Growth

Linda Vachon. Tete De Caboche

Linda Vachon. Tete De Caboche

Whatever was left of me/ after the dream/ the night watch prowled/ wolves/ looting uninvited orgasms/ I am still/ one of the hunted

How could those/ so rank with sin/ with misery/ and hopelessness/ claim sainthood/ proffer a living, breathing/ judgement day/ guarding/ no/ this/ this was never about protection/ The disappearances/ crimes against humanity/ unspeakable/ new and improved/ methods of torture/ silenced poets and artists/ sickened the healers/ corrupted altruists and heroes/

The impossible became real/ we didn’t know where it was coming from/ sudden shooting pains/ dull aches/ we were being burned alive/ They called us schizophrenics/ they were stealing our country from us/ we had to find a way/ to defend ourselves/ we had to fight/ an invisible enemy/

These were acts of war/ unauthorized invasions/ turning us against ourselves/ against each other/ the final stop/ complete control/ enslavement/ they had such/ as sense of entitlement/ no boundaries/ ownership/ burning red/ they were stealing our country/ from us/ a burning red flat line/ our children would have to battle/ if we couldn’t overcome/ an enemy/ we could not yet locate/

It was never paranoia/ rather/ it was that we were/ fully aware/ of the capability of evil/

In the absence of choice/ lies enslavement/ violation/ both internal and external/ In the absence of choice/ there is a ravine/ of lost souls/ stolen selves/ and whatever is left/ on the other side/ of this makeshift reality/ is paraded through the streets/ what was once brilliance/ now a laughingstock/ by a torrid, mindless mob/ of witch hunters/ destroyers of dreams/ and potential/

All which was once held sacred/ now disposable/ to a frothing/ insatiable/ void/ of broken killers/

They are everywhere/ the Devil’s Herd/ the bringers of death/ holding/ what Aristotle named/ ‘The Immovable Movers’/ hostage in their own lives/ and make no mistake/ they will break you/ if it is the last thing/ they ever do/

For now/ all we have is our humanity/ that part of us/ that cannot ever be broken/ residing somewhere between/ freedom and struggle/ each/ our own compass/ metaphysical/ free to choose/ our own transcendence/ a destination

 

 

Advertisements

Hermit and the Magic Blue Marble

aab33b40de44ffeea246e0190f5ecbee(Arthur Rackham, Comus.)

Part One

Beyond the pictured rocks

where lichen licks the ground,

beneath the cursed moon

where even wolves no longer howl,

within the hills and valleys

of the darkest forest floor,

lived a man named Hermit

from the gold archaic shores.

He was made of leaves and branches

and the soil he traversed,

he wore the wisest lifetimes

that have dwelled upon the Earth.

From the clearest turquoise waters

in the deep, subconscious blue,

the old time-traveler came upon

humanity’s noblest truth.

It was just a small, blue marble

that washed up on lucid shores,

when he found, next day, within his hand

which wasn’t there before.

He had heard of magical objects

like this marble, often in jest,

still, he wondered how it came to him

and what powers it possessed.

Hermit roamed the Earth with just

this treasure and his past,

his mind was free to wander upon

existence, at long last.

He witnessed wondrous miracles

that most others never see,

felt the depths of empathy

where the mind is truly free.

Part Two

By no means was Hermit a holy man,

yet, he’d seen a time or two,

occurrences lit unexplained,

no words to proffer proof.

He had seen some bearing torches

with their axes and their rage,

half-formed judgments, hunting witches

to their burning, exiled fate.

In a forest clearing where shooting stars

collect like dust,

survivors of the witch trials

piece their very own Sirius.

The walls of cavernous comets

climb the sky in shimmering gold,

each irreparable disaster,

like lotus petals, are told.

Behind tearful, dimming eyes,

they try with all their might

to break free of the hopelessness,

spread broken wings and fly.

Though his marble had gotten heavy

and his feet were swollen and sore,

he couldn’t bring himself to ask them

to bear half a burden more.

As he began to leave, to make certain

he did no harm,

one of the brightest dying ones

took the marble from his arms.

Suddenly something strange arose

like terror in her eyes,

a scorching, empathic realization,

a connection both were inscribed.

