Song of the Soul

Something was lost in the cracks

(my trust in truth) --

and I must pull up the floorboards 

in search of it,

for the music calls . . . . .

Crushed underfoot,

I crawl,

hands patting the ground for rocks and

splinters --

but if knees will get me there,

I'll go,

for the music calls . . . . . 

Head throbbing,

heart sobbing,

I clutch pieces of reality shattered --

with these I will build,

for the music calls . . . . . 

Memory sleeping,

only fragments awake --

they keep watch through the dream-infested night,

awaiting first birdsong,

for the music calls . . . . .

Raw-kneed, I shiver,

my hands, how they quiver . . . . .  

But -- listen! 

The music calls.

Time Keeper

Time escaping, fleeing my grasp . . . . .

Music weaves loose ends together at last. 

Tones deep, melodic -- Love molded in sound,

Eternity's heartstrings touching ground.

A Synchrony Apart

Vision stacked in layers,

a plural "I," or "we" -- 

the many phases,

meshed or solo,

of multiplicity.

Nameless

Body still bewildered

after all these years,

tissues thick

with unshed tears,

the swollen salts

of pain. 

Cells,

frantic and depleted,

thrashing off-course,

old pathways

steamrolled: 

High adrenalin,

in its wake,

leaving some cells

flattened

while scrambling the codes

of others,
replacing person
with nameless anguish. 

Comfort,

an unsolved

mystery.

Claiming the Dawn

"The canvas isn't broad enough!" thought I,

and with the sunrise I jumped up,

taking my hives and my shredded past

out for a ride 

to catch the dawn,

soul expanding with the horizon

to the tunes of pre-Thanksgiving Christmas songs

("Do You Hear What I Hear?"  I do!  I do!),

drumming my pen on the wheel,

wanting to write, drum, and drive all at once;

and the morning bustle was still there

(I had to check) --

trails of cars, headlights streaming in the morning light,

school buses pausing as mine used to do.

Thrilled to be part of the world's pulse was I,

and the clock started ticking again --

this time for me! -- my morning, my sun, my ride --

and back up the driveway I drove,

glowing from the harpsichord rhapsody

of "The Gordian Knot Untied" on 105.9 . . .
needing to celebrate. 

Furtive chase of the dawn completed,

I made the morning coffee

at 8:30 a.m. today 

for the first time in eight years --

two scoops, French Roast organic.

(Better make that four.)

Look Alive

Left to rot in a deserted garden

of walls and dank silence,

some benumbed part of spirit

still languishes there,

unable to rise,

too weak,

too deathly tired

even to look up.
Onlookers,
never noticing the void,
smile and wave.

A Moment of Weakness

Yesterday's terror

still under the skin,

raw nerves, too alert,

now burning within.

What will push the fright

still lodged inside me out for good?

Others' understanding?

Perhaps, perhaps, it could . . . . .

Of Tunnels and Walls

"Today" is like an enigmatic tunnel,

bright and without visible walls,

giving the illusion of

an unobstructed view;

meanwhile,

numerous peripherals
drawn in yesterday's colors

hide behind shadows

that I cannot see,

elusive bricks 

of a forbidding wall

as dense as it is

invisible.

Who can see, after all,

that which one has

forgotten?

Shades of Person

Shades of person

rushing in,

slipping out,

causing a din.

Shades of person

sharing space,

nature torn

behind one face.

Shades of person,

sisters and brothers,

joint knowledge of some things

and not of others.

Shades of person

plus one empty shell:

Guardian only,

but who could tell?

In the Grip

Awakened! --

to the night holding its breath,

past having entered

while I slept,

air electric

with watching and being watched,

molecules observing molecules observing something (me?) --

something past 

and

something present

jelling . . .

stalkers of empty space

formless, pulsing,

humming mutely.

Hearing their eyes

(through a sense I cannot explain),

I dare not move

for fear of being

seen.

At Bay

The fissure is felt daily

as I move from hour to hour,

an opaqueness in back references

over which I have no power,

a blank between the shorelines

of the old life and the new,

stretching forth to hold at bay

cogent links between the two.

Memory plays hide-and-seek

with signposts abruptly showing

then vanishing all over again --

stashed away beyond my knowing.

Islands

Fragments of a common source,

islands of awareness --

one near,

one far;

one mine,

one not mine . . .

perhaps hers.

