A darkening horizon at midday,
swelling thunderheads, a green tinge, and muffled light.
A question blown like sand over a cliff.
An equilibrium turning inside out.
A suspicion of trains, coal, and rust.
A nail, old, once surrounded by skin,
encompassed by pulsing blood and heat,
alive in the minds of men, an artifact of purpose,
now pitted and worn, clinging to creosote, earth, and wood.
A decaying uncertainty.
A man, miles away, brow knitted.
The crystallization of time.
An unconsciously squeezed fist.
The smell of ozone.
A distance measured in memories.
Two wooden doors atop a heart fly open.
A whoosh of air, a plume of dust,
and the sting of fresh oxygen.
The realization that everything matters.
The time for shelter, past.
A gentle breeze, tattered, scurrying for cover.
* * * * *
The engines of commerce slipping gears.
Polite sheets of paper that hollow out souls.
A heavy stock, bought in good times.
The great crack of a falling tree.
The hum and stench of the mill.
Windows, unwashed for a century,
sunk high in brick cliffs,
out of reach of the modern man.
A watermark visible only in sunlight.
The kitchen table vacant, but for this.
Two folds in the paper, an envelope, and a mass produced signature.
The ticking of a clock, slower than usual.
A question that cannot be answered.
A question too late to ask.
What is this place?
A splintered life.
Blame moot, like the atmosphere.
Countless epicenters of collapse.
Lives rung like bells.
Panic and silence and linoleum.
A swig of cold water.
A clot in time that won’t give way.
A door opens. Closes.
Footsteps crunch on frosted gravel.
Bettlegeuse twinkles orange and red
across the vast container of space.
Messages from another eon.
The forging of atoms.
The painful rustling of a heart.
The acceptance of the tiniest feeling.
A full, deep breath.
The softening of angles.
A baby beak. A cracked shell.
An emergence, a daring, and a desire.
A heart containing a new question.
* * * * *
A reality that is not real.
A Love that needs no reasons.
The discovery of Invulnerability.
The expression of what we are.
And Nothing Else.
Michael, You sir, have expressed some heavy-duty thoughts here. It would be interesting to hear from you whether there were any particular events in your experience which led to the writing of this poem. What was it about those events which effected you with such intensity? Thanks.
Jerry, I don’t think I can point to anything specific. I try to write and share what I feel, and go where it takes me. Life is not always easy or clear, but there always seems to be lurking, behind the scenes, a reconciling agent no worldly events can touch. Sometimes life backs us into a corner, and we stop struggling in the net, and the struggle falls away, and the empty-full quiet of the reconciling agent dawns upon us.
Kind of like a guitarist who just picks up his ax and riffs. Where he or she has decided to take a slice of time and fly like an eagle to see where it leads. Hoping to reach a place where there are answers and where they feel real for the first time in a long while. It makes no difference what the creative art is, the quest is always for freedom and joy. The artist simply wants to experience freedom. Excuse the blogging, sleep deprived thoughts! Thanks