If not for this, then all would be that,

and when forsakes why,

and time gasps for breath.

Stand still with nowhere left to go.

Sing these notes now,

these words for this, not that,

waiting for the longer wait;

the unplanned non-plan;

all counting, forsaken, in the business of nothing –

and watch what yet will come.

In those long and pasty days,

wrung out with the common befuddlements of

our race, there can seem to be no

end to the tributaries,

soggy back roads,

sullen detours, the personal politics

of working in a chain gang fog.

 

The sun, warming and full, is the same to

saint and sinner, soldier and sailor.

But doubly-parsed is its heat, meted out to all,

recklessly packaged for warmth, whim or want –

hope to one, threat to another, necessity to all.

 

Yet in between the particles of dreams lie

the pocked and random picture of our days.

To hoist and heft, backs bent and necks strained,

seems lighter when singing – or laughing because

the joke is good.

 

To laugh means more when everyone hears

the same words but the punchlines are different.

And only the skilled purveyor of the phrase, delicately

turned and timed with skill, can help the cautious and

skeptical, proud and aloof, naïve and wide-eyed alike

to get in on something good.

 

The better the tale, the shorter the toil.

So we dig deep to find the best tales straining

to sort and sift and make sense of 

the broken, unpatterned pieces

strewn about the edges of things.

 

So, with subtle indirection, the toolbox of yearning

wed to oratory, wed to a cloud of unknowing,

expecting nothing more than a tale well told,

comes the bard and we are given –

 

a road for our story.

_____________

Dedicated with great respect, gratitude, and love to pastor and friend and retired bard, Duncan A. MacLeod

I

With robust assurances his heart gives him leave, and he chooses where to put up fence posts. A random job at best, like cliff jogging in fog, he dons a belt of desire with the tools of need. Soon, even the smallest creature will set its mind to the task of destroying what little is planted – turnips, sour, or lettuce, damp – sustenance an after thought to the insistent impracticalities of spice and garnish, sweet. 

II

He hums a happy tune, just loud enough to drown out his wiser, elder self – safe but jejune, unlike the dashing rarities of a ripe and unpitted longing. It helps to take the edge off catacombed thoughts, still damp and painted brightly in drooping caves of swelling light.

III

He watches how her tongue dances from lips to teeth, teeth to palette and back again – mesmerized like too much moon behind too little cloud. He matches word for word, glance for glance and what started as picket fence has become an encampment. And his bludgeoned fingers bleed and weep only slightly less than his forehead, sweat-bedewed in the ritual of dalliance.

IV

The stumps go down, first one, then another, haphazard arrangement built to harbor dreams, not capture dreamers. Nails leap from hammer in wood soft and easy, like feet in wet clay. And soon, the world watches in the laissez faire of bored repetition. Not even an eyebrow raised, curious about a man backing into his own battlements, a penned bird, stuck in a cage he built while looking the other way.

My RobsLitBits year in review!

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,900 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 48 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

The day renders well her light to cast,

comes, with hopeful glance, her tidings bring –

haunting dark, like some unholy past

soon yields his woe to this better thing.

 

Alone, but for his pale, waning grin,

he staggers backward in view of her;

never have his shaking knees remained

full upright. Now they buckle, unsure.

 

A formal respite, east is yearning,

stolen glances, her scent is bringing

laughter for those whose wild discerning

feeds upon this freshness glad, singing

 

songs, and dancers too are gathering,

all but mirth and cheerfulness disdains.

Soon, the fretful past’s unprompted sadd’ning,

forced to flee, and only light remains.

 

As daylight parts dark mystery’s curtain,

there, with courage, we must take our stand;

e’er the burden of mis’ry certain,

comes to pummel, firm, our heart’s command.

 

Still, with faith, our prayerful souls blazing,

God shall come to squelch what brings our fall;

must flee the night, our spirits’ hazing,

departed, then goodness we recall.

 

Now, cacophonous voice, full deafened,

silenced is the darkly strident pull

of that which, lying, steals our heaven –

God, his faithfulness, our promise, full.

I was honored to share a piece over at All Nine, the website of writer, poet and fellow artist-mystic, Kelly Belmonte. If you happen to come here, you can find us over there.

Come join us if you like!