You know those nights when the ghosts of your past walk by,
single file,
like some kind of weird parade?
They step in time to the drum of your pulse
with sharp smiles, their voices mingled, repeating one thing:
“Who do you think you might have been
if you hadn’t become who you became?”
Why is it when I am done with the day,
have just pulled the dust cover over my brain,
I close my eyes with a prayer but again
the Zoetrope of memory starts slowly to spin:
we’re kids at the beach, we’re covered in sand,
you trot ahead, and I just miss your hand.
The wind eats my words and salt burns my eyes,
sand sinks beneath me as you leave me behind.
Blow my clouds away with your breath –
Pull them from the deepest of my depths;
Play your favorite songs on the strings of my strung-out heart.
Let my hands keep time against your skin.
[Tell me when the crescendo comes in.]
Orchestral, it swells;
The tempo, it rises;
Triple tongues and rhapsody.
Oratio.
I wish we could disappear into one of your songs –
Riding the melody until it’s gone;
Moving in rhythm until silence sets in.
Shall we write a new song or play this one again?
Singing softly through speakers until I’m asleep
I keep hoping we’ll meet in a dream.
Try to not wonder who you’re with
Because you wrote this song for me.
I hope that you still sing it live
And sing it just the same,
And every line, it tears at you;
That the notes spell out my name.
Lush and full, after the rain
The greens are thriving, strong –
A hawk lazily sways in the air
To the sound of the smaller bird’s song.
The sun is shining, but not very warm,
Still diluted by winter-cold air;
There will be another storm or two
Until flowers bloom everywhere.
It seems to me like the people you love are light bulbs in a candelabra above your head: that’s what lights your life. That’s what lights your way through all of the darkness.
When someone you love dies – when their bulb goes out – you can still see the big picture. But you’re aware, always, out of the corner of your eye: of that little patch of darkness.
You know the things that exist under the cloud. You know they’re still there even if you can’t see them. And some days, that’s enough.
But every now and then you have a day where it breaks your heart not to see light glint off of that marvelous surface.
It turns out it’s really hard to follow a memorial rosary if you aren’t Catholic. It hadn’t occurred to me to look it up or anything; apparently you can still think you know everything and be wrong at forty. Why the universe thought I needed a smack to my humility, I’m not sure. The universe had been hurling some rough stuff at me the last couple of months. To be honest, it was starting to feel personal.
As the pews around me echoed in unison I panicked and looked for a cheat sheet: no hymnal, no bible, no leaflet…come on, Holy Angels. No help for the secular? I guess that’s what I get for being a heathen. I shot a panicked glance at Corey but couldn’t catch his eye. Despite being raised Catholic and he was clearly disinterested; he answered the priest robotically. Can’t fault him for that, I guess. It IS his grandmother’s funeral.
Half an hour into the rosary my mind started to wander and I found myself looking around the room. The woman across the aisle had closed her eyes in concentration and was counting off one wooden bead for every Hail Mary. Corey’s uncle, ahead of us several pews, stared at the casket. The fist at his side was clenched and white. My eyes landed on Cheryl; the matriarch of the family was seated in the front corner. Every few minutes her eyes swept the crowd making sure everyone was okay.
I was okay until I heard the first notes of an acoustic guitar.
And then something in me broke.
Like salvation floating on butterfly wings
Flitting about and fixing things,
Speedy and erratic but alighting with tender care.
Calm is quiet and but nothing moves:
Simply a rest before growth, a cocoon,
Before the frenzy of rebirth begins anew.
What weary wanderer doesn’t need rest?
Not just to doze, to eat and to drink,
But a total rest of being, of soul?
Reasoning that all sins are forgiven;
Hungrily sucking the pill past my lips like communion.
I want to stop the sunrise coming over the horizon.
I want the safety and silence of three in the morning (cold as it is)
and I don’t want to look this over in the light of day.
It’s easier to take in pieces with the rest hidden in soggy fog;
to slowly put things together;
to take time to think (uninterrupted) and to breathe (unencumbered.)
The bright light isn’t sympathetic to flaws or mistakes,
details are hidden under the glares of the rays.
It burns the skin on the hands cradling your head (overwhelmed.)
more.bad.poetry
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