THE QUIET RESURRECTION

The first time he passed those woods
on the way to school
the sight of their dark depths
caused a sudden thumping in his chest.

As a storm began to roil inside him
that boy of six then remembered
the sci-fi movie he’d seen—
maybe a wild creature within 
was trying to take control of him.

So he raced away
and after that day
lowered his head 
and crept with hesitant steps 
around the forest
so as not to wake the beast.

Unfortunately
he begin to use that same caution
wherever he went—
keep the monster down.
That way of walking
became a way of being.
As a result
by the time he’d reached adulthood  
his life felt drained of life. 

So he bought a book about
"increasing your vitality".
But then felt confused when he read:
you must let the life hidden within you live.

Okay, but how?  
How could he set free
that unknown unlived life?

He then recalled the dark forest
he’d avoided as a boy.

In his desperation he decided:
maybe a little look would provoke
those ashes in his belly.

So on a quiet afternoon he finally approached 
those shadowy woods
and crossed the border
into the shifting twilight shade.

As his heart began to thump
he again became that boy—
afraid some untamed force
would rise up from within 
and take control of him—
making him behave in ways 
that would wreck his world.

But when the fantasy
didn’t become reality
he actually felt a bit disappointed.
Better the ripping transformation
than the drip drip drip of tedious attrition.

Nonetheless
through his act he did find life.

After his expectations collapsed
he was able to wander through
that ordinary paradise
with thoughtless ease
and soon became entranced
by the sound of soft rain tremoring the leaves.

Only later at home 
did he notice that gently buzzing thrill
running through him, body and spirit:

the first sign 
he’d begun to resurrect
the life he had buried
down in his dusky dusty depths.

The Quiet Resurrection

STOP & GO

We’ve seen this story before:

A seeker runs
here and there and everywhere
hoping to find what might satisfy
a nameless need vaguely sensed. 

But exhaustion 
finally forces the searcher to stop.

They then try to appease
their desire to explore
by turning their eyes around
and looking inside themselves.

A story much like my own:

The search lifted my spirit
but because I didn’t know
I needed to rest
I eventually felt drained of spirit—
empty.

So then I had to sit
and try to recover what I’d lost.

But luckily I remembered 
what I’d once read in a book:
you will find a secret well
down in your dark depths.  

Curious what I might discover
but also desperate for a cure
I then delved within.

And yes—
as I descended, I began to sense
a subtle strength rising up—
filling me up
lifting me up

and so I stood again
and began to walk again
and began to run again 
and search again
then examine what I found.  

I’ve continued that routine
to this day:
I scurry about 
filling myself with experience
until I begin 
to feel exhausted
in body and mind.

Then I again sit down 
and shut up 
and begin to delve—
knowing
the well waters will rise
in steady response.

But these days 
I linger a while 
before I go
so I can explore 
those fathomless waters.

stop and go

A BRIEF REPRIEVE

I wanted to feel what the poets feel
when they say:
I am a child of nature.

So I decided to go to the forest alone
and throw off all my clothes. 
I wanted to feel at one with
all the trees and rocks and birds and squirrels.

But as I began to disrobe
a stern voice within me said:
“Though your skin be bare
 underneath you’ll still wear
 the suit of your civilized self.”

After a thoughtful pause
I then answered:
“Well, maybe so.
 But I’ll tell you why I’m going to try: 

“As children, sometimes we’d dress up
 and pretend to be adults.
 That harmless fantasy
 would give us a brief reprieve
 from the frustrating smallness of childhood.”

“Now, in adulthood 
 I often feel frustrated
 by the smallness of this civilized suit.

“But maybe today I can get a brief reprieve
 by throwing off my outer armor
 and pretending to be 
 a child of nature
 frolicking naked in a forest garden.” 


a brief reprieve

THE CURE

She wanted to express
the complex emotion of that moment
in words or paint or song.

If only for her own benefit.
Her plan was:

On days when she felt blah and dim
she would return to her creation
and experience once again
that emotional moment
and in that way, cure her malaise. 

However
she soon discovered
the work of writing was such drudgery
as was the work of applying paint
as was the work of crafting a song.

So she decided on a different strategy:

on those bleary days
she would instead open her mind and heart
to the complex emotions 
conveyed by artists she loved:
poets 
and painters 
and magicians who made melody.

And because she now realized
how hard they’d worked
her appreciation for their gifts deepened
and so, she opened even more.

Nonetheless
one night she felt so flat
she could not muster the strength 
needed to open her door and enter
the rooms created by those master carpenters.

In desperation
she then wrote:
If I feel too dead to open 
to the life that gives life to my life 
how can I live?

Honest lines
and yet
they sounded rather mundane.

