freeway

It is said you cannot walk the past: the past being past. Turn your eyes to the future: your time better spent. And yet here my eyes see the stars of former orbits. There and here and do you remember. A past at hand, rather than behind. And a fear clutches my voice. For future is the void to fore, eating my path. A halo crowns him with a grim wet sky.

Memories passing in twinkling winks of promise. This time that time oh that time, a parade stands as I am run towards the maw. Abyssal teeth I hear waiting as homes break the night. They dance the rhythm of yesterday. A merry jig. A merry lie.

The homes too had teeth. They once an erebor, a waiting smog, for my journey's end. And the journey did not stop. Homes of fear and silence.

But one light, one star, a patient, quiet star, promises the Home-not-yet, the Home-not-seen. The Home at the edge and behind every mountain. Echoed in every word and every hurt. And this light dawns the rememberance: the journey past and present, future, end. And it whispers, "onward."

And I step.

fallow

A road straight through
The sun bridge span
Water birth, wetted grave
Eye to eye, Sol swift run.

Coeus to Crius our tread
A day, a night, a day again.
Across the dust we shed home
And Home is found again.

Our names changed to old
New ways lived deeper than 
The sea. A family blood and 
Bond and flame of divine unity.

We singley split in faction whole
To task of tarnished garment
Gold. And strive and sweat
In joyful pain. True water bless us.

Oh sweet breath of breeze
Adds beauty to the sight,
Atop a roof being made a ground,
Of fields, crops, and harvest.

The father farmer to this land,
Seeking crop we plant seeds;
Build him a home for water life
To feed the field fertile fallow.

And life rises with our joy
Springing from dry dust earth
Cracking and twisting new 
Words from lost mute mouths.

Clouds of play with rules unruled. 
Ropes untied. Water unbound. 
Friendship never spoken, but known 
deeper than strength allows.

A song between the rivers flow
Dancing daring in a flaméd
Fury of friendship and grace
Transcendent Word of words
 
The farewell tears us twain
Healing with hurt the thing
We never thought a wound.

maranatha

I try to say the story of my thoughts with a smile. The boy does the same. Our pantomime set upon the dusty streets.

The pastor's wife, stopping me, turning to her husband to translate words for which I need no translation.

Seeing defeat of dread at every door, courage in tremors of terror. Breathe, breathe.

A celebration of the difference of one.

I am taught the ways of courage from a fifteen-year-old, ready to speak, ready to relent.

A fire and the boy sits beside me, looking to make sure I sing the wrong words. Again, the language of a smile.

Perhaps the strongest is the smallest.

Walking songs of animal sound in pack and joy.

The oldest gives his day to climb and cut and hammer.

They give their days their wage their home their food and say we bless them.

Shedding shared tears with a man I have seen fifteen days of my life below a new home.

Maranatha

door

She holds the door as shield before her eye. Peering with single vision at strange voice. Her hand halts the ready child, keeping from the unknown. Fear cuts her half, undoing. And she cannot give herself. The strange can not know her; they can not see.  And she can not be. The fear rules and the fear reigns and she holds the door.

The strange ask and seek and love and listen, wanting whole what is not given. But shield cuts the fearful heart and care cankers the hidden hand. The other is given glimpse and glimmer of the given not the giver. Truth is removed in sight, and she cannot hear the counter word. Protected and safe and dying.

And I am she and she is me and we fear the fearful. Yet my door will never hold the water. My hand cannot save my child. This house is falling and I hold back the saver. Hear words that please and flee words that hurt true. One eye to blind and one eye to see the world's dangers pass.

And she breaks my heart as my fear is her fear and it smothers us.

viento

The wind talks to the land. It speaks calming words to the sun and loving words to the neck. It paces the dust, the wind. It lifts the child to hear its voice. It paces the lane, stepping across a yard and a dog and a field and a fence. 

The wind opens doors, a knock and a smile. It kicks a ball off the chain. It lifts a wall to the sky, with sweat and laughs.  A twist and it carries a scent.  Carving the dirt in descent and ascent, the wind weaves the ladder's legs. It moves the imitate mouth. It regales crowns and sweeps the scrap. It sings a song through the strings of the willing.

It caresses the hurt, comforts the tear, binds the broke. It speaks the language of no voice. It unlocks the doors of today into the land of forever. This wind holds up a man in a tree. It wipes the blood from his eyes. And it falls to the heads of the people below, the humble, the meek, and the mild.

All with a word, all with a name, all with the hand of the wind.

sunset

It is a sky of somber fire, growing build of ember. Wide swathes of cascading hills atop blackened plains. And everything feels a song. Purpose in purple strands reaching in globéd fingers. They close into darkness, and the stars dance a chorus in entry.

And I cannot find the name of the scene before me. And I cannot find my place.  And my voice is a rasp on the melody, a noise in the peace. 

A whisper asks courage.

The song falls to the ground and walks circles. Turning and turning around my feet. My eyes twist in the mael. My hand is slow behind the music. Chasing the spin, dizzy in dance.

And I cannot learn the pace. And I cannot catch the circling chant. And I cannot repeat. And I cannot speak. And my voice is a rasp on the melody.

A whisper asks courage.

So I speak a quiet song.

step

What is a step?

A movement. Progress. A hope. The present future. 

But how far? 

A step takes you nowhere.  Your journey done and the sound is the same.  Your old name remains. You have moved, and it is nowhere.

What then a journey?

Sets of steps? One nothing and a second? And the river bends, the valley spreads, and home is abolished.

What awaits?

An ocean. Whelming deep and forever wide. Grasping, hungry, and strange. An ocean of night to be found by the touch.  Day in our trembling hands.

So why?

In our blind wander, in our sinking swim, we abide the fear.  The fear of the night. We tread the road of the night to know the power of the day. Victory found in the hope. Hope found in the step.