At last our eyes fail to deceive us!

The old ones whisper prayers

And the children look on in wonder.

A teacher comes out of retirement

So his student may release him.

It is often that we remember

What it was like to be born

At the end of our days.

As the farmer looks on the land

It tells him to lie down and rest.

A procession of mourners follows

With their blinkers on,

Delivering one to the great Mother

As they were once delivered from.

Keeping eyes down in grief.

Turkeys distant in the field

Move towards some remembered sanctum.

We happily watch as they pass along

Leaving barren broken corn stalks.

A place once taken now unoccupied.

He drove by, glancing at the stuffy duplex with the heart of a free man. The wet of February lay on everything and on the dirtied road he crept down. He had not been able to move as early as planned and that was almost unbearable. Two days prior a good sized snow storm, quite possibly the last, once again tucked optimism into its sinking mattress. A fear had come with the snow. The fear that he may not be able to leave as if the window of opportunity was about to shut. Fortunately, and quite possibly by divine forces, the next two days were warm enough to melt most of the new accumulation to puddles. The moving truck was packed tight, checked over once or twice for the long journey ahead. Some of the furniture and boxes didn’t stack neatly and would for sure tumble around during every turn. Many things were thrown in carelessly. Taking only what was needed and fitting the heavier things in first than by the end tossing in the lighter things on top. It did not matter how he left, only that he left. A fresh start some six hours drive from that gloomy abode. Thinking of that place as a prison made him into a convict by default. An escapee runs, but he was not running. Wasn’t he though? Perhaps six hours away lay another dingy cell ready to receive its next master. On the horizon, just another sentence. Another high-walled fortress garnished with razor wires.

Had he been any good at escaping he would have left his hometown long ago, and wouldn’t feel so confined. He fancied himself a would be escape artist, having thoroughly probed all possible exits. A prisoner that knew well all the weak spots in the outer wall or high chain linked fence. Knew them well, loitered about them even, but only mused. Pacing his asylum, planning accordingly to the conviction of which there is only two ways out of. Escape or death. If we do not escape we will surely die in some way. When the animal inside our belly awakens we must obey or else it dies. So too the longing to chase the setting Sun carries the same lethal dosage. Is it running than, he thought, if you merely trek in the other direction? Are we not always running from something than? Leaving and leaving quickly don’t host the same feelings.

He was on the road now, and the next mile felt more ecstatic than the last. He was going and not ever going back. An immigrant hauling his life in a sixteen foot panel truck. He thought of that poem, The New Colossus and the line that read “Mother of Exiles”. He too almost felt as an exile would, though it was his decision to go. More like an Ex-pat that had become disillusioned with his mother land. The land that bore him with its endless fields of feed corn and soybeans. The muddy river that ran swiftly and claimed countless lives apathetically. He was determined to not be swallowed up. “Am I a runner, a coward, a disgrace?” he pondered. “No.” answering himself. Rather he bemused a thought as some opportunistic Tiger whose keeper left the cage ajar for too long. A return to some wild unknown place that was comfortably familiar. Some place where he could meld into the surroundings, become an unknown, and by that to hopefully know himself truly. Perhaps he did run and decided to rescind that part of him which was tethered to that fertile land. Not to stumble away in panic escaping some looming, chasing fear but to run into the arms of some new providence altogether.

As the sun hung high and blinded him, he set the visor down. The moving truck rattled and bounced down the interstate, bound for the west. His wife followed closely behind with their two cats. A caravan, than, of exiles. Runners on a pilgrimage searching for prosperity and meaning. Six hours away there exists a man that was much like he but with a rekindled light about his eyes. Behind him would always be the shed carapace of the past. In front of him the road stretched long and touched the clear blue sky. He rolled down the window and felt the cool blast of air he no longer would breathe.

