Flame Into Embers

Is this a season of waking or sleeping, of life or death? The sky glows radiant royal blue, health and energy, before it falls asleep in stillness, demure grey. The leaves flame in red and gold, crackling their song of a changed life. Later they will whisper of death, fall to the ground and lie in obscure brown on brown. The season flaunts itself in a last attempt to hold onto life and beauty, like the man with the fancy toupee and the dying woman who spends her lonely pension on beautifying creams and colored paints that stand out against the ghostly pallor of her face. Autumn, you are dying. Man, you are dying. Woman, you are dying.

And yet, the beauty in Fall is not unnatural, like the stiff, embalmed smile or the newly-painted nails on the well-dressed body in the velvet-cushioned coffin (the soft bed for rattling bones). Perhaps the last show of color is not a beautifying cream, but a final dance on rheumatic limbs that remember their youthful suppleness until their last energy is spent, and they lie down when no life is left, their last dance done. Perhaps Autumn is an old woman who throws away her carefully prescribed bottles, her monthly treatments, her stifling orders, and chases her grandchildren in circles, laughing, until her heart and breath give out and she falls at their feet, her joy spent in one last loving dance.

A season that lives until its death. May I live through my dying until at least I lie down quietly, clasp my hands, and say, with one last spark in my eye, “Now… that is done. The flame is past, into Thy hands I commend these dying embers.”

The gardener rakes the dead leaves into a pile and sets them aflame one last time. The smoke, smelling of color, rises toward heaven, lending all who pass by a strange vibrant tingle of their past life.

Even embers warm cold hands.

The True Event of Christmas Eve, Anno Domini 2010

In reverential steps,
the peace of the Christmas liturgy
spreads to all.
Heart full of adoration,
I chant the offertory.
As the warden collects the generous gifts,
the choir clears throats, turns pages.

BANG!
Someone screams, many duck.
Hearts race, the world seems to stop.
Silence.
It came from his pocket! a man shouts.
Was it a cell phone?
No, no! a woman cries.
It was a gun!

The warden limps to the back.
There in his knee, two bleeding holes.
The choir clears their throats of panic.
Rejoice and be merry, we sing,
as children cry and red and blue lights flash.

Gradually all is made clear.
A man with fear for his life
reached in his pocket to give the warden a check
and gave him a bullet instead.
A tragic accident, but only a small wound.
Yet the church remains paralyzed in shock
through the motions of worship.

As respectful cops silently investigate
the splintered wood, our shattered peace,
I wonder. Has it come to this?
Has our fear
come to this?
That a man would carry death in his pocket
to a place of prayer
on the eve of peace?

Only one figure in the church
did not start at the deafening crack.
Only one remained still
at the frightful disruption.
Still in the knowledge that He is God.
From the crèche, his small voice speaks to me,
the one we’ve come to adore speaks:

I am of greatest import, I am of highest transcendence.
I am the One who is relevant.
Lying here most vulnerable, I have overcome all.
Do not fear this world
I am come to redeem.

.

The Passing

I met Eternity this afternoon.
He was dressed in a Bach Prelude,
An old and weary, melancholy figure,
So I thought.
But in a flash of time I realized
I was the old one, with my long twenty-one years.
I am bent over with burden,
Longing for an ageless song,
A never-ending prelude to nothing,
A swelling current of timeless reality.
O Eternity take me, too.
Do not pass me on the street.

Summer Storm

10pm and the sky is red
it's coming
coming soon
crash!
it's here
the foundation shakes
streaks of furious fire
green lightning
green, not blinding blue or washed out white

wind washes the torrents
into the porch
the wooden planks creating false security
easily blasted away
red sky, green lightning
strange terror

but oh! so free
so wild
brave, strong goddess of the storm
with wind in my hair and water on my face
arms outstretched, receiving the danger
inviting the killing strike
a coward trembling under the eaves
a chiseled statue in the whirling wind

red sky, green lightning
a different world
and a longing longing longing
longing
free spirit

Last Song

Take my hand and sing to it
sing to it
sing to it
Take my hand and sing to it
then bury it here

Smooth my hair and sing to it
sing to it
sing to it
Smooth my hair and sing to it
then bury it here

Read my eyes and sing to them
sing to them
sing to them
Read my eyes and sing to them
then bury them here

The ocean laps against the cliff
And roses grow beside the grave

Kiss my lips and sing to them
sing to them
sing to them
Kiss my lips and sing to them
then bury them here

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust
Roses to roses and ocean to ocean
I become the earth
the earth is what is left of me
Except your song in the air

Hold all of me and sing to me
sing to me
sing to me
Hold all of me and sing to me
then bury me here

Lament of an Inadequate Romantic

I once fancied myself a poet
with a poet's eyes, a poet's mind,
a poet's heart, a poet's soul,
a poet's voice.
But all I had
was a poet's wishful thinking.
My poet's eyes saw only
myself,
transformed only
myself
into something that was not.
I see the world in worn-out phrases,
in well-tried words, in standard descriptions,
in primary colors and geometric shapes.
I see the world Used.
Just a tinge of romanticism,
just a hint of changing light and shadow.
All else is solid.
Real.
Ordinary.
Except with excessive enthusiasm.
But I would like to see the sun
in terms of jade,
the ocean
in terms of lilies,
the forest
in terms of familial affection.
But I see a tree in terms of branches, a face in terms of skin, a wall in terms of brick, etc. etc. etc. etc.
You've heard it before.
The other world of deeper dimension
appears to me in half-glimpses
and through a lens of words and colors
not my own,
a song
I did not write.
And I am wet-eyed, heart-full, but
empty-handed,
silent-voiced,
soul incomplete.