And poetry

won't explain her --

she, who, like a spooked horse,

was stopped dead in her tracks
and remains there,
frozen.

Shift

A sensitive nerve tweaked

by talk of weakness and failings,

then a subtle shift inside.

The poetry changes,

as I am left without a script,

agenda skewed,

lodged on a new plane of thought,

unfamiliar.

Tried to glean the last wind of thought

that passed through,

but to no avail.

Here, there is no

map,

and feelings last forever.

Nothing more to say 
on such a disorienting day.

The Odyssey

Still so confusing,

a superimposed awakening by degrees,

visually jarring each time

as I steal second glances

(keep it smooth, smooth),

and it's just so unheard of,

this Rip Van Winkle feeling

of "'conscious' but still 'coming to.'"

Can't grasp how they've aged this way -- is this real?

Yes, yes, the wrinkles are real -- it's serious.

Now 20 years have passed

and there was this big bridge over this big gap

which I obviously missed crossing (no bridge left for me),

so in the last five minutes I quickly leapt over the chasm.

Late, I'm so late,

don't want to be left behind

(although I really am),

and here I am,

rolling, rolling, 

grass, twigs, and dirt

stuck to my hair and clothes (clean up -- you're a disgrace!)

like a parachutist just

landed

after an emergency exit -- 

20 years ago.

Good luck to me.

Synthesis

A shift to the left,

and the present came into full focus,

herself abruptly inserted back in it --

after months of dislocation

when she'd found herself standing

just to the right of present time,

watching it fly by,

helpless to feel a part, 

unable to claim her place,

lonely for her place,

lonely for herself,

aching for her time --

because this was not her time.

Her time, instead, had merged into that of a

much younger self,

raw, unfinished,

nudged precipitously out into the present

but not part of it,

an energetic fragment

with fervent wishes and dreams

and the vehement "I won't" of youth.

But tonight, all is calm and clear

in present time --
young and old side-by-side,
no decades clashing,
no battle of wills.
From the benevolent heights of peace,

older beholds the younger, willful and alive,

and knows now, as a mother learns her child,

the impossible wishes that can

never be granted.

She knows,

and the knowing must become

the fulfillment.

Many Little Heartbeats

To go blind yet continue talking sanely on the outside,

unable to hear one's own conversation

while, petrified, falling into a black void within,

taunted and nearly annihilated in the depths

as one separated level of consciousness

rises abruptly over another --

this is both a disaster and a

miracle . . .

sad evidence not of intrinsic pathology,

but rather of a

well-fortified shelter 

constructed, by the grace of God,

in many little heartbeats of a child's 

terror.

Pieces of Past

Like a hailstorm

they rain down,

sprinkling the scene:

Torn-off corners and

assorted snatches

of old photographs,

infinitesimal fragments

of glossy snapshots

poised from this angle

and that,

a jumbled jigsaw

of scattered colors,

dim outlines,

and missing sections . . .

all awaiting the Hand that will

retrieve the lost segments,
retouch the fading hues,

and reassemble history
fractioned.

Mind in Flux

Tilt the model to the right,

and the interior landscape changes,

perspective beginning 

from a different angle,

light beams and shadows falling upon

different walls

at different levels,

a uniquely new view granted

by each tilt of the whole,

reality holding steady throughout,

while a single room

is scrutinized variably

through unlimited positioning.

Misplaced

Sad tremors inside,
time flying by me,
me flying by time,
grim feeling overhead,
something ominous,

something outside of the day
pulling me away
from clocks,
from time,
from myself.
I see myself now,
sitting there in the library then,
frantically typing,
dislocated;
how strange time felt.
After 10 minutes (clock sprinting)
the computer asked
if I wanted more time,
and I seized the time --
"Yes! More time!"
because, you see, there's never enough,
never enough time,
before things change abruptly
and slip away
as though they had never been,
and the world around me shifts --
which would be bad enough all by itself --
but then, I also shift.

Which way are we pointing now?
Is grief this bad?
Is this grief?

Reverberations

Borne back in time
by familiar sky and slant of sun,

anxiety streams from every pore,

stomach grinds.

A small wound rips open in the now,

bright sunlight threatening to expose

the gaping one beneath.

Tearless sobs rumble in the depths,

muffled,

like distant thunder
when it rolls through the mountains --

the sound of truth

trying to 

rise.