I have seen her dry tears

And heard the silent mourning

Wordless agony in the presence

Of life’s absence

We imagine a place barren

When there is not one grass blade

Not one sapling of Hope

To cling our longing hearts

I yearn to see finches collect twigs

To meet the proud King stag

But his palace is an echo now

No mighty oak towers

Or courtyards of wildflowers

Just the smoldering reveries

Of Paradise lost

And a mother‘s grief laid bare

Clutching tightly still

To her burned out dream

You are among dim lights

Daring to illuminate the air

And make space for beauty

There’s beauty there, and

In that dark other

There’s a desolate man

His world is cubic, and fluorescent

He dreams just like Monet

Brush strokes that touch the soul

Maya Angelou lives on

In the center of town

And raises her banner each day

Words bleed from every pore

And the battle for freedom

Always rages in their hearts

In the bombed out shells of Aleppo

Michelangelo schemes and plots

His day is coming

To use that rubble wisely

And rebuild the walls of paradise

The hands of a great builder

Studies his wounds from war

Choosing to enter them freely

Behind that southern barrier

Are we keeping ourselves away

From a Cesar Vallejo?

We would rather close the doors of Eden

And imagine ourselves unworthy

Then catch a glimpse of the divine truth

Which rests in the brave body

Of everyone that is tread under

Great spaces reside inside of atoms

Unclaimed territories

Ideas and concepts not pondered

Paintings, poems, playwrights

Grand statues and structures

Kept in small spaces

You cannot contain the soul though

We are all released sometime

Let us then commission

Every novelist unpublished

Every artist trapped and imprisoned

To pour themselves on canvas

On urban and forgotten walls

Let flow the fountains of imagination

And not deny ourselves any longer

A peek into the keyhole

Of the doors of the divine

The world is white again

White like virgin diary pages,

Crisp and stiff

They say it’s the New Year,

But all I see is the end

Death rides on its pale steed

Sterilizing the air

Stopping the rivers

Burying our deeds in white,

As if they were nothing

Stealing and sucking the heat

Pulling the sky onto our roofs

The farmer laments

And stores away his plow

Great Bears retreat and go down

Into the darkness

And dream of Spring.

The color of age, bleached bones

Bride’s gown and fresh suburban walls

Death and Life,

The end and the beginning

Are absurdly close at this time.

There’s something magical in those colored leaves

That rattle and dance in Autumn breeze

Telling stories of times when green

Dotting the quiet country scene

Although Winter brings their cycles end

What a life they had, I contend

Only a hue so vibrant and bright

Comes from days of vibrant life

Passing through corridors of forests in Fall

Oak, Birch, and Maple stand tall

The wind through leaves they can speak..

“Where streams and valleys and runoffs meet

Our kind has seen the heave and sigh

Of great kingdoms from silent eyes

Countless years of life and death

Countless sunrises, East to West

The most profound thing we have learned

Is through vibrant life, vibrant death is earned”

But how does brilliant Red and gold

Come from gentle kiss of Autumn cold?

The giants response whispered politely,

“You cannot change holding on so tightly

And this we believe it is so

Every splendor worth having must eventually be let go”

There is not much time left. I have been sitting here for what seems like hours. My heart beats with every tick of the clock. The clock hangs on a blank, white canvas. A wall devoid of color or texture, beckoning me to paint it. I gladly color the space with a mental matinee of ifs, shoulds, and what could be. A motion picture begins, a story of tragedy. In this production, the main character is on their death bed. There is not much time left. Family, friends, and staff shuffle in and out through the day. He is tended to and lamented. After sleeping for a while, the main character awakens to blurred objects crowded around his hospital bed. These were not his family, friends nor the hospital staff, but he did recognize them. One of the objects was a car he had always dreamed of owning, another was a home nestled near a forest with a big pond in the front. He also saw several versions of himself, one he was well dressed, stood tall and had a presence of confidence about him. Now he knows what these images are, they were his dreams. They were goals and opportunities that he always told himself he didn't have time for. Now they were approaching him, getting closer, and leaning over the bed now. They all had large angry eyes! In unison, the images shouted down at him, "You could have given us life, but now we must die with you!" Regret, shame, and guilt swept over the man, and he died in that instance. The movie ends. There is not much time left. My heart is beating quickly now, not with panic or fear. Its rhythm is that of a war drum, drawing me to battle. A wave of certainty washes over me, that I am here for a reason. I am here to leave my mark, to own that car, to build that home, and to be the person I have always wanted to be. Even if I am rejected I will never be the man on his deathbed, passing with regret. I will give it my all and more! The two clock hands make a ninety degree. It is time. The receptionist walks over, "Hello. Please follow me and we will begin your interview".