Forth Alone

Back and Forth --

but sometimes, just Forth.

When Forth

ceases to pump,

swing stops.

Muffled

All appears well,

so they assume you're asleep

'neath the heartiest laughter

and many a treat;

but meanwhile, the sentry
in you stays alert

to dissonance under

facades inert . . .

conflicts seething,

undetected,

liable to surface

when least expected.

They break their ties
as they go along

with the smiles and good cheer

of a lighthearted song.

This is their scream:
Anguish's reversed tone
as it writhes in distress,
feeling madly alone.

Treading Earth

Lie, who can chase you

through wind and rain?

When you've run yourself ragged,

Truth rises again.

Empty Hands

Mirages in the desert

are they,

ghostly apparitions

beckoning

smiling

fading

as you --

threadbare, thirsty, hungry --

approach.

Hues of Purple

Purple clouds of sorrow

rain over story 

felled,

old weather-worn tree

plunging to

to forest's floor,

soundless

for lack of

hearers.

Iron

In migraine's grip of iron,

each eyebrow cemented in place,

my head is bowed, my vision bent

to the floor rather than up at a face.

Snap to!  I say.  There's a luncheon to do!

Hurry now, banish the pain!

But drugged feeling persists --

swollen nose, swollen eyes,

and feverishly pulsing brain.

I know not what's to become of me

or the work that is mine to do

when I must succumb every other day

to a cerebral storm anew.

Layers Removed

Nothing comes through as I wish it to,

but something does manage to come;

there is something to reflect upon

when my word labors are done. 

And yet it is not fully there --

the texture of what I see

and feel and live, breathing out, breathing in --

still layers removed from me.

"Portion"

Which portion will inherit

the daylight today? 

Whatever portion this is,

it's too miserable to say. 

Let them wonder, let them laugh,

let them doubt me through and through. 

It doesn't matter what they think --

this portion is so blue. 

"Portion," I say,

and I hate the word! --

it lacks both vigor and form. 

But "portion" it will be until

this truth is fully born.

She

She does not know

what she wishes to say. 

Like a donkey, she follows

while you lead the way. 

She has no map --

it is not hers to bear. 

Another part guards it,

unwilling to share. 

Now and then an intelligent

fragment drifts in,

dropping clues as to news

from without and within.

Kindred

No confusion, really --

but the "we" is a relief

from pretending no divisions

between layers running deep. 

Silence crushes differences

as though they were not there,

keeping them in darkness,

never free to breathe the air. 

They need to let themselves be "born" --

to feel themselves exist. 

There is no other way to help them

consider synthesis.

By Misty Chariot

Drifting souls . . . . .

They "toast" to their dreams

and drink the sun,

floating on fog,

misty chariot

borne aloft

by the wind . . .

here yesterday,

gone today,

and back again,

perhaps,

tomorrow.

Passage

It's a clear-gray day for

realizing,

Spring hanging in the air,

ripening,

melancholy woven through the brambles

like a song half-sung

or an old friend
forgotten.

Discovery

Now what do I really want to say? 

I stand alone, forging my own way --

noting that when I permit a "we"

to write itself out naturally,

body feels much more familiar to me: 

Power flows forth, legs strong and free.

15,000 Yesterdays

Birdie today singing just like
the birdies
of 15,000 yesterdays ago . . .

a day at the paint store!

Old Mr. N. would mix

the paint:

wooden stick for stirring,

a machine,

a method,

then, the pouring -- 

always the same.

Little Mr. N. . . . . .

Plain, white shirt and

wire-rimmed glasses --

"spectacles."

Like a grandpa.

Never had one.

What the Rain Knows

The rain, at times,

puts man to shame,

quickly learning

the angles and creases

of the face

it trickles down,

engulfing skin and bone

where last the brow

furrowed,

where last the lips

smiled,

where last the tears

flowed;

ministering, at times,

sooner

than any

human touch

with its cascading, immediate

embrace

of the whole man

at once.

On Its Own

Life through the shattered lens

some pieces in my hands

I hold them out

hoping others will see

but they don't

say a thing

and I must bind up

the wounds

myself

so truth is now

on its own

with no one to say

anything back. 

When Summer Broke

Early July 

one languid eve,

summer broke. 