Ian's Story, Parts I and II

Part I

Cold, stiff, frozen. Freezing toes, numb toes, no toes. Ice, wind, ice, wind, sleet in my eyes. Sleet, freezing, freeze to death. Freeze to death, die here now, no, keep walking.

Ian hugged himself more tightly as he trudged along the great St. George Bridge. The noble statues held no awe for him tonight. On warmer nights he was wont to linger and gaze on the saints, and imagine what they would say to him if they saw him. He thought perhaps Saint John the Baptist would admonish him for his sins, especially the resentful mutterings he often directed toward unforgiving, self-important men who pushed him out of the street into the deep puddles of freezing slush. The Virgin Mary would smile on him with sorrow, and Our Lord on the Crucifix would feel his sufferings. But Saint Nicholas was his favorite. For Saint Nicholas, he was sure, would look down on the little child shivering in delighted dread at his feet, open his arms, and say, “My child, come receive your gifts.” And good Saint Nicholas would give Ian a bar of solid gold, and bless Ian on his way as he ran to buy hot food, warm clothes, and—wonder of wonders—a room at the inn where the firelight shone through the windows.

But tonight, Ian pulled his shoulders in toward his shivering chest and closed his eyes against the stinging ice. Firelight, firelight, firelight, firelight… The image of the glow in his mind spread a small flicker of warmth through his chest and arms… until a blast of frigid wind extinguished the fire.

The bridge was only a quarter mile long, but to Ian it seemed that an hour went by before he crossed it. Here on the other side, the wind was not as chill, though his bones still felt like sticks of ice. In a moment they would shatter and break, and Ian would no longer feel the world’s icy touch.

Ah, what was that heavenly smell devised by hell to torment him? Roasting meat, potatoes, herbs… Food, sustenance, spiced wine to warm his blood… And whence came that glow as that of a benevolent angel smiling upon him? Ian stood just outside the square of light on the snow beneath the tavern window. Many a night had he passed this tavern, but never had such a divine fragrance beguiled him as the smell of roast beef did now. Ian shivered convulsively. This must have been the coldest night of the year. Knives of ice shot through his nostrils and throat and into his chest as he breathed.

Can’t go in, mustn’t beg, scraps of food in the street… somewhere. Mustn’t beg, always beaten, horrid women, evil men, broomsticks, beaten, no, don’t go in. Smell of meat…

Ian took one step, trembling, into the square of light. Maybe, maybe… maybe there is no stick, maybe there is someone kind, pity, maybe just a scrap, just a trimming, just an end, maybe a piece has fallen on the floor, unfit for guests. Maybe no beating, slapping, shoving, maybe just a second of warmth in the doorframe.

Ian stumbled, convulsing with cold, closer to the door, forgetting to look for a back door. Suddenly, the door opened, and Ian jumped back, heart pounding. A large man in a dirty, threadbare coat stumbled out into the night with a bottle in his hand. Ian realized with shock and dismay that the man was his father, and the bottle was almost empty.

Two years before, when Ian was eight years old, his father had come home from a tavern to find Ian shivering and weeping over his mother’s starved, half-frozen body. His father had gone into a drunken rage, flinging Ian about the shack, and finally hurling him into the street. Ian still bore many scars from the encounter, and had never dared return.

Ian crept back into the shadow cast by the inn wall. His father lurched over the threshold, tripped over his own feet, and fell flat on his face on the snow. Ian was horrified, but did not dare to move. He crouched, shaking, against the wall until the sweat of fear on his forehead froze and his very heart seemed made of ice. His father never moved. At last, Ian inched around the corner, and then fled. Terror had long ago chased the thought of meat from his mind.

If his father found him, Ian was sure that his father would kill him. Ian feared life with its hunger and pain and cold, but he feared death still more. In his first few years of life, Ian’s mother had told him a little of heaven and hell, but Ian thought that God would hardly notice someone so small. God might forget to call him to heaven, and he would lie trapped in his frozen body forever. His imagination filled him with horrors of what he did not know.

Ian had not stopped to look over his shoulder and see whether his father had risen and pursued him. In his irrational terror, he did not realize that his father could not have run even if he had wakened and wanted to. His father took on the supernatural strength and gigantic size of a demon in Ian’s mind—a dark shadow that hunted his fleeing footsteps. Ian took no thought for his destination, and did not realize that his feet had carried him back to the St. George Bridge. Suddenly, he slipped on an unseen patch of ice, reeled against the rail of the bridge, and pitched over the side.

