There is a sickness in the air
Tree tops are passing the news
To the stones and the soil
To prepare the paths
Through the forest
And into the valleys
To the villages of compassion;
To be cured .
Above darkening gray clouds
The dim glowing sun
Caught my eye.
I started to hum,
“Everything’s gonna’ be alright.”
As dusk, settled on my chair.
I silenced it with a sigh.
From ground to empty stoneware pottery,
my soul poured out my life
into my morning’s coffee cup;
existence to non-existence.
Oh, then to remembrance;
of knowledge, when I first held out my hand
—holding, the first summer’s rose.
I emptied my cup
holding empty stoneware pottery
waiting in anticipation for tomorrow’s coffee..
i found myself in prayer and in trust; eyes raised towards a sinking sunset.
light between branches at evenings’ dusk, i heard an internal voice
without malice or threat.
only one thought scrambled in a soft sentence out loud;
‘escape with an empty mind, deny yourself and accept what is Divine’.
i was deafened with doubt in branches hidden shroud.
yet, light continued to shine throughout my night;
quarter moon, half-moon, waxing or waning;
in a silent Lover’s light, forgiving me, of course, in morning’s light.
awaking in sunlight with fervor;
asking me to be in a life, without fewer errors.
I went out on the deck—felt the wind of the presence – before the jibe caught the gust of a yesterday’s breeze blowing into the sail.
The keel visibly surfaced two feet above foaming water, in an awkward lean, water marks on the humming board, visible as eye could see —Oh shit! I braced myself against the rail on tippy-toes. leaning in the opposite direction, baptized by the sea.
Tapping the “Captain” on the shoulder, I went below. I rocked and balanced myself with each swell of cresting ten-foot waves; catching myself descending with arms extended against the polished teak stairs and the polished walls into the belly of the bow.
Remembering the keel’s markings “MY LIFE”; both hands against the wall, I balanced myself, being driven across the course of tomorrow.
I will continue to sail —as sea mist foams against the closing rocks of the shore.
“From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw —
I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone –“
“Alone” Edgar Allan Poe
C hapter I
High in a dying butternut tree, above the climbing bittersweet,
a pair of sparrows sat entwined.
Bobbing and pecking, with tail feathers visible,
they pushed and pulled, constructing a nest
from winters fallen twigs and kites’ missing strings.
Both unaware of the advancing wings on seductive winds
gliding in the heat of post-World War II victory;
with bold brown patches and brasso colored flares
flirting shamelessly with all the birds in nesting trees.
Mother: after laying her eggs, suddenly took flight on a south east breeze:
wings spread, open feathers, abandoning history.
Father: in haste, wondering who was first;
found in the chase, with another mate
in a steeple of an abandoned Christian church.
Four hatching , cracked through egg shells
in a nest below a large branch, in a dying butternut tree.
Small insects dropped, in sacrifice, as meals
to their gratefully awakening beaks.
Weeks passed in the aging butternut tree
providing shelter, meals, and summer comfort.
The first hatching , thou gh weak,
fluttered, stretched, and skittered
to stand on quick strengthening feet;
to peek and seek for something he felt, was missing.
Something unable to find, something not complete.
Something to teach him about sky, ground, gravity
and all that scary in-between.
Innocence in the face of dilemma,
all of them eventually perched on the ragged brim.
Taunted by instinct and haunted by uncertainty;
to leave and fly, to land on air, or just plain fall and disappear.
Watching them teetering on the rim,
the brave-born, with a sweeping two wing lurch
pushed them off before him.
Falling! Falling! They fell then dipped into swooping grace.
Wings with instinctive motion, caught them in flight.
Never looking back, they disappeared swiftly
between the pines, the hardwood’s, and the butternut’s plight.
The last sparrow, now with confidence, excited without anxiety,
leaning chest first, feathers outstretched, he jumped too.
Falling much too close to the butternut tree
he became entangled in the vines of the creeping bittersweet.
Tumbling, swirling, crackling, he landed with a broken wing.
Oh mother, oh father, in his screaming,
he spoke not a word. It was only in their hearts
that they heard him fall.
Who knows, as i sit in an anxious state
waiting for Godot; hoping they never show,
like a sparkle in the glass, asking me if i care to go?
I will deny its invitation —to stay and enjoy the sparkle,
as all sparkles go.
Who Knows as i move in trepidation,
waiting for the fulfillment of my day?
Afraid to recognize it when it is here.
So i deny its invitation —to listen as it fades,
rolls, descends, and disappears.
Who knows the mysteries attributed
to the ground i stand on?
If traveled, i will have accepted its maze,
if understood —i will have accepted its direction.
Who can remember,
that we can go through the eye of a needle
with the sparkle of a moment?
i believe, only in the beholder’s mind
and conscience, threaded within our soul.
an experience from the stars. blinking, shinning, glittering,
far too far from it all; sends its notice to me through heart and senses,
dusting my mind in powdered confection.
how can the infinite space of the universe capture and descend into my arms
a heart and mind so unfamiliar to mine?
from where could it fall?
i thank the morning for logic unimaginable;
quietly sharing toast with melting honey,
black coffee and smiles unspeakable.
dawn flirts the tips of bare trees
sunlight fluttering through curtains
through a cracked open window’s —winter breeze
a million moon beams transcend from a prism above crinkled sheets
i lite a cigarette from across the room
watching her smile in morning’s sleep