Anthea

Petrarch said "I have so much to say I dare not start."
He was mute, dumb, in a drab land of greys and ochre
I have known what it is to See, to Dream, to truly know Life
And now, tomorrow, my eyes are sown
                              my mind bound
                              my soul chained and buried alive
I see the snows encroach, not the soft white sledding snows
But the dead grey, car-won’t-start, slip & fall ashen snows,
     The nauseous brown in-the-road slush
          The salt sprayed onto the lawn, green things withering…
Where did the day go Anthea?
It wasn’t a life, maybe, but it was a summer, a winter, two autumns, a spring…
And isn’t that more than a life?
I never cried when my baby brother wasn’t born
I never cried when my cats sighed their deep, last breaths
I’m crying, Anthea, into your words, all I have, I’m crying
It’s love, I know, not the love of kisses and holding hands
It’s the purest love, two friends, never apart, nothing purer in the cosmos
Now I know what a lump in the throat is, an emotion so strong that
If I chose to fly now ants would never know me
 I’ll miss you. I love you.  I do.
My cat sits up with me, pondering together,
           as like a death blow the last living day lurks ever slowly closer,
You said it once, please, I need it again, please
Will Spring ever come again?

Today’s nature calls for a song, O my love,
A song that I have yet to write;
For my ocean is endless and filled with my dreams,
Little girl, they are for your delight.

Today calls to me from the roadside, my heart,
A road that I have yet to walk;
But if that ghost train rattles on by us tonight,
We will sit and with passengers talk.

Today was just humming so softly, my heart,
A tune that I have yet to hear;
Know that when I awake with a smile on my face,
O my love, it’s because you woke near.

Today has its own odd uniqueness, my heart,
A spirit no pen could set down;
But if once more you plea for the kisses I grant,
From my lips will the busses abound.

Today I spent thinking of you, O my love,
Your hands and your hair and your eyes;
That you chose me alone of the world to adore,
Is my life’s most delightful surprise.

A long time ago when we lived in the forest, three sparrows flew through the clouds in search of a treasure called the Tetragrammaton. They flew long and hard, until they long ago left behind the forest, but they didn't stop searching, for it was vitally important. They flew over mountains and oceans and finally, in the middle of a desert, they came to rest. And it was here that the sparrows saw a herd of erdlus, being watched over by a little boy with a truly peaceful smile on his face. The sparrows asked him why he had such a smile and he said "Why shouldn't I, when the sun is bright and warm, and the erdlus sing so sweetly in the morning?" The sparrows said "What nerve to be in such bliss, when we have flown so far from our home in the forest to find the Tetragrammaton and bring it back to all the people!" The little boy looked at them in surprise. "I didn't know you were looking for that!" he said. "Well, then, little birds, you're welcome to it." He then went back to gazing blissfully over his herd of erdlus. The sparrows said "What? You know of it?" And the little boy nodded. "What do you know about it?" they asked, and he said "Only as much as I need to." "Can you help us find it?" they asked. "Of course I can," said the boy, "But first, sit with me a while, and enjoy the sun and the breeze." So the sparrows sat with him, though they were angry that he would delay them so. After a time, they relaxed, all except for one. And they all found that the sun truly was quite lovely, and the breeze felt nice on their foreheads in the hot desert.

They listened to the song of the erdlus, and though the voices of the great birds is harsh to hear, the melody was sweet, and the sparrows sang along with it, finding their own song to be a fine compliment to the voices of the erdlus. But the last sparrow, the biggest of them all, grew furious, and when he saw the beamish grin on the little boy's face, he finally shouted, "Why do you keep us here? We have sat with you, let you rest until by now you must be ready to show us the Tetragrammaton! We don't have time to sit here and sing the day away!!!" And the little boy frowned, and said "Don't you see it? it's there." And he pointed out, into the erdlu herd, and the sparrow saw the largest, most magnificent of the great birds. "Aha!" he shouted, "I've found it!!!" And he flew over to the erdlu, and in his determination, succeeded in lifting it off the ground, and began to fly back to the forest. "Come along" he called to the other sparrows, "we can still bring it back!"