Ian closed his eyes as he fell down and down and down… He braced himself for the impact with the icy, cold, tempestuous river. He wondered whether, perhaps, death might not be the horror he imagined it to be. Maybe he would even find his mother, who was the only one who had ever loved him. God, don’t let me be trapped… trapped… I don’t want to be trapped. Make me brave please, God, if you can… Perhaps you don’t hear me, I’m so small…

But the impact never came. From the moment Ian had begun to fall, time seemed to have slowed down or stopped altogether, despite the wind rushing round his ears as he fell. It had not occurred to Ian to wonder just how long it would take to reach the water. But his senses were awakened by the growing warmth in the air, and the sensation that gravity had reversed itself. Though he had fallen backwards, he now felt the pressure of rushing air on his chest instead of his back. He wondered—oh how strange—whether he was falling up!

At last, he dared to open his eyes. He was surrounded by the deep, rich, wet midnight blue of the sky; but the stars, instead of growing smaller and farther, grew larger and nearer. And as they raced toward him—or rather, as Ian raced toward them, though without feeling the movement—their light became warmer and more golden, instead of the cold, silver-white pinpoints of light we see from the ground.

When the stars were quite large and bright, and their golden light seemed to penetrate the still cold darkness and give it warmth, Ian realized that he was no longer moving toward them. At first, he lay quite still, afraid to move at all, lest he break the spell that kept him hovering there and plunge back toward the earth. Then his curiosity overcame his fear, and Ian attempted to sit up. He seemed to have forgotten how to move, now that he was no longer bound by gravity, but through great mental exertion, he finally sat up. He realized that there was little point in trying to walk, since he was not on the ground, so he maneuvered through the air with vague motions of his arms, as if he were swimming. The air seemed thicker up here than it had on the ground; it was resistant, like water, yet it somehow did not feel wet, and he was able to breathe. In fact, the air up there was more refreshing than the air on the earth, and Ian felt stronger and more alert, and quite forgot his hunger.

As he swam through the sky, he moved upward, as if he were climbing as well as swimming. The higher up he went, the thicker the air grew, until it was like moving through gelatin, but without stickiness or wetness. Yet it had all the beauty and warmth of midnight blue velvet. And the thicker it became, the stronger Ian became, so that he did not tire quickly. As he came closer to the stars, they appeared to be divided into separate square beams of light. The air had become even warmer, and it seemed that the cozy warmth was mixed with a refreshing cool, so that Ian always felt both warm and cool at the same time, and never too much of either. At last, he was only a few dozen yards from the stars, and he could see now that they were little houses, and their light streamed from the square windows. Unlike the light that came from the windows in the town below, these lights welcomed Ian, and he felt sure that they were an invitation rather than a dangerous temptation.

Suddenly, the door of the star closest to Ian was opened, and light poured out around the shining figure standing in the doorway. Ian moved toward it eagerly.


Part II

As Ian drew nearer to the figure, the brightness grew stronger, so that his eyes became dazzled, and he could not at first tell whether more light came from the doorway or from the figure in it. The light was brighter than any he had ever known, yet though he could not see clearly, he felt no pain, and no urge to shut his eyes to the piercing beams. The rays did not lighten the dark blue around him; and thick substance of sky seemed to stop the beams after they had pierced it a short distance.

At last, Ian's swimming motions brought him into the square of light. He stopped. He saw only a blur of gold brighter than the star itself. The star-person stood still also, and then spoke.

"Welcome, Ian," said a voice like ringing bells. "You have come. I am Rinnling."

Ian was astonished, and said nothing. What astonished him was not that the voice was like great golden bells ringing in rich tones, with an added quality like tiny, high, silver tinkling bells. Neither was it that at the moment Ian heard the voice, he noticed that the light held the same quality as the voice; little silver-white sparkles were mixed with the gold. No, it was the language of the voice that startled him, for it spoke in a tongue Ian had never before heard, yet he understood every word. The other thing that made Ian speechless was that the star-creature had said his name. Ian’s surprise was due partly to the star-creature's knowledge, and partly to the fact that Ian had not heard his own name since his mother died. He had almost forgotten it. In the world below, he was nobody. Here, he was a person with a name, and this both gladdened and frightened him.

After what may have been a few minutes or a few hours, for the thick sky seemed to slow the course of time, Ian answered.

"H-have I d-died? Is this heaven? Is my mother here? Are you... are you an angel?"
Rinnling laughed--a laugh that was again like bells, but far less jolly than a human laugh. Yet for all its lack of earthy jollity, it was so joyful that it almost hurt Ian to hear it.

"No, Ian. I am not an angel, and you have not died. I am a stardring, one who dwells inside a star, and you have been called here by our Master. We do not know why he has called, but he told us you were coming. Your mother is not here, but I have no doubt that you will meet her again."

