Artists die. Musicians die. Writers die.
Politicians die. Reporters die. Announcers die.
I die. You die. We all die.
I found an edible can of potted meat,
Dated from a long-ago war.
Scientists revived an ancient worm,
Frozen in time over the millennia.
We’re not all that, and when we’re gone,
Cyclic existence continues on.
Hari om tat sat.
Once I would have given myself apples.
Apples for comfort, apples for solace.
I would have poured from a flagon honeyed wine.
IWine to soothe my troubled dreams, wine to soothe my sorrow.
I would have held these dear and kept them close
So not to dwell upon the morrow.
Had someone sought my counsel,
These would have been my most precious gifts to offer.
Now I seek not that provision, nor do I store such to bestow.
Good thing this, for the fruit trees stand withered; the wine casks sit cracked and sere.
All I have to show, to myself as well as others, is a cupboard made empty.
“Inhale the lingering scent of sweet memory, then let it go on the breath.”
See this changed storage made into an altar:
A mala strung with apple seeds rests beside copper bowls filled with water
A small bunch of grapes beside these, and the aroma of incense floats in the air.
What peace do I find before these? What boon to give, if someone asks?
There was noise. So much noise.
Multiple conversations occurring at once.
Street construction banging into the walls.
Bright skies with bright sun. People wearing even brighter clothing.
I tried to listen with the focus of my breath.
Myriad sounds clanging into one another.
Important words disappearing into the general roar.
Kaleidoscopic images outside the window joining the chaotic affray.
I briefly spoke then broke in frustration, fleeing to find some silent gray redoubt.
I do not have a good loud voice. My hands can randomly shake.
Sometimes I must leave. Sometimes I must be rude. Sometimes.
Alone he walks down the side of the road.
The longing he feels for his distant home enshrouds him.
We sometimes speak briefly in passing.
He settles his dark eyes and gentle attention when we talk.
I do likewise with my lighter gaze.
When we part from our brief encounter, I do so saddened.
His heart the greater part of him still beats to another rhythm.
I hope he finds his way. I fear he will travel forever.
Or at least until he can do so no more.
The circling carrion eaters will clean his bones.
I offer them mine so that he might have more time.
Twilight drifts through the bedroom window
With a wistful cast for all it is not:
Not bright daylight lit by the sun;
Not rain clouds threatening to drench all below;
Not stygian darkness preparing to showcase the stars;
Not even the overloud rumble occasioned by the passing train.
Falling so quickly it cannot choose
On which side of time to place its allegiance:
The waking hours of so varied array
Or the quieting duration of more similar miens.
Caught in this hesitation for its brief span,
It slips away before my eyes,
After murmuring almost unheard thanks,
Grateful that I had watched and noticed.
If you saw me, you would see:
I walk lithe and free, proud to be what I am.
Youthful, aged, eternal,
I wear pinstriped suits with a vest and tie,
Always with a fedora and oxford boots.
I don glittering gowns with outrageous heels,
Always with extreme impeccable make-up.
I scare wrinkled old men who brandish bibles
But charm their wide-eyed open-hearted children.
The troubled seek me, for they know
I will call them by their true names,
Drape them in rainbows, and let them dance.
I walk down your streets , as you shut your eyes in horror
At the colorful flags and the joyful laughter
That trail in my wake to make festive the road.
When I glance your way, you know that I see you.
This is what scares you the most.
The past reaches out with mudded hands
A potter that continues to shape my day
Shifting my moods as malleable as clay
Just hearing a song transforms
Voices recall that giddy excitement
I feel again your touch on my face
The stone you brought me from your tour
We held it between us that night
The warmth we drew to ease its sea-deep coolness
Lingers still, and our laughter shines around it.
the darkening clouds
they could be smoke
not from fires harrowing elsewhere
to cloak skies with ashy cinders
these threaten from within
fueled by love and hate
smoldering but long forgotten
only to ignite suddenly
sparked by the sudden familiar
and all your memories burn
When I finally step outside my door,
I look up to the sky to see if the clouds lower;
To the ground to see if the ground dampens;
At the wall to see if the moths remain;
At the street to see if the deer travel.
All of these carry weight and fill together one plate of the scale.
Countering these and in the opposite bowl
Are my very particular concerns.
How is the pain that hinders motion;
The sight that diminishes usual activity;
The fog that hazes across thinking;
The mood that renders much complex?
I hang each from the fulcrum of awareness,
Carefully considering their changing measure.
This is what I can do this day.
With acknowledgement that the poise is ever shifting,
I go about my quotidian existence.
They crossed their arms and leaned back in the chair.
Oh, you don’t like the usage of THEY? The plurality of this stymies you
By throwing down a new concept? Once I would have tried to explain.
Now I realize that because of living among you (singular),
You (singular), you (singular), you (singular), and all the other damn yous,
I AM not one, but many:
I who have always known and said, “I am here!”;
She who others insist be “girled; ladyed; womaned; ma’amed”;
He who some did occasionally call out, often to tell him to leave;
It who got teased, bullied, beaten, and bloodied.
These all live here within me, a forced communal being.
No more apologies. I’m tired of being patient and understanding.
THEY/THEIR/THEM.