Earth Song
Harken now
as the westerly wind softly intones a low
mournful dirge.
While the reeds at the water’s edge
pick up the sad refrains
and over them
they transpose their quavering
illusionary measures.
Broken up occasionally by a discordant sigh.
The birds passing by
pause a moment
as they listen crestfallen
to the slow, sorrowful lament.
Which they keep time to
with a dull thrumming of the wings.
And a sweet blending-over
of fading trills.
Which becomes barely perceptible
amidst the echo-booms
of the loud thundercloud drums.
And the intermittent tinkling sound
of the raindrops.
As they pelt the leaves
on the musical tree of magic colors.
Which having once danced
and enjoyed life and freedom so much
now stands condemned.
Hopelessly rooted
to this one solitary spot.
And so it droops over now
with dampened spirits.
As it beholds the birds,
the wind, the reeds
and all the other players
in this lonely cheerless pastoral.
Trying to recall a time
when it didn’t once glance backwards
and think of things precious
that were
but are no more.
While the grey, somber sky
conductor
of this orchestrated
remembrance
soothes
their saddened spirits
by serenading them
with a melodious rainbow.
Which heralds
the promise of a new day.
When all of nature
will once again
sing in tune.
The Creature
A shadow in the night
creeping from far to near.
My weary eyes lie to my brain,
igniting with fear.
The thrumming spikes,
a hammer in my chest.
The creature looms closer,
keeping me from rest.
Shadowy hair, stiff as hay,
with lanky arms dragging low.
The creature is without a face,
and I am left with nowhere to go.
It comes close but does not walk,
phasing forward as it floats,
before disappearing inches away,
as if it were only a ghost.
we’ll chase that light somewhere anyway
you know that it can't be undone
can't spin the wheel backwards
take
you back to the place I used to breathe every day
and it only makes it more real
that the clouds are forming shapes above me
wisps of light curling on my skin
lettering and warning and soft secret promising
things I never said
I'm afraid now
I think, properly.
that this car spins out of control
that you don't see it coming
that I'm still learning and you forget that
I don't know what a heart is
that in the moments before the air and the crash I'll choose to keep on reeling you in
because of the dark parts of my soul
because I don't know myself
skidding wheels
we taste like lightning and
spell out our names one last time in whispers
and
maybe
we don't crash
The Faces of Winter
As a child, my favorite season was a bright sparkling world. The clouds poured their glittering white flakes over the house, the yard, the trees, the road, and the little pond in the neighbor’s yard. Before eight in the morning, a snowman had to be erected. If mom couldn’t be persuaded to part from her red scarf, I had to use dad’s. It was threadbare from years of use and covered in little linty pills. But it would do. Sometimes mom let us have hot chocolate with breakfast. We could only have candy canes and marshmallows if it was the afternoon, however.
In winter, the world lives in slow motion. My feet did not run as fast, and the air was slow to come into my lungs. Even the bird that glided on the freezing currents did not pivot or dive as they did in the springtime. The sun slept more, and the nighttime creatures prowled about. I was never afraid. I had a house to stay in. Night held wintry treasures of its own. I’d sit with dad and my baby sister, and we’d listen to the barking coyotes and sometimes the howling wolves in the deepest month of the winter.
Dad’s birthday was in January. He always asked mom to make him a German chocolate cake for his gift. Christmas always distracted us, and too soon, dad’s birthday was upon us. He didn’t seem to mind the homemade cards written in crayon the day of his birthday or the lack of gifts. We’d go to the high school to sled, me, dad, my brother and my baby sister. Mom told us she liked to stay inside, where it was warm.
It has been years since I’ve spent the winter with my family. My dad’s tastes have changed. He no longer wants cake on his birthday. My brother has been at college for a few years, so we don’t see him often. My little sister is studying to be valedictorian; it’s hard to drag her out of the textbooks she lives in. My mom still doesn’t like the cold. Mom and dad had another kid when I was in high school. He likes to build snowmen. I see the same giddiness in his face when the snow gathers on the ground, but it isn’t the same.
That big bright sparkling world has come to be my least favorite season. The sun shirks his duties. The sky obscures the roads and traps people in their homes. The wind ices the road, with ill intent. It becomes so unbearably cold. Even the air I need burns my lungs and freezes my heart. The darkness whispers things that I hadn’t been able to hear as a child.
Where I once saw beauty, I see danger. Where once I reveled in joy, I sink deeper into darkness. Has Winter changed, or have I?
Dementia
One day
photos won't be enough
to trigger a mem'ry
a moment
a feeling;
One day,
the stories photos tell,
will be unremembered
forgotten
gone, effaced;
One day,
photos won't be enough
to confirm we have loved
that we laughed
and we lived.
One day,
before the photos fade
the edges turn yellow
and curl
and crack,
our eyes,
our minds, will dim and wane
we will wander the halls
of remembrance
blindly.
One day,
you won't recognize me
in a photo or here,
at your side,
holding hands;
One day,
before the world goes black
and death takes our last breath
photos won't
be enough.