Ian stood silent again. His prosaic, coarse speech seemed to have no place among the stardring's language of light and music. Ian was filled with fear and wonder. Down on earth these emotions would have created a whirlwind of confusion, but up here they reposed quietly beneath a blanket of calm. Nothing could here cause his head to spin and his knees to shake.

Rinnling smiled at Ian's silence, and opened the door wider.

"Come in! Come be filled with light."

At the word "filled," all of Ian's hunger came rushing back to him, and he stepped inside gladly. At last he had an invitation.

Rinnling called, "Hannring!" and another blaze of light came into the room.

The smaller, slighter figure told Ian that this was a female, or, as he later learned, a staradrin. Rinnling spoke a few words to Hannring, and she left the room, then came back bearing something in her hands. It was a golden bowl, and it appeared to be filled with yet more light. She offered the bowl to Ian, who took it hesitatingly, half afraid that it would burn him. But it did not burn, though it was warm, and it had no weight. Ian understood that he was to consume the light, and as he swallowed it, he felt perfectly warm throughout his entire body, even to the ends of his toes.

Something else happened after he swallowed the light. When he looked into the bowl again, he saw the faintest rosy tint in the gold light. He lifted his eyes and looked around the room. Ian's human eyes were too weak to see clearly inside of the star or its inhabitants, but as he ate the light, his eyes grew a little stronger, and the shapes of Rinnling and Hannring became a little clearer. His whole body felt stronger, and he felt more alive, as if the light had fed his entire being, not just his body.

Ian lived with Rinnling and Hannring, and consumed light everyday. Each day his eyes strengthened, and he could see more colors. The stardringa and staradrina remained soft-edged and brilliant shapes, but he began to distinguish one from another by the faint and fleeting colors that danced through their gold and silver light. Another result of consuming the light, of which Ian was not aware, was that light began to stream out from the ends of his fingers, and his eyes began to sparkle with real glints of silver. Eventually his skin became translucent, and he glowed like glass placed in a fire.

Time was impossible to measure in the place of the stars (Stellingra, as the star-dwellers called it), because there were no days. It was always night, yet neither the stardringa nor Ian slept. The stardringa and staradrina were creatures full of life--an intense internal force, hot as fire, cold as ice, and constantly shifting like their colored lights--yet they were not creatures of action. They rarely spoke or moved; they mostly just existed. Ian found himself doing the same, in total contentment. He thought little and spoke less; to be was enough.

On the rare occasions when Rinnling spoke, Ian's curiosity awoke, and he asked many questions.

"Why do we see constellations?" he once asked. "If stars are just your houses, do we imagine the shapes we see?"

"Some you imagine, some you see truly, and others you do not see," Rinnling answered. "We build our houses in shapes to honor the fallen, to remember legends, and to praise the Maker."

"Which ones are real? Could we see all of them if we looked hard enough?"

"The one you call Orion is real, though its name is of your own making. It was built to honor Gwendring, a great warrior who fell in the days of war between stardrings and the flaming comets, before the Maker had finished fashioning the first humans."

After this, it was many weeks of our time before Rinnling spoke again, but when he did, Ian asked him about the Maker.

"Who is the Maker?" Ian was ashamed to show his ignorance, but an unknown force compelled him to ask. "Is it... he... God? Do the stardringa have religion?"

"The Maker is our master, as he is master over all things. Yes, he is God. We stardringa do not have religion as you humans do. Our praise and our ritual are existence and light. For this we were made--to stand still in the sky and reveal his glory by our light. This is our obedience, yet it is not the same as yours, for we cannot do otherwise. Though we stand over your heads, ours is a lower order."

Ian was silent for minutes, hours, or perhaps days as he pondered this knowledge that was so far beyond any his mother had imparted. When he had finished pondering, he asked a question that was not entirely relevant, but was just the sort of question a small boy would ask.

"What happens to stardringa and staradrina when they die? I saw a shooting star once. Do they just... fall?" Ian had a horror of falling, forever and ever dropping through space, which his strange fall from the bridge had not cured.

Rinnling's light flared brighter, which Ian had learned was his smile.

"No, Ian. You see only the empty dwelling fall. Stardringa, when they grow dim or die in battle, are called by the Maker to the great heaven you call 'the moon,' and we call --."

The last word Rinnling spoke cannot be reproduced in any human sounds, and the sound of it pierced Ian's heart like a sword, colder than ice, hotter than fire, sweeter than his mother's lullabies, and more sorrowful than death.

Ian cried out, "Oh, what is it, what is it! That word is different... I d-don't understand it, and it... it hurts!"

"I am sorry," Rinnling's distant, unemotional voice replied. "I had forgotten I must never speak to you in the silver tongue. The golden tongue is what you hear now and understand. It is the language we Stardringa use for all things except the spiritual. When we praise the Maker we use it, and for the names of God and of the high and middle heavens. The low heaven is named in the golden tongue."

Ian could never after recall the beautiful, painful word Rinnling had spoken, but the terror and awe of it burned in his memory and kept him silent for a long time. That word only had disturbed his strange peace in Stellingra. Yet through his silence, a question remained unanswered, and after a month of our time, he asked Rinnling, "Is there more than one heaven for star-dwellers?" A thought struck him. "Might... might there be more than one heaven for people, too?"