And so she tried to find better words—
and more of them!—
she wanted to create incisive verses 
that would fully truly express 
the debilitating frustrating blandness 
of that moment.

And by laboring long
she managed to transform those lines
into a melodic poem of color.

Not bad, maybe even good
but still
her creation somehow didn’t seem quite right to her.

Nonetheless
she felt she’d gone deeper 
than she’d ever gone before.
And so 
though she felt disappointed 
she also felt rewarded for her efforts.

And that complex mix of emotion 
cured her malaise.  

For a moment, anyway.

Years later
she remains frustrated in her work
but keeps on because 
she knows she deepens and heals
each time she tries and fails.


the cure

WHY I CRY AS I LAUGH

One night as I laughed 
at that couple on TV
they suddenly turned to me
and with their icy eyes, said:

Why do you laugh as we argue?
What’s so funny about 
two people constantly fighting?

In that moment, I realized a secret
that I then shared with them:

“Those silly battles you engage in
  echo my own inner conflicts.

“So when I laugh at you
  I’m actually laughing at myself.
  Allow me this release, please—
  I need to laugh, otherwise I’ll cry
  at my failure to create peace in my heart.”

The ice in their eyes then began to melt.

But as they wept for me
they also wept for themselves,
knowing now how 
all those battles on the show
echoed their own unresolved inner conflicts.

Seeing their grief
I could no longer hold back—
I wept for all of us, I wept
until I realized 
we could drown in that deep dark blue. 

So then I found a reason to laugh 
as I cried—
yes
I chuckled, I guffawed, I chortled.
“How absurd!” I said to my companions.
  I want to heal the world
  but can’t even heal my own head.”

The couple then began to laugh with me.
We laughed as we cried.
And in that way
kept ourselves from sinking 
down into darkness.

Since that episode
the couple have stuck to the script
and continue to bicker every week
over every little thing.

But now as I laugh at them I also cry:
I allow myself to laugh 
because the relief lifts me up.
But I also allow myself to cry
because when I grieve this war
I become even more determined
to create a lasting peace in my purple heart.


why I cry as I laugh

THE SUN IN MY FUTURE

A week ago, I woke with this image
in the darkness of my aching head:

A tear 
dangling from the tip
of an eyelash.
The drop beamed like a small sun.

I’d seen that teardrop before—
years ago
so I already understood the message:

By releasing grief
I will cleanse my eye
and then see the world in light.

But apparently that clarity
is still far away—
as before, I saw the drop 
through the lens of a telescope.

Naturally, I felt disappointed
and began to wonder
if I’d ever reach that sunny place.

So to strengthen my resolve
I wrote this poem—
knowing
I’d rewrite it many times
and each time
I would see that sundrop.
And as a result
the image would anchor in my mind.

So maybe now
I won’t slip 
and forget 
my deep desire 
as I often have in the past.
No, I won’t lapse
and slack in the task
of clearing those clouds from my eye.


the sun in my future

WHY THE ROSE KEEPS BLOOMING

Some believe 
the rose struggles to break free from the bud
because it wants to be lovely—
but no—
it’s possessed by a mad desire to live.

However
after opening its eyes 
the flower may discover
it resides inside a little cage.

The rose may then sink into self-pity
but soon enough
that willful plant will rise up 
to protest the injustice
and as the flower finds its strength
a new bloom will come from the old one.

The bars of the cage
will then surrender to its power
and fall down to the ground
like the dead shards of a husk.

But alas!—
beyond the parameters of fallen cell 
the rose will find another cell.
So though our hero enjoys
the extra space it’s earned
it still feels caged.

And so, as before
the rose will rebel
and by struggling, grow some more
and so
the bloom will bloom once more.

But just as before
after the cage breaks open
a new cage will emerge from the shadows.

In this way, that stubborn perennial
will move through a succession of cages.
The irony is:
because it expands with each new blooming
no cell ever feels big enough for that plant.
And so, the rose continues to grow 
to the very end.

Maybe like me
you look at your petals
and see brown blotches 
and ragged edges—
our blooms reveal our battle wounds—
yes, in this fight for life we’re scarred.

So I will try to solace you now
by telling you what I tell myself:
a flower with a blemished blossom
always speaks lovelier
than one still stuck in a spotless bud.


why the rose keeps blooming

LIVING WITH GHOSTS

I’ve learned:
I can’t get rid of a ghost by shouting
"Leave me alone!"
No—
curses and pleading
will not dislodge a ghost.

Nor can I outrun them.
For years, I sped like a bullet train
but when finally forced to stop
my ghosts shot out of the shadows.

Sometimes a ghost may seem
to disappear completely.
But then something I hear or see 
will raise that wraith from the grave.

