeze and Sprung clothespins mold and rot into the ground beneath the broken posts.
Feral cats are now the only life that calls this old farm home, But birdsong still fills the rafters of the barn.
The barn that once held livestock Sits shifted on its foundation,
Listing and leaning to the south, Away from winter’s fierce winds.
The stately oak gracing the front yard is rotten and broken, Its fingers through the house roof.
Where did they go, the people Who called this place home?
When the last one left, Why didn’t they clean out the house?
Why not take the toys? Close the windows? Lock the doors?
Did they not know they were Never coming back?
The windmill out back has long ago Crashed into the apple orchard,
Breaking in to pieces as it fell and crushing the trees it had stood watch over all these years.
But in man’s absence The apple trees continue to produce.
The lilac bushes flower every spring in spite of Not being “cared for” in over 40 years.
The forest is slowing creeping back in to fill the void Left when the field was abandoned.
All that remains of the people who once called this spot of land home Is the family graveyard,
Where stones are carved with love and care, Preserving for all time the names and dates of those whose lives began and ended here.
But the lilacs don’t care about being preserved, The Oak is beyond pride and the buildings are slowly returning to the soil,
Just like the bodies beneath the stones. Another 40 years and the stones will be all that remains.
They will be all that is left to tell the story Of a time gone by.
The story of a house built to last a lifetime, a barn crafted with pride, The story of generations of a family who lived, worked and died on this land.
A story only the stones will remember. |
Nostalgia weighs heavy on my heart tonight,
And I long for what could have been.
But then I remember why it wasn’t but what makes me the most sad is that I also remember
That it almost was.
So wanting and loving, I sit alone in this night of late winter cold as the music of piano and cello drifts through my head.
The sound of the cello speaks to my soul and caresses my heart.
In the melody, I hear two hands playing together in perfect union and feel that
I am as one of those hands, looking for the familiar accompaniment of the other.
And so in the depths of this late winter evening I am lost in
Remembering what never was, feeling what didn’t exist,
Loving what could have been
In this time of warm darkness, candle light and winter solitude.
Now there exists only a memory of he and I, together yet alone,
Forever wrapped in the spirit of love and light.
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