"You are even now in the low heaven, which the Maker made to represent his Majesty, and the expanse of his mercy. Middle heaven is the moon, where we stardringa are called to dwell and renew our light while the universe remains. It is an orb of light and beauty unspeakable, yet a dark mist veils first the part and then the whole, to remind earthly beings that it is still temporal, part of the universe. Yet the stardringa and staradrina drink its light unceasingly, and see not the dark veil. And high heaven has a name I cannot tell you, for it would break your heart, and there dwells the Maker and surveys His creation."

Ian now spoke the question he had long desired to ask.

"Why am I here, in low heaven? I am so small..." A vague memory of his earthly fearful insignificance passed through his mind like a foul-smelling, nauseating breeze.
This time Rinnling stood silent, his figure swayed gently, and his light dimmed and brightened. Ian had seen stardringa do this before, and had realized with awe that they were listening to the Maker or one of his messengers.

"You are here," Rinnling at last replied in a solemn, silvery tone, "because the Maker has called you. Yes, you, Ian; for he knows you and your name. Do not look so surprised. He has called you for many reasons known only to himself, but also for one that he has imparted to me. In thirty days' time, I will tell you."

During these thirty days, Ian thought rarely of the reason Rinnling would reveal. To be in low heaven was enough, and gelatinous contentment and dark velvet peace softened the edges of his formerly sharp curiosity. Ian gazed around him, he drank light, he gazed again and saw what he had not seen before, and that was his existence. Most of that time he neither spoke nor thought, and his body grew steadily brighter and more translucent through his ritual consumption of light. As his vision strengthened, he had less need of speech, for he could begin to see truth in the perpetual dance of colored lights inside the stardringa and staradrina. And as this truth made him wiser, he became less like a little boy and more like a stardring.

Stellingra is a strange place that slips through the clutching hold of time, where time passes, but its passing is not felt. Ian took no notice that the day was drawing near, but at last it came, and Rinnling summoned him.

Rinnling stood again in the doorway of the star as he called to Ian. Just as when Ian had first seen Rinnling, the light from the star glowed through the midnight blue in golden squares, and Rinnling was a brighter blaze in the square of light from the doorway. Hannring stood still and graceful by his side. Other stardringa whom Ian knew stood in an arc facing him. There was Glimmerling, Dinnatring, and Dranning. A few staradrina were there also; Sringalinn, Mrenndring, and Wennannglinn stood beside Hannring. Ian had never spoken to most of these star-dwellers, but they had brightened and smiled on him, and he had read truth in their inner lights.

“The day of your choice has come,” Rinnling spoke solemnly at last. “A year of your earthly time has passed since the Maker called you to Stellingra. He has revealed to us the reason you are here. You must now choose. Will you remain with us in Stellingra forever, or return to the cold city from whence you came? Consider carefully. The answer you speak is final. If you choose Stellingra, you will never see earth again. If you choose earth, you will never again enter the blue realm of Lower Heaven, though if you live well, you may gain admittance to a higher realm through death. Choose now.”

Ian closed his eyes. He saw in his mind, as a vague memory, the snow and sleet, the houses that shut him out, his father’s hand raised threateningly. A faint recollection of the sensations of cold, pain, and hunger stirred within him. Ian opened his eyes and gazed on the illumined faces of the stardringa and staradrina. Something akin to love shone from their faces, but it was not human love. It was love cold enough to freeze him, love hot enough to burn him; it was beautiful, but alien to him. He closed his eyes again.

There I am small, unknown… Here known, but not loved... Only cold love… Cold, freezing, bones aching, heart shattering… Hungry, empty, hollow… Beaten, struck, bruised, bleeding… Hurt, pain… There is no love there. Here is light, warmth, peace… Wisdom, cold wisdom… Perhaps I was missed… Perhaps there was love, not yet found… If I return… Warmth? Human love, with real arms to hold? Or more fear, still outcast?... Now I must choose… Now choose… Choose…

Opening his eyes, Ian spoke.

Whipoorwill Evening

A Collage of Recollections from My Childhood


“Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill!”

The twilight summer evening was still except for the cry of the whippoorwills. My father’s lap was warm and somehow comforting, though the air was also warm.

“Dad, do you hear the whippoorwills? Why are they called that? It’s such a funny name.”

“It’s onomatopoetic.”

“It’s ono-what? What does that mean?”

“Onomatopoetic. It means that the bird is named after the sound it makes. Hear it? It calls, ‘whippoorwill!’ Do you hear it calling itself?”

“Yesss… I do!” I breathed in wonder.

I settled back contentedly against his broad chest. My nine-year-old body was tired from a full day’s play. I had been the first awake that morning, opening my eyes about thirty seconds before my seven-year-old brother. We ran out into the living room and plotted in whispers how to wake Mr. Bob, sleeping soundly in the loft.

