Tag Archives: prose

Gathering Ghosts

Some days I feel like a haloed reaper. I carry memories and tears like wings on a gargoyle. Frozen outstretched emotions of guilt that no longer feather air. Just a concrete memory that I wish I could paint back to life.

It’s time that ticks off the emotions. Weather, seasons, darkness all come like lightening. Unexpected flashes of childhood folly or adult dramas playing out as a reminder. I wonder at the places they’ve traveled in spirit; do they know?

I wonder if life in spirit is more colorful than life in body. Does pain dissipate like myst in the spirit, or does it choke you like smoke. Are you smiling down on my naïveté or cynical about my faults. Either way you speak to my understandings in a way I can’t describe and you can’t communicate.

These friends of mine aren’t “up there”. They’re everywhere I remember. Breakfast tables, playgrounds, even the train tracks we romped. I listen to us on the radio and silently hope you would approve, but in the end I am reminded you had your own ghosts.

So to carry these people and places around is an honor. I’m still here creating my ghost. Hoping I can leave the trace of an unknown smile, or a tear in a rear view mirror. I hope I can create a space where yesterday and today come together without the burden of tomorrow. A space where my loved ones can carry with them a moment in the sound of rubber in asphalt. Until then, I’ll carry Ya’all in the summer breeze and winter storm with the same warmth you’ve given me.

Wind

I close my eyes riding the wind through the tenses of my life. Filtered images fly through the dark illuminating scenes through the scent of memory and hope.

I know not where the wind will take me, nor the speed, for there’s a world of difference between the breeze and the gale, but they’re mine none the less.

The sounds of my past aren’t audible. They come through experiences that thunder or whisper to my soul. Interrupted only by the decibels of reality rumbling across my conscientious. The light rain on the tin roof has more color in mind than in my world.

It’s like the sound of rubber rolling on wet asphalt triggers a silence that brings a colorful emotion that’s silent, but heard. Felt in that separate place between memory and hope.

I can’t live here in this darkness full of light, sound, and smells. I can’t push the world far enough away. I can close my eyes and smile, or cry for dreams long past, or hopes that’ve died. Either way the beauty isn’t lost, it’s in me.

Giving Back

I hesitate, my instincts too far beyond my surroundings

Alert, in tune with my heartbeat and the earths warnings

Now I must stop and seek cover from what I fear

Not cowering, not hiding, but living on the edge of finality it’s clear

Trust is the luxury of believers, I’m not a believer anymore, I’m here

Somewhere between safe and sound, I can no longer wander

It serves me well to stay in the shadows, alert and alive

I don’t need the lie anymore. I know under that beautiful garden there’s violence and decay, things we know, but don’t speak of

Don’t sell me assurances you can’t provide, I’m safe alone

I’m tired of all these people I have to be just to make your world complete

It’s been so long you don’t know which one is me, because you fell, fell into the trap and got ensnared in the one that you could never be for more than a moment

I was hear all along watching you melt under the light of an abstract dream. It was warm for a moment, but only the sun can bring true light, true warmth. The others just illuminated what they wish you to see, what they want you to be

Now your not human, not a person, but a part of something so much bigger than you that you can’t see it’s nothing, you’re nothing. You’ve been put to sleep in someone else’s dream.

Not I. I am wild, but free. I feel the heat of the day and shiver in darkness under the moons glow dreaming of sunrises.

What good is a sunset anyway. The end of a day shouldn’t be honored, it should be remembered. Where did we learn to worship the end of anything, it’s beginnings that have hope. All we have in sunsets are reflections and regrets

So I’ll keep your smile and give you back your watch. I’ll keep the sound of your voice, but give you back your words. You’ll need your hands, so I’ll leave with your touch gently caressing my heart. Everything else belonged to the world anyway.

Dust

Dust dances through the attic within shards of light slowly passing time along well worn planks. It’s magic they seek in the eyes of the beholder. They have no fairies or ghosts without the fertile or feeble minds staring in wonder.

