....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ Charm Perform the charm. Ward off ill wind. Watch the moon and calculate how many days from Walpurgisnacht and maybe you'll be safe- but it's not about death; not about death at all when you feel like falling as you stand still, it's about loss. Edges feather out from days, it's never really the end, the edge, it's water under no moon, the dark heart Catastrophe, the Black- Out of the soul. The Two Reapers Hatred has a sister- smaller, easier to slip by. Her name is Envy, speaks in a softer voice, and wears a lovely necklace like a lei that she'll loop round you, strung with flowers made of flattery and finesse; in terms of deadliness, this one is more dangerous. Hatred cannot hide herself- she's much too loud. Gives you the time you need to plan how you will handle her. Envy never speaks above a whisper and she'll smile as she turns the knife and tells you, with sincerity, your assailant fled on foot, as she gives the knife a quarter turn then watches as your head rotates to follow her green eyes to where they're looking but her eyes are always on you, every minute. She's the one who never sleeps. Hatred must collapse in full exhaustion now and then, completely spent, but Envy shows she can pace herself. She bides her time, she knows she'll find a crack that she can widen till it swallows you, but leaves her safe and sound standing at the edge and finally looking down, not .....up at you -which is the very thing she wanted all along. Swept Away Bridge washes out. Sometimes, there's nothing to be done, but sit on the bank and wave your feet in the water, feel the movement. Know things pass on through whether you dam or not. Thunderous though it may be, you might grab hold of a piece that's moving violently but if it's precious, hang on tight. Hold forever. Shake your fanny at fate and hate all 'destination'. Know you've built where you stand planted, you and the myrrh you claim will be enough; if it named you, then you've earned it. Loosen what will wrest itself away and let the rapids take what's left: it's flotsam, dancing flotsam. Cling to things that will not stray and hold. Suckers Old lady four doors down has cats she takes in- gets attached, but the cats are strays, and never seem to stick around for longer than a month, so it seems she's always broken-hearted when marmalade Lady or crooked-legged Tabby take a powder. How do I tell her some things fail so frequently, predictably, their failure feels like status quo and comforting in its clockwork. Why is it she cannot know the other shoe will drop- not only when, but where the thing will land? I tell you it's Charles Schultz's 'Peanuts': Charlie Brown, believing Lucy will hold the football, (but belief cannot prevent his getting cornholed every fall), his big round head face-up, staring at a patch of embarrassed sky, Lucy snatching the thing just as he takes his kick. I think I'd recommend a pinch of cynicism, which is worth a pound of raw-eyed sadness- (not a peck, not enough to make you hardened) but to be taken just in the blessed .......................nick .......................of time. 911 Nine one one September eleventh: nine one one emergency- don't tell me there's no serendipity, coincidence or irony at work here, and wholly to be feared. Enough A hole in the center of things can make a mighty unstable platform. For all the whining I have done I think it's time to climb. The air is all I've ever had, my toes know clouds. Hard Unforgiving. I am unforgiving of liars and materialists, self-promoters and every other form of salesman. I do not forgive the ambitious, the bullying, the self-righteous and every other form of preacher because I believe no one before I can watch the way that they behave. It is not the words, it is the living of the words. And I have been asked how lonely is it when you cannot forgive; just enjoy the things you can, but I say the person and the deed are one, that I am not lonely at all, have found a few who look the same in every light and that suffices. The poem and the poet are one, and if they are not then I'll just pass on through. I've Heard Enough Voices, voices the sound of urgency, of sawing wood, wasp swarm bigger than any I've heard before, this constant thrum I can't escape like the click of a thousand beetles, pleas of hear me, hear me. I need some sacred hush: churchyard at midnight, and the white light that forms around stones bent into right angled quiet- something easy to understand. My own heart counting off beats, taking its time. Space If you held my hand right this minute, and asked what in all the world I would want I'd say I'd like to be drifting on an ice floe under perfect stars too far away to matter. The cold cold wind at my cheeks and the dark water and this sharp face in it. Swan Dive When that last square of ground is pulled out, the feet are confused at first- meeting air, cutting through it. Toes are not wings beating at currents as though to lift, drift higher, sail on Will or by the grace of something more benevolent than this abyss with its black face- that is a dream. And this is a dream of falling and there is no greater fear: smashed like pottery against stone, that first phantom step- nothing more solid than thoughts in my head that have the sound of bone on bone or dice in a cup, where the house never loses. On To Page 15 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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