Mr. Bob had been staying with us for some time. He was a member of our church, and one day, for reasons unknown to me, he moved in and made his home in the small loft over the kitchen and dining room. My brother, my best friend Heather, and I helped him make up the extra bed, clear away the dusty photograph albums, and build a wardrobe. I always figured that the reason Mom and Dad let him move in was his cooking. His deep-dish pizzas and homemade cinnamon bread were delicious, and he was always trying something new and exciting. Oh, and he was also responsible for saving one of our many kittens from abandonment in the woods by his mother. Mr. Bob fed him raw eggs and named him Edgar.

Eventually, after much noisy whispering, my brother and I formed a plan. I picked up an elastic hair band left lying on the floor the previous day, and shot it up over the rail into the loft. We giggled and hid behind the leather recliner.

“FEE FI FO FUM!” we heard, punctuated by stomping on the wooden stairs. “I SMELL THE BLOOD OF AN ENGLISH MAN!”

As he stomped into the living room, we jumped out from behind the chair and yelled, “Ha! Got you!” and “We’re not scared of you!”

After a breakfast of cinnamon oatmeal, we went outside, as usual. Our small log cabin was surrounded by an acre and a half of pine-needle carpeted woods, a perfect playground for imaginative children.

First, we explored. We each took a banana and one spool of thread, and went to the woods behind the house, which were thicker than the woods on the side. We hardly ever ventured there. I tied the string to a tree on the edge of our yard, and we ventured out into the great wilderness. The spool of thread ran out about ten feet in, so we sat down and ate our bananas. That was enough exploring for one day.

Later, we played with the cats. I don’t remember exactly how many cats we owned at the time, but I do know that at one point, we had sixteen. Of course, that included at least two litters of kittens. They all lived on the front porch and they were more than cats. Oh, yes, they were. Each of them had not only a name, but a personality and a story. One of them even had a birthday. In fact, they were a community, a small village of interesting individuals. The doghouse, currently uninhabited by canines, was their church. We made a cross of two sticks, tied together with grass, to decorate it. Polar, a large, grayish-white cat with striking blue eyes, was their priest. My brother claimed that he had seen Polar in the doghouse, holding a whole audience of cats spellbound with his blazing eyes, and I think that through wishful thinking, we both came to believe it.

We had gone exploring, played with the cats, and played tag and hopscotch. Yes, it had been a busy day. As I listened to the creaking of the two large rocking chairs against the boards of the porch floor, I planned the activities of the next day. We could pick blackberries and bring them to Mom for a cobbler. I didn’t like blackberries, and the chigger bites always gave us much misery later, but what imaginative games we could play! We could be Indians, gathering berries for the rest of the tribe, who were sick and on the verge of death by starvation. Or we could be slaves, secretly plotting our daring escape while being forced to work in the fields (or thickets), until we fainted from exhaustion. Or I could be Laura Ingalls, pioneer, picking blackberries for Ma Ingalls’ pie, while Pa ploughed the field for planting.

What a dream world I lived in! My days were filled with Indians and settlers, slaves and queens, adventurers, discoverers, explorers--filled with play and with books, dozens of books. My mind could transform each object around me into a hundred different amusements. And the woods, the trees! My house was made of trees and surrounded by them. The trees gave more than shade--they provided pirate swords, tasty salads, escape from murderous bandits, and fur-brushes for lucky (or unlucky) birthday cats.

As the moon rose in the still blue sky, the chorus of whippoorwills was joined by crickets.

“Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill!”

“Chirrup, chirrup, chirrup, chirrup…”

Breeze blew gently across my face and ruffled my hair. I was almost asleep.

Then my dad broke the music and the silence--broke it as I had never known music or silence to be broken.

“How would you like to move to Florida?” he asked solemnly.

My mother’s chair stopped rocking. My brother returned from his search for poisonous spiders in the cracks of the porch, and stared wide-eyed at my dad.

“Ha ha,” I said with annoyance. “I wouldn’t like it at all. I’m staying right here.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m not joking. Did you know that the bishop can tell priests where to go, or at least ask them?”

The music of the crickets and the whipoorwill's cries became distant yet loud, as something fading away, perhaps already lost, but threatening. Through the clamor, I vaguely heard my dad explaining that there was a church in Florida in need of his help, and the bishop wanted him to switch with the priest there.

“But… why couldn’t you just say no?” I asked.

“Well…” My dad shifted uncomfortably under me. “I haven’t said yes or no, yet. He gave me time to think about it. But I think it might be a good thing to do. God will decide. Here, get up for a second. Let me show you something.”

I stood on the porch, displaced from my father’s lap and from my childish world of games and dreams. I had thought of moving before… onto a mountain or into a teepee in the backyard, but Florida!

My dad returned with a map in his hands. He lifted me back into his lap and my brother leaned on his right arm. He spread the map open and pointed.

“See, that’s called Lake County. That’s where the church is. There are over two hundred lakes there!”

I looked at the map. There sure was a lot of blue.

“Are there alligators in the lakes?” my brother asked curiously.

“Yes, lots of alligators. Little ones and big ones.”

