Monthly Archives: January 2017
I’ve dreamed of you…
At first, the joy of freedom; and then
the sorrow for the grief you brought segued into
a smile, a nod, a shake of your head
to speak much more than words allow.
Always silent, yet I understood your conflict,
the push and the pull of wanting
to be here and there all at once.
Time, that human construct, is nothing.
A way to measure the span between
then and now; between
you breathing your first and
sighing your last; the span that
doesn’t measure in tears but in
click-ticks on a numbered face that become
hours in a day and days in a week,
weeks in months and years; in decades and centuries.
The sun’s path across the sky, chased
by Mother moon.
I dreamed of you…
They brought you to me, not your infant self
swaddled and seeking points of reference in your new world; but
fully grown, the man you were when you left.
You smiled at me. I wept my joy and
you held out your arms. You held me against your great chest,
in those strong arms heavy on my shoulders. My ear
pressed and listening for the heartbeat
once a whooshing jump-rope sound; once
a steady thump to reassure me through
the darkest of the dark.
There was only your weight,
your solidity, your smile. My trembling joy.
“Can you stay?” I asked. “Will they let you?”
“Yes, I think so.” But you shook your head, your smile saddened.
You stepped away, back into my brain wishing or the conduit
breaking; the connection unexplained, undiscovered
except in dreaming. The first contact in the span
measured only in tears.
Where are you now? Drifting through
another realm, a plane more suited
to who you are? Truly are, and not who you
were forced to be. The entity of thought,
of indefatigable brilliance. The one
whose darkness mingled and melded inside, yet
never dimmed the light.
Were you here at all? I see
your bows displayed on the wall,
the roof you built, covered in snow; I listen
to you sing inside my head, your song leaping synapses,
pulsing in my blood. The blood we shared
for a little while.
I put your boxing gloves on this morning,
to feel where your hands had been, knowing
the sweat still seeped inside. And then
I put them away, in the armoire storing
the blanket that still smells faintly of happier days.
Your influence is everywhere, still
helping those you loved, and those who
you never knew, but owe you a debt; because
they’re pain-free, they understand what was
formerly incomprehensible, they know how to soothe
the demons inside. Those demons you never could
vanquish completely. But you taught them.
You showed them how.
Sorrow grips me, this cold January day.
I pry its fingers loose, one at a time;
Peel them back like orange skin that leaves
bitter pith behind, the sweetness
still another layer deep.
It cannot swallow me whole.
I must allow its place, its space or
have it implode and hollow me of words, my joy
my solace, and sanity. Sanctity. Sanctuary.
(Thoughts this morning led this to that. I am in a contemplative mood, nothing more. I don’t want anyone reading this to fear for me. Once again, I thought about keeping this private, for exactly that reason, but I made a promise and I aim to keep it, so this stays public. That alone should put you at ease.)
When you find hair in the drain, whether
black, white or blue, you’ll wonder if it could be;
I tell you now, that will be me.
Bite at the inside of your cheek and feel
a tap on your hand, “Stop that,”
you’ll hear. That will be me.
Whenever you feel the urge to cut your hair
and hear a voice inside your head, “Let it grow,”
it wheedles. That will be me.
And when you see a turtle, or a camel,
in fact or in illustration, you will add a heart to it
and again, that will be me.
When words froth at your brain and you feel
the need to catch them,
by heart or by hand;
When you see a dragonfly and call it fairy, a baby dragon
in an anole; when a beam of sunlight becomes a path to another world,
That will be me.
When friends drop by and you need to feed them, when baby monkeys
make you cry; when you smell onions sauteing in olive oil, and fear choking on pudding.
Me, me, they are all me.
Such ties don’t break when life does.
They simply change shape and form.
It won’t matter if whatever is left of me once life has spit me out
is riding the ether of some astral plain, Or
simply the echo of what once was, what I was.
It will be me, like it is him.
I hear him whistle;
and sing. All the time
I see him smile;
and shake his head.
I feel his joy, and his despair that
share time in his space, even now.
Spirit or memory, there is no cognitive difference when
love is at the core. Love,
and need; love and
the hubris to believe there is
more to existence than life.