What Scares You?
A cry, a soundless wail in the distance
Calls, seeking relief, redress
Images, memories emerge, awaken
Wanting to enter
Wraith at the horizon, the boundary of vision
Treads, leaving no prints except those familiar pathways in my soul
I grieve the dead
I mourn the now cold life that was
Ought is now not and haunts me still
But what have I do to with specters in the dark
Except, breathless, trembling I turn
Knowing the wraith is me
Weeping alone there in the shadows
In the moments just before ink marks the page I know that words will fall short. For who could capture Her with mere paper and ink? But I am compelled to try hoping that my attempt, though clumsy and sophomoric, may in some small way reflect back the beauty that I have recognized in Her.
She is new to me, yet I have known her forever. Even so I have just begun to experience, to comprehend Her. She has captured my attention and stirred longings thought bruised beyond rising. It is now Her face I seek, Her call that I await. And in the between times I remember, I wonder, I muse.
I remember Her form, Her fragrance, the way She fits my body. I wonder how it is that she has so easily assumed this space in me. I muse about the meaning of this dance begun between she and I.
With Me she is familiar. She is bold but not brazen. Her confidence is that of assumed kinship and intimacy. How is it that She feels like Home? How is it that a raging passion and peaceful sweet rest can co-exist?
She is dainty yet powerful. I have watched a dull room energized at Her approach. Men straighten themselves in hopeful anticipation of Her glance or smile, grateful for any small attention. Women appraise Her, hoping for an ally, dreading competition with Her light.
Her smile is a magic thing. It is infectious and sensual. Her mouth shaped in anger is pouty and full beneath a furrowed brow.
Her movement is fluid and natural as a young doe. She is at ease and alert. She is finely wrought and utterly feminine, Her spirit at home in Her flesh.
To be near Her awakens slumbering passion. To be apart calls forth the Poet, the Bard. She now has claimed Her space, her place in His story. She is now set apart. Sleeping Beauty can now awaken, at least for the moments that the Poet can guard Her heart.
But harken to me! It is a dangerous thing to call forth the Poet and awaken the Princess. The story will unfold with many unseen twists and turns. Exquisite will be the rapture. Exquisite will be the torment. Yet that is the nature of the play. Both comedy and tragedy are required. Such things are always risky. But perhaps the Poet and his Muse can create between them a place where the songs can live.
Boy, shirtless, bare feet accustomed to the earth, shaggy chocolate locks lightened by the sun
Favorite ragged cut-offs tentatively hang on narrow hips
The slap, slap, slap of his stride down a well packed earthen path
Something slows and stirs and calls him to leave that way
He lay in a field of deep spring grasses
The warm earth held him, he made a bed between the sharp stiff stems and the soft grasses beneath
The buzz of insects, the call of birds, cow mooing in the distance
Grass and flower and Oak and cattle hung warmly over that place, moved about by the wind
No one had suggested it, there was no Youtube then teaching Westerners to breathe
Perhaps it was the connection of his bare feet to the soil and Her children
Perhaps it was the warmth and the buzz and the fragrance and the light and the tastes on the wind that called to him
His senses connected with the earth created a space there under the wide sky
He breathed in and out without thinking, without knowing that he matched the rhythms of Her
He felt Her pushing back holding him aloft as he lay still as a heavy and ancient stone
His mind began to sleep as his awareness awakened
Gazing deeply into the worlds that exist only in the white shifting shapes above him
He thought things that could not fit or be contained in a word
He thought, he felt, he knew without effort, it just was
He felt connected to Her in a real and material way, the boy was still, yet aware that he moved
She moved, the Earth turned and he turned with Her
He lay there out of time, floating, spinning, senses outgrown by the depth of him
Then, another call like a voice through water claimed his attention
The spinning slowed, the heaviness of him lightened, he remembered the warmth and the buzz and the fragrance and the light
Soon the slap, slap, slap of his bare feet on the hard packed dirt, all he thought was “That was so cool.” . . . bare feet running
He grinned and continued on his way thinking to return there someday.
He just remembered, feet no longer running
Perhaps I should
Perhaps I should have long ago
I have penned no words for you since forever
Out of time though, my heart has done nothing but call your name
Over and over I find myself following paths that lead to you
Or rather they lead to places where I realize your absence
The separateness is startling and unreal
Grief too deep for words or tears, for they only well up in me
Perhaps I can not weep because I can not accept or come to terms with it
Or perhaps I just refuse to
But how can I come to terms with what is impossible
Just one tear would contain the sadness of the whole world
Perhaps that is why they will not flow
It would be too terrible
When I read this prompt I was not excited. Not because I have not met interesting, meaningful people this year but because I have. And I have already put that energy into a piece I called the Gift. It is about a beautiful soul who I have met across time and space but she is a part of my existence now. There are others who have also become a part of me and I so look forward to reading their work and interacting with them, but she was the first. She is brilliant in her ability to notice things and people who are often overlooked. Her genius is in what she notices and what she does with it. She is open to those who are different from her and she gives them grace. She is ever trying to learn and grow, a woman of courage. She is dedicated to those whom she loves and is fierce on their behalf. I love her writing. I could not do what she does, ever. It is like good bread and the fragrance of fresh cut grass, nourishing for body and soul. Thank you Calensariel for noticing. And thank you for opening the door for me and introducing me to some of the coolest smartest people I have ever known. She is somebody worth spending your time with. You will have missed a treasure in your life if you don’t stop in and chat with her. Be Groovy!
The poem that follows is my attempt to give her a small token for a debt much too large to repay. The Gift.
The gift was not in Her doing but in being, Herself
I was desolate
Lying still among the debris
In desperation I wrote, seeking
Needing some response, some touch, some signal from the universe
All was void
Perishing for lack of me
Her genius, Her magic lies in her attention, what she sees
Dying ember
Her heart noticed
A bruised reed She would not break
A smoldering wick She would not snuff out
She saw beauty in the brokenness and as a child would She clapped for joy
She did not attempt to brace up the reed or give it instruction
She found wonder in the ember as it was
And as she clapped her hands it fanned a fire
Her mere interest helped the reed straighten it’s Self
Her gift was not in the doing
It was in the being of Herself
And in the recognition of the beauty found in ashes
She is my hero