As latent potential erodes, your beauty housed in forgotten containers,

the violin without the bow, the harp without the strings,

you’ve stopped yearning.

When your name no longer gets written in dusty chalk on the blackboard

but caught in the foamy ridges of someone elses’ brush,

you’ve stopped befriending.

To get lost no more side by side with immature friends

crashing through the forest in less than suitable attire,

you’ve forgotten irrationality.

When your daily adventures look less like indentured servitude

and more like poetic phrases and the gentle turning of notes,

you’ve started seeing.

How strange, these words, so still and pale, lined up so straight

like lexical dancers intent on a single thing:

to bounce their lettered beauty into the naked world.

Lines, vigorous or drowsy or ambiguous poke and prod and woo some response.

Delight or Joy?

Curiosity or Fear?

Anger or Pity?

The words trip and whirl, spit and spew, thrust and weave

engrossing the reader in the perfect, nuanced phrase –

that opens the door.

I love cemeteries. They are not sad places for me. To the contrary, they remind me that those brave souls whose lives already possess both numbers, the prefix and suffix of the dash on lives well-lived, tell now a bigger story. I am strangely comforted that their passing has in some small way prepared me for mine. I am at peace in such places.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crunching beneath my feet these leaves, left forgotten to rot and blow and weep,

gather in huddled piles, victims of their own deep fall from heights above to this forgotten place.

Their one-time glory now lies like hazy remembrances flattened and pressed into the soles of strangers’ boots.

Sometimes, when dry enough, they leave this parallel prison to drift and swirl and dance among these stones

that stand so still like soldiers, their only medals the printing on their chest

of this one or that one, the dash between numbers the only hint of where once they dwelt.

The sun’s cool brightness mocks the quiet of this place of silenced voices –

men too weak to risk, women too weak to love, children robbed of both.

Still, something about this grey, ponderous place, draped in Fall’s finest filigree

urges me on in this sweet reconnaissance, this date with mystery, undying.

And, while still standing on the shoulders of those who have spoken these same things,

the specter of risen spirits breaks ranks with the melancholy oaks and sings out a new song,

not of memory washed and sanitized, protected against itself,

but embraced in the sweet androgyny of death.

You may find the beautiful photo here.

The folklore of the Scottish highland moors is extensive and, frankly, creepy as hell. This is a poem that narrates some of that creepiness. Enjoy…or whatever one does with this kind of poetry!

 

From marsh and hill through woodland, still,

arose the lithe-limb’d people.

Their frozen stare could nearly kill

e’en those under God’s steeple.

* * *

For many years they haunted men

and frightened little children.

They came at night from eerie dens

to poison, scare or steal them.

* * *

Hunted down with bow and gun

till all were tired and hopeless,

till one cold day, they came upon

a creature in death’s caress.

* * *

So pale and wan, it lay atop

a thicket, robed in grasses;

it’s bluish skin, stout hearts could stop

black eyes, like coal-molasses.

* * *

The men bent down to prod and stare,

its spindly shanks to gander.

The pall of death was everywhere,

with rancorous reminder.

* * *

But just as close to it they came

two deathly eyes did open

and breath reentered lifeless frame

for resurrection groping.

* * *

It lashed on them such furious might

and wicked rage, so cruel;

with hidden teeth, so sharp, a sight

that fed their fear much fuel.

* * *

With deadly speed and deft of limb

it pounced upon them swiftly;

it tore and scratched, ne’er piteous whim,

dispatching them quite briskly.

* * *

No sign was left of men nor lad

who sought to save their village.

All who remained, with fear gone mad,

with frozen hearts lay pillaged.

* * *

E’er since that day, those men of yore

we toast, their tales a’ telling,

who sought their courage to restore,

those impish devils, quelling.

* * *

And when this tale of death is told

young boys, their fathers, query,

“who were those monsters, grey and old?”

“They were the Moorland fairies.”

Photo courtesy of Honolulu Daily Photos

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here on the frontiers of our own natures we sit

alone together, holding in our hands the soul

of neighbor and friend,

brother and enemy,

known and unknown,

loved and feared,

all entwined in the richness of this holy chaos.

Heaven’s preference versus our indifference –

the total and real versus the glib and passé.

If we, like cosmic virgins, inhabit only ourselves,

the protective cocoons

of dismissive distance and convenient forgetfulness,

then nothing can penetrate, to explore our inwardness

and we are left alone –

white, pristine, untouched, without blemish;

but lacking those sweet flaws that, untouched,

leaves empty our canvas, which longs to bleed color

but drinks instead only the pretense of our perfection.

Jump from ledge or cliff

if only to feel the ineffable lightness of flying

too low to the ground.

For, though we fall alone,

we shall land

together.

Thanks to experiencing physical reality for the photo.

Soon, so soon, the evening comes
when noon has passed it’s daily run.
The moon reveals her need to care
that we might find the evening there.
The day has scorned requests to stay
and chooses hide and seek to play.
For night-time always wins this game:
since night-spawns-day, is e’er the same.