I walk outside before dawn
To breathe in the quietness of this time
And watch the clouds move across the moon.
All is cast in tones of gray and shadow,
And there is a sense of abeyance,
A momentary hush,
As if the world has taken a brief pause
For meditation and reflection.
Soon enough the sky will fill with the colors of morning,
And the sounds of the day will begin.
Five rivers traverse Hades, the underground.
You think you get to choose; mind you, you don’t.
We all have to cross each river alone at some point.
For this poem, ponder this:
Which rivers would you enter, and for what reasons?
The River Styx, the River of Hate, allows you entrance to the underground. Take care.
Charon can ferry you through the River Acheron, the River of Pain, but you always have to pay.
Travel the River Cocytus, the River of Lamentation, with an open heart. Consider others’ suffering.
We all drink from the River Lethe, the River of Forgetfulness, in some fashion. Be aware.
The River Phlegethon, the River of Fire, can destroy your hubris. This is not a bad thing.
Remember you journey with gods, lost souls, and powerful currents.
Think wisely; take a deep breath; and begin.
“SO EVEN THOUGH WE FACE THE DIFFICULTIES OF TODAY AND TOMORROW,
I STILL HAVE A DREAM”.
I look around me to see
The empty spaces once filled by all we’ve lost:
People gone; land destroyed; dreams themselves dying,
And wonder can we bear this cost?
But I also pause to hear
The many voices that sing out a common song:
Notes of lamentation, but woven with threads of laughter and hope,
And remember that love remains strong.
There can be all manner of destruction and devastation,
But I will not forget the outstretched hands, the kind acts, and the courage of community.
We are all living with rattling skeletons
That come to us from multiples lives.
(Not just our personal one but those of the different spaces we inhabit-
Land, religion, culture, gender, species and countless other such.)
The question becomes,
What do we do with these and all they represent?
Some choose to acknowledge them,
Make friends, and even dance.
Others pretend not even to see their existence,
Or stuff them in the cellars to shift and creak.
Many spend their years running in fear
From the certain voice (deep within)
That we are all speeding towards a mirror.
And when we gaze into this, we will see?
Skeletons gazing back.
Have you learned to dance yet?
I ask him,
“Why did you not tell me
The happenstances of getting older?
That the months and years would steadily speed,
While the amount of time and energy
Needed for any one task would increase?
Or that the ability to dance would diminish but never the desire?”
He replies,
“You remember, surely, that I never had the chance to learn these things.
I died a younger man than you have been for many years.
So you are indeed solitary on this journey,
Though I tried to give you what tools I could.”
I smile and take his hand.
“As long as I can remember you, I am not alone.”
I shook the gossamer web of our connection
Gently as a feather lands.
Despite my efforts, you heard a roar
Louder than thunder
And felt the percussive tremors
Of a violent quake.
I do not know how to communicate with you.
My words fall into a well of silence.
I hear no echo, no return, and have no way
To gauge their impact.
For your sake and for mine,
I will no longer navigate this darkened terrain.
You have no more need for these invisible walls.
I wish you all happiness.
How would it be, to change our vision?
We often ask (ourselves or god or the the universe)
Why did this happen?
We see an event as a particular discrete thing
And usually when we query thus,
Feel that it be extraordinary in some way.
Often we seek some divine aid or give thanks for that perceived intervention.
Consider if you will this possibility:
There are no miracles nor curses. The playing field is level.
A joyous birth equals a tragic death. The discovery of a vaccine equals the manufacture of a deadly weapon.
And all equal the purchase of a cup of coffee.
THESE ARE ALL ORDINARY. Shocking to write.
Each came about in the same manner, with innumerable causes.
They have no special quality in and of themselves,
Though they do carry weight and impact, which we ourselves assign.
We are the ones who decide what counts as remarkable,
Either for reasons of evil or good, while we claim signs from some deity.
If we choose to see this and acknowledge
That everything is mundane and therefore also terrible and therefore also glorious,
Then we can (perhaps) take a better path.
Do the trees laugh
To see their brightly hued leaves
Swirl on the wind
Then fall to form a glorious colorful carpet?
Do they mourn the loss
Of their seasonal raiment
That partially cloaks them
From over-curious prying stares?
Perhaps, like us, their response
Can be both or mixed or changeable.
I don’t understand the ways of humans.
I would never dare to presume with trees.
We walk in bone fields of unknown dead
And crush the shards of countless shattered dreams
With each careless step.
Occasionally someone stops,
To whisper on the wind to those forgotten,
“I remember. I remember.”
A bird flying overhead might reply:
“You have been those bones.
Pick up whatever dreams you’ve lost and go on your way.
You will forget again soon.”
For a brief moment, the sun becomes radiant,
And the earth shifts.