“Really??” Nick began to get excited.

I thought about Florida and envisioned flamingoes and palm trees. Now I began to be excited. Maybe this was just another adventure!

Then I thought of the little white church with red doors and dome-shaped windows. I thought of the rose-colored carpet, cream-colored pews, and the new, polished wood altar rail. I thought of the icons of the western saints on the back wall. I remembered the huge magnolia tree that my brother and I often climbed. One cold day, we went into the tree (the branches were so low that it was like a room) and buried ourselves in the blanket of leaves to keep warm. I envisioned the winding paths and the pile of sticks that was our “campfire.” The carpet of periwinkles in the wood, the big hill in the back, the dogwood tree in the middle of the white gravel parking lot… how could I leave these?

And our home… Pachelbel’s Canon playing in the high-ceilinged living room, light gleaming on the yellow pine floor; spaghetti cooking in the kitchen, warming my hands by the half-open oven; the dimmer switch for the chandelier in the dining room, the cobwebs on the back porch, the “tunnel” connecting Mom’s and Dad’s closets… these things mattered. Running screaming through the trees with Heather, our hair braided like Indians’; sitting on a stool in the middle of the woods, reading the original, illustrated Winnie the Pooh stories; the stars shining clearly above the pines as the family went for walks in the evening; Queen Anne’s Lace growing by the red clay trails… No. I couldn’t go. Never.

Then I relaxed, and again learned my head on dad’s shoulder. He had only said maybe. And now the moon had risen, the breeze was blowing; the sound of the crickets was peaceful and rhythmic… This was now. And tomorrow, Nick would draw a treasure map, rubbing it in the dirt to make it look old; and I would bury a bead necklace, and we would take the map and look for it. And the day after… Well… who cared? This was now. So I closed my eyes and enjoyed the whippoorwill evening.

What Didn't Happen One Night

We hear the twisted cry, cut short by death, perhaps.
And we shrink into our skins, staring, listening.
Blinding, deafening ourselves.
Because who wants to believe in a murder?
Better not to be a witness.
See no evil, hear no evil,
No need to speak it.
It was probably just the wind.

Nocturne

The black air is heavy with sweetness
from unseen flowers,
stifling and free.
The breeze is free,
and the stillness,
but there is fear in forgotten feelings,
in lamplight pooling in my eyes and
flowers on my breath,
in a new me who is very old.
Shall I return
to the beige walls and the fluorescent lights,
my lonely night prison where overused thoughts
swirl pointlessly around my motionless body?
Shall I return?
Or shall I venture on
into the night,
the allurement,
put myself in danger for the sake
of a dream
and a borrowed power?
The wedding blossoms hang on the trees
in the lamplight,
beckoning,
and the God-made man-made-poet-made self-made night
sings me on my way.
Distant trains and midnight blue,
passing cars and melodious far-off screams
are lovely and dangerous.
I could wander on and on,
passing the strangers,
always in danger but never harmed,
because I could become
the summer night,
and have skin of air and
eyes of seeing light and
ears of hearing crickets
and be unseen.
Yet shall I return?
Even now I hesitate.
And all is sadness.

Fragile

I. Glowing warmth exudes from fingertips,
Your smile sends radiance beaming across
The gulf of inches between our beating hearts.

The tiny gulf is extinguished as our lips
Touch, and unity is joy, distance no loss.
We softly join, one moment safe, then part.

II. But since our leaving I have stood apart
From all; aloof, I shrink into my throbbing skin.
Away you strangers, venture not near nor look into my eyes.

What is this that causes me to start
When a body brushes past and air is thin?
No shield for me; turn your head and pass me by.

III. These strangers are not you, yet power lies
In closing of distance to look into my soul
And God forbid they pierce the flimsy veil.

The sacred wisp that deep within me tries
To wrap itself in mystery, fears one may control,
Grasp, tear, shred, manipulate, betray, impale.

IV. To you alone I trust this glimpse, so fail
You not my vulnerable and tender being.
Guard it; and that I may know, show yours as well.

Let my trembling hands hold a thing as frail
And gaze long deep with tearful eyes, loving, seeing,
Your perfect flaws. Pull me close, kiss me, secrets tell.

Manual for the Dissolution of Solids

There must be no solids, no pillars of strength,
no towers of virtue.
And no noble, high monuments, other than
HUMANITY.
PROGRESS.
The insignificant must be raised up, the significant razed.
Equality above fulfilment of purpose.
But what we must never know,
is that we achieve inequality by exalting
the ever-insignificant Recent Achievement.
Nothing must weather time.

There is no black or white. There is nothing solid.

The only lie is Truth with a capital T.
There is only truth for this one and that one.
There is only each man's perspective, all
equally valuable and helpful.

The ancient never said anything valuable
for all time--only for his time.
But we are right for all time,
for future,
for progress.
Such is the arrogance of "living in these modern times,"
a condition most unavoidable.

But where does progress lead? Do we progress
into blazing, searing light of holy Truth?
Or into muddled, murky musings,
demure thinking?
There is no black. There is no white.
Only shadows of confusion.

