the way

Come with me, I said,
because you did not know the way.
                     I know a transcendental
                                                        land.  Listen,
                                                                   I said, because life is
                                                                      short and time is sweet
but you would not take my hand
and
it hurt me to watch you wither so.
                                              So, I relented,
turned the way I knew,
how I was shown.
Mea Culpa. No, Mea Culpa.,
                  No, it does not matter
                                             and
it never did.  Take my hand, you said, come with me,
I know the way. But instead, I
         went the
          way I knew, the way of law and penitence.
  And in valley, low and barren, like a relict weeps with
           tears, profuse, I shed
story after story,
and in my mind,
began to write the
  epic
 where we,
the noble fated pair had lost our
way,
spilling words to soil till at last there
         grew renewal
                           and I heard a voice say, come with me.

The story's long and over now and
                                           who said what and
                                            when?
It does not matter.
 The way is calling.

Another and another

Another
           ridiculous tragedy.
More innocent lives.

Each time,
I find I watch less coverage,
              though, I'd rather not admit that.
                 It's clockwork, now and
seems my hands
                 are, lately, in
                          the air.
                                  I'm wanting to believe in
the there's-more-good theory,
but cynicism shakes
                           his head
                                   and says, ha,
not world
                                                              wide.
But I don't know.
I've never been world wide.
I just have an inkling that America is a
bubble, so we're still
             surprised,
and from the woodwork, comes, not crawling out but
                                                sauntering at,
with a challenge crafted personally,
it seems,
for me,
a friend.  Why, he
asks, are there pleas
for prayer, offered thoughts, but no one asking this: (and here comes the million
dollar question) If there is a God...
...
...
why
would
he
allow. This?  I pause long enough to ponder not
               so much his
point as the point.
      The reason he points it toward
me.
We've had this conversation once before.  Years ago.
I failed then
             to
give a satisfactory answer,
           so wonder if he's
          still wondering
                 or just laying down a trump card.
This
             isn't Heaven, I tell him.
We need to need a God.  Free will, I say.

 Bullshit.

That's his final answer.

Burn

Flames,
         spirited in their right, engulf the entirety
of what they had built, and she watches,
as
          though a wanderer from another
place,
   another time;
as if what ignites
                                             was never
hers.
                                                 She is
unharmed, and unafraid,
budding and removed,
   doll-like stoic.  The fire will finish,
   dominate the landscape - child's play-
unaware or uncaring of its wreckage.
                                     She is never
going back.
Guilt burns there, and her heart
    is free.
The whole thing, a tragicomedy,
the hissing witch cackle licking up
                           a life.
Blue blood red heat
                              lights
                                                bright.
The
grey
has yet to settle, but
                     later,
she will remember how it all went up.
      When everything
            else begins to fade, and
contrast once stark, liquefies,
      the memory of that generous
wild taking under,
will elevate
         and burn.

Worn Out

Yeah, I get this,
                 how
                the new,
like love,
surprises.
How
                time rides in, stale
but
                             seasoned,
war wounded and chiding
                                 and I'm hiding
                                        in bed
afraid
of her reasons,
             afraid to come to
                      terms with the gaps in last
                                                     night's landscape.
Bloodshot
                                                                   eyes
                                                                        squeezed tight
against
                                                                                       the halcyon,
deriding day awaiting,
writing letters instead
                                                                                                    in my head
to stave off
the
                                                                                                                 ache of the not many memories, still inflamed
                                                                                                                                  with regret.
The
                                                                                                                                        happenings
of which
           harp tired,
feeding me, aching,
still
gaping,
reminding me
how really worn out this
        really is.

There is a thought

There is a thought-
that we -
you and I -
are satisfied with
                                      struggle,
resist,
perhaps,
the triumph.

This
view
points,
merely at what we've seen, but not accepted.
With
                                     hardened hearts,
we reenlist, know more of war than
want of peace.
            Prolonging battle, we are enlivened
                                        when
                                        wrought with
fear.

We vow resilience but
contend more
with absence of crisis, adrift
          at empty sea.
Our
voices ring out promises of
death
and our faces stoic
       opposing fate,
we paint our
land with
        war.
Ships at night,
         we search
but not
for safety.
No, some other cause charts our course.
Unyielding, we force still waters part, little gods, we're sure, defending
                                      dearly,
choice and chaos.
Under weight of wintry beryl,
we splash through waves of our own making
when all we'd have to do is
                                                   swim
to shore.
What unreasonable wrath has
chained us thus to
                 think
we thrive most honorably amidst the
               billows?
When,
spent,
will we give up our fight
against
                       these slanderous enemies within our
                        heads?
For, pulled out,
in
grace,
we flee the open air and
                feign
                     need of shelter, rejoice
                     not in freedom but in the
                               refuge of some hole we've dug to
                                                       hunker down in,
shocked by our quick evasion of the void.
                                                      The
bomb dropping
                   is the
                            truth.

We are the infidel; faithless.
                                     So,
     dissenting from deliverance,
                             we are prisoners to hate.

The Sunday Whirl

                         
                                                   

of love

Inflicted, shall I embrace this
       thorn?  Bend beneath
       the will?

Infected, shall I resist
        this imperfection? Fight
        incitement? This
        tyrannous whirl?


Ardent bands of brilliance
                          light my
escape, and breathing humble
                   but emboldened
                   by embers, I find
                                     I
can
follow your
song.

Do you hear me?

It's only you, and I resist
                     and I
succumb.

Your hands know of this,
recognize pain.

I see
but won't believe.  I believe
but won't see.

Shall I persist in weakness,
                    take flight in
blindness or wait for sight?

Once much afraid,
                       I am in
                                need
of a brand new name.
That i might set forth also,
                   set like flint
my face.
Learn of love.

Write at the Merge

The Show Must Go On

My back relieves my heart;
                                       takes up the aching,
doing us
both a favor.

Carry on Tuesday