Creeks and whistles play staccato games with swaying trees just beyond the pain. But this is a space of remembrance. A place where memories are free to roam through cob webs and yellowed paper.

Slowly I run my hand along wooden chests and metal straps. My mind travels along colorless photos of perfectly groomed alabaster faces wearing oversized suits and cinched dresses. I wonder how long it took these memories to arrive in my hands, in my mind, are they even mine.

I smell the struggle to open these boxes of yesterday. Places and moments are separate in the still morning light. Every box opens with a sigh and closes with a question. Is this real, was that then, or is this some cruel reminder of how distorted time really is. Minutes and hours are easy. Days and nights are bearable because tomorrow still exists. Past this yellow fades white, laughter sounds distant, and feeling is a remembrance or dream.

But I have what’s left of my memories in a box, that’s fortunate. I have captured time, or has it captured me, sometimes I wonder. What my hands can’t grasp my mind helps along. As the dust dances on in the light of a new day I’ll become the memory. A blessing and the curse of a life long lived.

Of Nature and Desire

Concentrically narrowing foliage chokes my optimism with caution. Thorns and petals stalk my path to a less humid endeavors. But this is how truth hides, just beyond the greenery withering in all of us.

The canopy has levels that reveal light one shard at a time, until your above the tangle of vines where there is no forest floor. All you see is beauty framed by heaven as fresh air wisps away the rot decaying below.

If only I could fly away to stone. An edifice imagined. Stolid and thoughtful granite curves that time hides. Water cascades over the riffs she’s etched in my strength. Sun glistens on the darkness creating black rainbows in the mist, and lichen warms the crevices of my souls.

The beauty of this carnage we call nature is odd, like love it takes great pains and grows with time, only to be passed on to the budding life below. The tallest trees see it while taking warmth from above, mocking us as their roots draw from our strength. Their saplings without us withering in the clutches of vines, but it’s beauty to the naive.

Life is a beautiful struggle between our nature and our ideals, between our needs and desires. Inside us the biological and psychological battles constantly feed on us like the worms that till our soul, but all we see are faces as we paint our landscape with beauty.

Randomness

My mind lazily stares at the reflection of the door in the rainwater collecting on the sidewalk. I struggle with which door to open, which door to walk through for the rest of my life. Both have become surreal and the glimmer of hope in my reflection is as real as the sadness behind the pains encased in reality.

In the end choice was an illusion, a weigh station to a truth I already knew. Home is an illusion like the mind. It doesn’t have matter like a house or brain, of which both will eventually collapse. And so it is, choice, the stairway to somewhere, always leads me on.

So is life an illusion brought to life in the reflection of inconsequential notions of reality. Are hope, faith, and prayer the home of truth, reality, and the work that brings shining moments. We aren’t meant to know, only care enough to try.

Does it all matter, probably not, but if you don’t care, it’s not worth living. The reflection means no more than the reality and that’s not a crossroad, it’s a void. A place where nothing has color or tears to dry. A place where death lives and life passes on.

Everything has meaning, has worth if we care. Reality pushed the boundary of sanity at times. So hold onto your reflections with the understanding that life does matter, as do the illusions that give it measure. When this gets twisted you’re no longer real.

Drifter

I sat before eternity silent
No answers did I seek
Listening for the future
To gently kiss my cheek

Being everywhere but nowhere
A space outside of time
Lacked color or purpose
Living in the sublime.

So I stood up and brushed my pants
And walked towards the crossroad
Where I felt a better chance.

And in the distant dust loud
Just behind the ochre road
Death rumbled in the clouds

Not one to take the middle road
I walked with open eyes
An ever slowing pace
Towards ever changing skies

I walked through the mirage,
And into the heat of day
Gathering the colors of life
For when the skies turn gray

The end of the earth is a lie
For fools who dream
Or ask themselves why

There are no rhymes for reason
To hold the truth alight
Just changes of the seasons
Stretching day to night