Logic is too rigid, save in the realm of science.
It does not leave room for freedom of thought,
freedom of lunacy.

Absolutes are absolutely forbidden, as signs of absolute arrogance.

One must be open-minded. It is good (yet not to assert that goodness exists)
to be tossed about between prevailing opinions and new insights.
If Truth is popular, ride for a while, until it is in danger
of going out of fashion.
Never, under any circumstances, no matter how dire,
must you find Truth and cling with all
strength, endurance, faith and hope.

And on a side note, faith
may be placed only in failing, flawed Humanity.

We must be tolerant.
We must not forgive,
for to forgive would be to admit
that someone has done wrong,
and thus that there is evil.
That is a lie. There is no evil.
Only inconveniences
or "not the best choice in this circumstance."

The only wrong thing is to believe you are right
and the contradiction of your belief
is wrong.
For there are no contradictions,
(not to repeat myself)
only different perspectives, all
equally valuable and helpful.

There are no solids, no pillars of strength,
no towers of virtue.
They have been banned.

So, I, having found a rock of Truth in the river of chaos,
grip its harsh edges to fight, fight,
fight against the rushing current of scorn.
But now I let go, floating easily for a time,
scorning other ignorant clingers of rocks,
freeing my mind from fear of accountability.
We who ride the river determine its course.
But there is a cliff, a waterfall, and
I fall, lightly, blissfully,
until the sudden rush of air clears my head,
just before I see the rocks of Truth below
and break upon them.

Wiser Eyes

Wise eyes
contain laughter,
bubbling springs of laughter
that hold the world's joy as well as their own.

Wise eyes
contain sorrow,
deep wells of sorrow
that hold the world's sorrow as well as their own.

Wise eyes
contain joy,
quiet rivers of joy
that hold the world's joy as well as their own.

My eyes
linger long,
gazing into wiser eyes
and in their dark, wet, mysterious depths I find

My laughter.
My sorrow.
My joy.

And I understand.

And my eyes
become wiser eyes.

The Shadow

There is a presence in the room
Besides my own.
It is invisible
Yet oppressive.
It hovers and circles,
Taunts and mocks,
Steals the sunlight from the windows.
This presence
That will not leave me
Is loneliness.

Awe

In the center of the flat field
I sit and gaze
at the dark dark dark blue sky.
The moon travels fast tonight.
He has a destination.
Crickets crickets crickets
sing sing sing sing
creating musical silence
in the cool, still air.
The calm of a storm.
Through grotesquely twisted oaks
reaching their bare arms
toward that endless sky
I see lightning.
Silent lightning
behind a majestic cloud.
Raindrops gently fall:
one, two, five, many.
Still I gaze,
drowning in the heavens.
Laughter far off,
distant sirens.
Stillness.
Silence.
Oh God, I am so small.
And you are infinite.
Fear.
Love.

Life from a Swing

It begins with stillness,
then labor.
Kicking hard, pumping legs, pumping
exerting to produce only a small, rocking motion.
The air is hot, until a breeze from Heaven
begins to slowly sweep across my face and
lift my hair.
Now I rise and fall in steady rhythm.
UP one, DOWN one, UP, DOWN!
The rays of the sun filter down and reach,
reach toward me.
I float into one and rise higher, higher.
High... Bliss... Sky... Blue... Sun... Ecstasy...
Then my stomach plummets and I...
FALLLLLL.
Fear and thrill take me and I grip,
grip the cold chains with white knuckles.
Then WHOOOSSSHHH BLURRR
I rise again into the blue.
Joy.
Freedom.
Only breathing.
Living.
Being.
The peak, the summit, joy of life in a moment,
then the denouement.
Slower, lower,
return to gentle rocking.
My feet touch the hard, unrelenting ground
and I walk away, dizzy...
Remembering only the infinite moment
of soaring into the sun.

DREAD

DREAD is a straight-jacket,
paralyzing all but your neck and eyes.
You can turn your face away
with the ever-present knowledge of
what you do not see.
Or you can stare it in the face
and revel in it.

DREAD is a soft, fanged black cat,
stalking you in the shadows,
hiding when you turn your head;
the soft, padding footsteps haunt your brain.
It sharpens its claws daily.

DREAD is a smell, thick, heavy, hanging
about the room. Musty, smoky, choking,
no safe air to breathe. Unseen, unheard,
unfelt, it only creeps into the nostrils
and does its sadistic, curling dance.

DREAD is a murky glass
with appearing and disappearing faces
that mock, taunt. This window shows vague horrors,
this mirror cruel forgotten truths.
Seen through the glass, the reality that you fear
is gigantic, misshapen, made hideous by old stains.

Burst the bonds that hold you.
Knife the feline that haunts you.
Exorcise the demon vapors that stifle you.
Shatter the glass that lies to you.
Grab FEAR by the throat and
shake it till it dies.
And you live
free.

I Have Thoughts

I have thoughts.
And I like to write them down in various forms.
And some people like to read them.
So here goes.