I’ve wrestled with my specters for years
and lost a million times or more.
So now I’m trying a new strategy:

whenever a ghost resurrects
and an old wound wounds me once more 
I’ll try to remain calm
and say quite casually:
Well, hello my old companion—
stay if you want—leave when you wish.
No, I’m not finally at peace with you 
but I waste so much energy 
when I try to fight or flee.

However
I won’t sit
when your sadness
tries to leaden my heart—
No!
I’ll leap and skip in a golden dance.
Though I can’t deny you, I can defy you.

But maybe I should thank you.
Didn’t I learn through you?—
Didn’t I grow?
Yes, and now I’ll learn even more
by staring deep into your eyes
with all their shades of blue.

But though I say in my head:
"You should embrace that ghost"
my words I haven’t yet convinced my heart.
So until I grow some more
the best I can do is accept you
and dance dance dance—
dance ‘til the night becomes dawn.

living with ghosts

WHY I LISTEN FOR THE ANGEL

Once as a child
I thought I heard an angel
singing wordlessly in a gentle upper octave.
A soft silvery sound.

And so, years later 
during a turbulent time
I sat down in silence
hoping to detect
at least a trace of that song
and find the same solace.

But no—
I didn’t hear any angel.
However
as I recalled
that moment of pure peace
the love I’d once found within that sound
filled my heart again.

And then I sensed
what that child had sensed
long ago:
I was not alone.  I was known
by loving eyes in a world unseen.

But then I began to wonder:

if the angel felt such empathy
why didn’t it intercede
when it saw me stumbling—
when it saw me about to fall?

Then I realized
each time I land hard
I wake a bit more
and so, my eyes slowly open.

No, I don’t know 
if I’m really watched over.  However
I can say for certain: 

whenever I slip
I’m able to lift myself back up 
by listening
for something I probably won’t hear:
the soft silvery song 
of an angel.


why I listen for the angel

THE POWER OF METAPHOR

Occasionally a submerged memory 
will leap up in a sudden wave 
and as the breaking crest topples down
onto my head
the undertow
will begin to pull me under.

But I’ve learned 
at such times I can save myself 
by calmly repeating this instruction:
don’t try to resist—open yourself
open up your arms—open up
the cage of your chest:
surrender 
and feel the full force of the feeling.

And if I then do as told
I will rise up
from the deepening darkness
to the sun 
spangling golden 
on those light blue waters

and a rolling wave of peace
will carry me home to the sandy shore.

Yes, by using metaphor in this way
I can stop myself from drowning.

But so easy to forget
when a sudden wave rises
and my head gets pounded once again.


the power of metaphor

THE GOOD LITTLE BOAT GROWS BRIGHTER

Psychopathic pirates now rule the seas.
Cutthroats who feel no guilt.

But instead of defending ourselves
against those bloody Blackbeards
we honor them for their gall
and get drunk on their grog
after being blatantly robbed. 

I would fight 
those big flashy swords
but I fear the inevitable losses
would begin to darken my heart.

So for now
I’ll just keep feeding my little light
and share what I’ve got
as its flame slowly grows brighter.

And keep repeating
a hope I believe to be based in reality

and that is:

despite appearances
the age of Blackbeard has nearly
burnt itself out.
Millions of good boats 
now roam the seas—
navigating—
lighting the way
toward a future
that may not be that bright
but at least, won’t be as bleak 
as our present dark passage.


the good little boat grows brighter

HOW TO MAKE DEATH SMILE

As is typical of youth
when I was young I ignored
the possibility I could die young.

Even as I watched
so many with the same blindness
stumble into graves.

Only later 
as I looked back
did I see how lucky I’d been.

I then began to step more carefully.

But now as I watch
so many my age 
retire to their graves
I worry I’m becoming
just a little too cautious.

The life I’m afraid to lose
won’t have much life
if I don’t follow
the true desire of my spirit

which was and still is:

to go forth and know the world.

So though my legs tremble
I will stretch my stride.
No, the width won’t match that of my youth.
But the stubborn fool I am now
shows more courage
than the obtuse fool I once was

because now I can feel Death
watching me and waiting
as I struggle on these steps.

But my reaper is not so grim.  
No, beneath that black hood 
he smiles wide in appreciation.

Death sees I am doing
what he wants us to do:
to grow in strength 
by confronting 
the deep fear that keeps us alive.


how to make Death smile

I claim to be a novelist, poet, essayist, cartoonist, graphic artist, peace monger--and I'm trying to be a world citizen. As for my backstory...let's just say I've lived and worked all over the United States.  I'm self-taught, for the most part, which is like stumbling around blindfolded while looking for the right door.  It's an on-going process. Lacking any true musical ability, I try to make music with language, while also making meaning.  

mythsteps

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