The powers this magical object held

suddenly became apparent;

it seemed to absorb the life experiences

of the person who possessed it.

The moment it was passed into

the hands of someone else,

the marble made it possible to feel

what the previous holder felt.

After offering Hermit a place to rest,

the outcasts chimed their goodbyes

as he set out alone, once again,

beneath dying, existential skies.

Part Three

Through the Hawthorne and Clover, the prairies and hymns,

over each disbelieving trespass,

Hermit collected each chaos like a quantum scar,

and with his marble he continued his path.

He was looking for a Queen by the name of Wretch,

for, this Queen Wretch had it all,

she had riches gold, she had tubs without mold,

she even had a dog named Raul.

Queen Wretch’s reputation was luminous,

her tantrums as known as her greed,

though it seemed lately Queen got a bit out of hand

so perhaps she’d need learn to take heed.

On his journey, Hermit saw over-turned tables,

he saw Redwoods and Elms snapped in half,

he saw wolves with three tails, peeped green, slimeless snails,

could have sworn he’d seen a motherless calf.

All the gnomes and elves who guarded the Queen

spoke in strange little symbols and codes,

they had much stranger methods to silence all creatures,

strike fear right straight down to the bone.

The Queen and her minions built castles and bridges,

they sent waves crashing down through the sky,

they trenched one’s worst fears, redirected wind shears,

made sure there was nowhere to hide.

A war-torn world the city became

under the evil Queen’s rule,

friends became foes, so tragic how most

intellectuals were mocked as mere fools.

A practical nature, Hermit possessed,

yet, a seeker of spirit and height,

he knew no one could grow under Queen’s reign,

as there seemed never an end to the night.

 

The Darker Side of Light

d355dbc52646ecf94fa6e3a648a3c36d

(Christopher Nevinson, Paris, LA NUIT, 1919)

 

There is a box.

Within the box

is a storm.

 

My ears ring

to the sound

of penance.

 

They sent me off

with the lunatics

and bringers

of death.

 

Back into

my mother’s womb,

I lit the flame

of hope.

 

To make sense

of the unfathomable-

constellations.

 

 

Find Me

cropped-wpid-wp-1413482914212.jpeg

 

Promise me

that in your next life,

you’ll find me.

 

When you’re safe,

when you’ve healed,

when you’ve stopped hurting me

and yourself.

And it matters

right now

what we do,

because even if we get

another life,

I may come back as

starlight

seven light years from Earth.

And you may wonder why

this one star,

of all the billions of stars,

holds relics of

something familiar,

something almost painful

that makes you grasp

how far away

seven light years really are.

 

And if the starlight

finds you

in your next life,

remember when we took for granted

the time we shared,

and how many times

we crossed paths,

never considering that,

just maybe,

space and time

were trying to tell us something.

 

That, of all the possibilities,

of all the people or things

we could have been,

of all the eras

we could have lived in,

of all the particles or forms

we could have taken,

we had this life

on this Earth,

and, still,

we disregarded the fate

and the destiny of it all,

never considering that,

just maybe,

space and time

were trying to tell us something.

 

 

(This poems appears in my soon-to-be published book, “Piecing Shards:  Poems on Loss and Redemption,” out in June.)

Pull Me Down

c9058a32f222e83c2c628a4214fb8fa0

(for my mother, in loving memory of my grandmother 12/29/29- 1-16-10)

Pull me down
to that place
you don’t allow words.

I have never been
afraid of the dark.

Scatter the fragments, I will
speak on your behalf
against the tidal pain
of your past, I will
fight for the remnants of
who you once were.

You will be heard like the
thunderclap of retribution,
and they will all know
what cannot be undone.

Pull me down
to that place
that made you
who you are.

I will channel your truth
as if it were my own,
harness it during your departure
to calmer waters where
exile moons
will both grieve and heal the
loss upon loss upon loss
that sent you fleeing
to that place
you don’t allow light.

Pull me down
and I will fly you out
on the wings
of your suffering,
waiting to be told.

(Originally written in 2012, this poem will be featured in my future poetry publication, “Exile Moons.” Also, I wanted to end 2014 on a note of compassion, as so many I care for have had quite a difficult year. My heart and words go out to you.