What Scares You?
A cry, a soundless wail in the distance
Calls, seeking relief, redress
Images, memories emerge, awaken
Wanting to enter
Wraith at the horizon, the boundary of vision
Treads, leaving no prints except those familiar pathways in my soul
I grieve the dead
I mourn the now cold life that was
Ought is now not and haunts me still
But what have I do to with specters in the dark
Except, breathless, trembling I turn
Knowing the wraith is me
Weeping alone there in the shadows
In the moments just before ink marks the page I know that words will fall short. For who could capture Her with mere paper and ink? But I am compelled to try hoping that my attempt, though clumsy and sophomoric, may in some small way reflect back the beauty that I have recognized in Her.
She is new to me, yet I have known her forever. Even so I have just begun to experience, to comprehend Her. She has captured my attention and stirred longings thought bruised beyond rising. It is now Her face I seek, Her call that I await. And in the between times I remember, I wonder, I muse.
I remember Her form, Her fragrance, the way She fits my body. I wonder how it is that she has so easily assumed this space in me. I muse about the meaning of this dance begun between she and I.
With Me she is familiar. She is bold but not brazen. Her confidence is that of assumed kinship and intimacy. How is it that She feels like Home? How is it that a raging passion and peaceful sweet rest can co-exist?
She is dainty yet powerful. I have watched a dull room energized at Her approach. Men straighten themselves in hopeful anticipation of Her glance or smile, grateful for any small attention. Women appraise Her, hoping for an ally, dreading competition with Her light.
Her smile is a magic thing. It is infectious and sensual. Her mouth shaped in anger is pouty and full beneath a furrowed brow.
Her movement is fluid and natural as a young doe. She is at ease and alert. She is finely wrought and utterly feminine, Her spirit at home in Her flesh.
To be near Her awakens slumbering passion. To be apart calls forth the Poet, the Bard. She now has claimed Her space, her place in His story. She is now set apart. Sleeping Beauty can now awaken, at least for the moments that the Poet can guard Her heart.
But harken to me! It is a dangerous thing to call forth the Poet and awaken the Princess. The story will unfold with many unseen twists and turns. Exquisite will be the rapture. Exquisite will be the torment. Yet that is the nature of the play. Both comedy and tragedy are required. Such things are always risky. But perhaps the Poet and his Muse can create between them a place where the songs can live.
I watched the weather of me through the day to see if perhaps there was something there
I noticed that it changed, unbidden as though another turned its dials
Sometimes the taste of that place between green and violet was broken by mountains of stark white cotton stretching from horizon to horizon
It called to something in me which wanted to be in that place of awe and wonder, but it passed over
At other moments my sky was filled with shades of gray and black ominous and threatening, fields of energy, alert to danger
The impulse to cover, to hide was strong but I remained still and it passed along with the rest
All I found there was that the weather of me shifts its shape to suite the situation
There was nothing profound there, nothing to hold on to, it just comes and goes as it wills
I sought meaning in the deeper things to see if there was some nugget, some treasure there for me
I noticed the Sage of me arise from the depths, ready to pronounce profundity
He sat on his throne, voice lowly intoned, gentle condescending words doled out to the yielding seekers needing a light, a way, a Wizard
And then another, a chocolate haired little boy, with dark brown eyes and freckles dotting his nose and cheekbones
He sought to woo with innocence and pouty lips, seeking attention, protection, love, crooked smile, shaggy hair, smelling of sunshine and romance
Then in the midst of my looking I heard Him laugh. The Jester, my tenuous but always faithful friend
He reminded me that what I was seeking would not be found in the costumes my ego wears
The profound can be another distraction and a game, as too the dance of affection What I sought was not there
Then, I watched the watcher, paying attention to my paying attention
Remembering again, that I know very little and how easily distracted I can be
Caught up in a self that is fleeting like the weather, changed by the currents on the wind around me
Hidden behind masks that can at times be mistaken for me, leaving me alone but entertained or distracted
I laughed along with the Jester. He always tells me the truth, especially when I take myself too seriously, or not seriously enough
Like trying to scratch an itch in a mirror, I sought but did not find, for what I wanted could not be found there
A wonderful playground of experience and love and learning and hope and grief, but playground it is, for it will not last
In seeking I found. I found that there is really no need to seek that which is not lost.
Come home boy it is time for rest.
I have penned no words for you since forever
Out of time though, my heart has done nothing but call your name
Over and over I find myself following paths that lead to you
Or rather they lead to places where I realize your absence
The separateness is startling and unreal
Grief too deep for words or tears, for they only well up in me
Perhaps I can not weep because I can not accept or come to terms with it
Or perhaps I just refuse to
But how can I come to terms with what is impossible
Just one tear would contain the sadness of the whole world
Perhaps that is why they will not flow
It would be too terrible
Photo Art – Matt Chambliss
Something was missing, awry, incomplete, Lost
Something undefined haunted, just outside of comprehension
An Un-Thought Known, a Soul’s itch that can not be scratched
Searching for an answer to a question not asked
Seeking a treasure rumored to exist somehow, somewhere
Beautiful echoes, fine like a razor, opening closed spaces
Fragrance on the breeze enchants, calls, inspires
The taste of blue, gold, and brown, known but not realized
(I can hear the sunlight, the birth of stars, all known but not realized. Alt.)
Soul extended, seeking to touch the moon, always out of reach, lunacy
Reflections glimpsed on the periphery of matter yet never beheld
Source of longing hidden, unfathomable like echoes, fragrances, the flavor of blue
Senses, flesh, building empty treasure houses
Pilgrimage to no-where, there and back, there and back
Hope, disappointment, grief, hope, disappointment, grief
Tired, sinking low under the weight, all the houses have crumbled
Senses, Spirit, Soul, unfettered for a season
Ego humbled by folly
Yet even as the dust settled around and over the debris
There was laughter, a sweet simple melody, rich as the Earth
Quickened now, thirst creates a new and unseen path
As “I” crumbled my Self was found
The treasure is always in the heart of the Temple
The fool has died, but the Jester remains
I was lost but now am found
Was blind but now I see