Curling at the Edges

(A blast from the past. Now with full audio.)

Roiling at the seams

in browned spots

the print, smeared

still holds flecks of the image

the profile was meant to be.

 

Lower, still

the ageless quality of a tree

rising from the hunched cranial

(let us admit: too large) cavity

rooted in the faded flesh

our fingerprints

 

so gently blurred;

without a stream to drink from

it curled and devoured

the paper that gave it breath.

Perhaps, even, its branches

would die to give us this moment.

 

I have heard it called quaint,

our gentle hording

of a memory,

 

but the thoughts that resurrected

the flesh beyond those roots

was once quite dear

though without the stream

it rippled free into distortion

like the beating of a dream

 

of a drum, of a thought;

the water carried me away

one day

rootless under the surface

with nothing but the edges

of a curling notion.

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Shadows Drifting

under a fleeing moon

whispers of a friend’s shadow

drifting across the clouded lake

even the birds lost

for the words

for the colors

in a storm

–

Flesh

–

the only barrier

to crossing

that divide

Psalms She Sang

She stands with the leaves

gathered about her knees like piling waves

receding back to the rocky side of the driveway,

fingers tinted the same sacred blue as the sky.

 

Trees have bared themselves for her

and she stops her labor to watch

September’s cold flicker on their boughs,

palms open to the sky.

 

Spires tinged amethyst, reaching

for the puckered kiss which taunts

the picture of an impatient smile

black flies harrow.

 

I remember stepping off the porch

slim light trails in the rainbow mess of symbols

which sought to scream her precarious footfalls on fresh earth,

She and I, and the setting sun.

Self-Destruction

Shadow in the light

the fawning eyes to name

casting bones and scrubbing runes

not for shaman by the same

but for pretentious by its game.

Belief in self

twisted, twined, no longer paramount

a confession of the eyes

we named a pedestal of no account—

a devil’s playground at the fount.

Drifting through the gravel

the hero left to solace of the sand,

a world boxed in by seeds of its devotion

the drifting ides of foreign hand

hemmed us into falling land.

Ghosts of Remembrance

the tide

—–ghosts left behind

suckles at devils’ smiles

and sops marionette strings

 

shining in the moonlight

huddled in the marrow

 

of eternity and dreams

without faceless distance to

 

spare me the darkness

of beautiful remembrance.

Curling at the Edges

Roiling at the seams

in browned spots

the print, smeared

still holds flecks of the image

the profile was meant to be.

 

Lower, still

the ageless quality of a tree

rising from the hunched cranial

(let us admit: too large) cavity

rooted in the faded flesh

our fingerprints

 

so gently blurred;

without a stream to drink from

it curled and devoured

the paper that gave it breath.

Perhaps, even, its branches

would die to give us this moment.

 

I have heard it called quaint,

our gentle hording

of a memory,

 

but the thoughts that resurrected

the flesh beyond those roots

was once quite dear

though without the stream

it rippled free into distortion

like the beating of a dream

 

of a drum, of a thought;

the water carried me away

one day

rootless under the surface

with nothing but the edges

of a curling notion.

Grandpa Told Me

When I was little

Grandpa told me

the secret to success.

 

Little as I was

I old myself

to each their own.

 

Years later,

cowed behind a desk,

I wonder.

History Repeats

English: Intricate sand castle sculpture, in Victoria (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Under the twilit motes

he walks

with barefoot miniatures

across the asphalt deserts

of their play.

Exploration or

Resurrection.

People, Peace, and Past

For these United States, yesterday was a day of remembrance. Ten years past, terrorism struck the heartland in one of the biggest horrors the nation has ever witnessed. It was one of those moments blazed into the psyche. Into the soul. Hardly a person can’t be turned to and asked, “Where were you when the Towers fell?” In many ways, it was a moment that defined this generation, for this and many other countries as well, as it kicked off ten years of war, fear, and globally shifting ideas of security.

Suitably, the dedications yesterday were far reaching – the connections, the memories, and the tears all treated with the highest of honors and dignity. Today, on this, the Monday of Quotes, the Waking Den would like to share, in the same vein, a few words throughout the ages on people, peace, and the past…

Our country is not the only thing to which we owe our allegiance.  It is also owed to justice and to humanity.  Patriotism consists not in waving the flag, but in striving that our country shall be righteous as well as strong. 
~James Bryce

Peace cannot be achieved through violence, it can only be attained through understanding. 
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The real differences around the world today are not between Jews and Arabs; Protestants and Catholics; Muslims, Croats, and Serbs.  The real differences are between those who embrace peace and those who would destroy it; between those who look to the future and those who cling to the past; between those who open their arms and those who are determined to clench their fists. 
~William J. Clinton

Man is harder than iron, stronger than stone and more fragile than a rose. 
~Turkish Proverb

The past is our definition.  We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it. 
~Wendell Berry

Spring Haiku

I fade in secret

Heart with the rain and the leaves—

Wilting spring flowers.