Scream shot through room

and out to the trees,

piercing moonlight itself

to obliterate

nightmare

that ripped

reality

in half.

Raison d'Etre

Maybe . . .

when the wind blows

the words will scatter

and someone strolling

on a balmy summer day

will bend over

to pick some up,

turning them over,

looking for patterns

and lines

significant,

not satisfied

until he finds their true

raison d'etre.

Say It!

Say it . . . . .

Sing it!

Let it barrel forth

from the lungs

up into the trees

and the clouds

and watch it soar

high

free

beholden

no longer

to anyone.

(Speaking Colloquially) 1st Step: "Yo"

Yo . . . . .

or

Hey . . . . .

Yes, that would work. 

I mean it very nicely, not intending to be rude or disrespectful at all.  I have trouble, in certain cases which remain mysterious even to me, uttering first names.  This difficulty, when it arises, also carries over into email -- email being a parallel genre.

I've tried writing, "Hello, So-and-So [first name]."  This, however, doesn't fit because, due to my difficulty, I don't habitually greet people by their first names.  I've then tried writing plain old "Hello."   But that just hangs there. 

Of course, I can always resort to my no-fail tactic of simply launching into dialogue.  But this has its drawbacks, such as when my intended recipient occasionally must ask (when I do this in person), "Are you talking to me?"  And, in email -- well, I don't know how this tactic comes across in email.  I probably don't want to know.

Now, "Yo" -- humble, perhaps even despised, monosyllable of slang though it may be -- would really help to ease me through this challenge.  Sometimes I can even manage a first name after the "Yo."  (Fringe benefit:  The "Yo" helps you slide right into the first name painlessly.  Like anesthesia.  You don't even know you've done it, but there you are.)  

Of course, there are those who simply will not tolerate "Yo" or "Hey," or whose age or status clearly forbids such relaxation of expression.  In similar category are those with whom we are newly or more professionally acquainted, either in person or in writing. One must obviously retain common sense in such circumstances and obey the higher standards -- no matter what.  However, there are other, more fluid circumstances which might actually permit one some degree of slow, steady progress from the bottom up.  

It's not "new" for me, this "Yo."  It's old.  I eased out of it over time, thinking that age, alone, had conferred the readiness to give it up.  But, honestly, the freedom to slip into "Yo" or "Hey" with forbearing others, when needed, would make speech and emails so much easier.  After all, I can't expect to move upward on this ladder of difficulty unless I first meet myself where I really am.  And, as you can see, I'm at "Yo."

~ Turquoise

Nature's Watch

Nature has her secrets:

Surely earth remembers well

where flowers sunned and children played,

where sweethearts kissed -- don't tell!

Nature has her cautions,

knows the gentle from the bad;

she flinches from the rough impulse --

the saint's touch makes her glad.

When Evil walks through Nature,

the buzzing air goes "hush" and still,

till you can hear a pin drop --

and if you don't, Evil will.

Nature writes this in her book

of blessed and ruined land,

begging God's protection --

thorough cleansing from His Hand.

Tell Me

Tell me, please, when it's time

for me to sing atop

my faraway mountain,

past and present

united 

in one resplendent light,

history's torch

burning in my heart.

Perspective

Weary is the eye,

turning to sky --

weary of hands filled with

nothing 

wrapped up

as something,

all dressed up

in noise.

The Other Way

Done --

she shook the sand

from dusty feet,

for the dunes had

scorched

and wearied

traveler's heart,

eyes stung

by tears and sand,

view obscured

at every peak,

and not for lack

of height.

Once the sport of

romping, ripping winds,

she calmly walked

the other way.

Incense Rising

When people do not care

as we wish they would,

there is nothing to do,

nowhere to go

to escape the empty void

of hopes gone up in smoke.

We must simply stand there --

no use flinching --

and let the void shower its nothingness upon us,

the scent of charred dreams

heart's incense rising to Heaven

with the mute prayer,

"Please, let this not happen again."

And, somehow,
in that mysterious place
between incense and ashes,
we begin to
survive.

The Habit

Some are blind,

not due to any defect of the eyes,

but because they indulge in the habit

of averting their heads.

No Mixing

There I was, approaching them

from a level deemed lower,

offering my hand

as a token of goodwill,

all but begging,

"May I?  May I please

join you?"

And they slapped down my hand

as impertinent.