And so the three birds flew away across the oceans and mountains and back through the crowds into the forest. And the biggest sparrow said "We found the Tetragrammaton!" He presented the great erdlu before all the people, who marveled before it. But then something terrible happened. As a raincloud passed over the forest, it poured out over the earth, and the erdlu's feathers were washed away, leaving behind only a sad-looking goat, who simply wandered away from the stunned people of the forest. "I don't understand" fumed the biggest sparrow. "What happened to the Tetragrammaton?" The other sparrows looked sadly at him and said "It was there, and it still is. You didn't take it." "Then we must go back for it!" "No," said the sparrows, shaking their heads. "You can't take it, you can only carry it. You didn't even see it." "And you did?" he asked them. "Yes. And we brought it back with us to share with everyone." "Show us the Tetragrammaton" said the people of the forest. "Certainly," said the sparrows. "But first, sit with us in the shade of the trees, and enjoy the breeze with us." And all the people of the forest joined the sparrows, sitting in the shade and relaxing, all except  the last sparrow, who flew away into the raincloud, furious. "I don't understand!" he moaned. "I just don't understand!!!!"

  A short time ago, when we lived in the city, a little girl woke up with a dream in her heart. "Tetragrammaton," she said, speaking the dream aloud. And so she set off to grow up so she could teach it to all the people of the city.
The end.

     Rain, a beautiful thing

Beautiful night.
The paint wears away as the rain bleeds down
a grim flood from heaven to wash away his sins.
White dribbles off his face, and he gladly drinks God’s wrath.
He is above it all, the music surges through his soul
and wandering he finds his tracks lead to the crossing
where lay once a child, split clean in half under the train.
He is carried still further, and still it pours over him.
He sinks not in the mud, but in a deeper, fouler slime
which he exudes from within
and standing above us he sighs.
His limbs ache with weariness,
his tongue with thirst,
and his belly with hunger, though he craves not food.
He has no choice but to walk on, praying.
And in the end he ceases prayer,
preferring instead the silence of his trek.
Silence punctuated by the hissing of the cleansing flood.
And yet it does not cleanse; it only washes him away.
All tears are washed from the streets, all ill-spilt blood,
but they shall again be wept and poured on the morrow.
And so he walks on.
From the mouths of gargoyles it rages
and to the core of his bones it chills,
and to his soul it but erodes, washing him down the drain.
And so he walks still on.
Now the last traces of a child’s urine wash away
while she clutches her knees in the arch of a door.
A dirty, naked doll floats through the street,
vanishing at last in the drain.
In the din.
In the cacophony of life, the tiny discordant notes are easy to ignore.
He wanders all night, hoping somewhere to leave it behind,
and the morning finds him still there,
and still the flood pours over him,
and still
and still…
perhaps his answer finds him at last.
In the glory of the rising sun,
with a glint in his eye,
and nary a shadow to his face,
he has found it at last, the key,
finally, solace reaches him,
finally,
he has given up.
And satisfied, he finds something to eat.

I love hearing rumors about myself.
Maybe it’s just an ego thing.
And I always, when I read a story,
Like to think of what it looks like to everyone around it.
I think the greatest people aren’t the central figures,
But the off-center ones, orbiting just out of sight.
Sometimes the best character isn’t a starring role,
But billed at the end as "The Second Tall Man."
That’s me, in the background
With just my hand and left eye on the magazine cover.
Is it any wonder, then, is it any surprise
That, once in a while,
I like to have a story of my own?

Why do the humming birds their bodies fling
Upon the cracking window by my bed,
Disturbing me from most beloved dream,
Evoking migraines, aching in my head?
It makes me cranky, waking me up thus.
I do not like to wake up before noon.
For all the morning I'll complain and fuss;
The world will wish I'd stayed up in my room.
But then to mind a thought does make its way:
Today I must be up and make my rounds,
Perfect this house until it gleams today,
For soon her foot shall step upon these grounds.
     The golden sun will never cease to shine
     As long as in my arms is Caroline.