What Strange & Resilient Things

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Oh, all the strange & resilient things that don the old trees in the wet winter forest.

On the weathered faces of those sleeping giants, clever mushrooms appear like five o’clock shadow. Their roots, stretching out across the plush carpet of decay like callused & twisted toes, are graced with fuzzy green socks of thick moss, rich in color. And around every naked trunk, wrinkled & leathery like roughly aged necks, are fashioned snug scarves of ivy vines.

High up, the wizened branches may crack & creak, like ancient bones in cold discomfort, but down below, damp leaves, like blankets of freshly shed skin, silently compress into fresh fabrics for spring clothing.

 

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You Filled a Space

Here
Small & safe
You are warmth
You filled a space
Wherein echoed the lonely tune
Of a wanting harmony
And you taught it joy & fear

Tears
I will kiss
Them, reserve
Them on my lips
For suckling at each moistened bloom
Roots of an eager seed
Whose dreams are thirsty, my dear

Cheer
Heart ablaze
Only you
Only your face
Could stir such stasis into wonder
In pools of pride-sick eyes
For you taught them joy & fear

Years
Coming breaths
The blessed heights
The plunging depths
Enlightened nightmares threaten thunder
That tears ‘cross aching skies
In a world without you here

 

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Bent Spines

I have noticed as of late
How drinking tea and reading
Does not simple leisure make

If using one hand for sipping,
The other, a sort of weight
To keep the pages from flipping—

It is a TASK to do both!
With a cup hot and brimming
And a book thicker than most

For ev’ry distracted gaze,
When paused or too engrossed,
Chances a spill or stained page

So I admit to the crime—
Condemned by all a book sage—
Of putting bends in the spines

“The RISK! Lost chapters!” you gasp,
“Unbound by severed glued lines!”
To your awe, I answer that:

Yes, it gives me liberty
To leave my book lying flat
As to have two hands for tea!

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Tethered

Do you see me?
In the holy space above you
Tethered by the gravity of your pride
Dipping down to sip your exhales
Frantically pushing away
When greedily I brush your lips

Do you feel me?
Groping the tapers of your shadow
Naked to bid it cling to my skin
Awkwardly mimicking the dance
Laughing with exhilaration
Then retreating back with shame

How many float here?
In the orbit of our delusions
Imprinted with the dark side of memory
Slipping further from reality
Centrifugal desire
Force, pull, placate these longings

 

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For Our Good

What words could fully incapsulate this human experience? I’m fairly certain there are none. For example, none that could describe such a mix of worry & disgust at my failings, yet simultaneously explain the undercurrent, the electric, jittering pulse of giddiness I feel about my hilarious carelessness & unjustified rebellion when I indulge in drink.

None of this matters! I… I should have left a long time ago! No—no, I’m sorry—
Indeed I think I meant it, & I’m glad I finally said it—
HA!
—you are so upset! I wish you could see how ridiculous you are being, dear.
You 
do know I don’t mean a word of it…

The verbal & written language is so peculiar. It’s all we have, really, to attempt to share this experience in the most explicit way. Yet even as we torture ourselves with trying to write it down “just so,” it always falls short. Even the wordless language of art or music, generally accepted to be universal… No, no medium can inject you with the exact same madness of emotion as I am experiencing at the moment—or any moment of one’s current fancy or otherwise

That’s why I’m certain there is a God. Nothing we create can truly translate this thing to one another. Yet I know deep within me I am wholly understood by something or someone. It’s all innate, don’t you think? We just feel it, we know it—when it really comes down to it—that we’re not as alone in our thoughts as we melodramatically think we are sometimes.

This visceral existence. This constant, fearful wonder yet infected with this unpredictable strain of emboldened pride, the force that compels us to keep fighting against the truth, the heavy, subconscious knowing we are but mere specs of dust.

What a paradox! I do love the mystery! Bless me—I am terrified & in awe! Bless me–I am hopelessly, fabulously intoxicated & full of joy at the moment, with the realization that I am pathetically human. Human & therefore perfectly, beautifully, a disastrous mess-of-a-thing.

And for God’s sake, do bless me! If you could just see me! I’m positively a-flutter. Admittedly, it is not just for the love of my God & the experience of this life that I am a rambling fool…

Can I tell you a secret? I believe I have been all but proposed to! Ah, but can I be sure? If he is under the same mist of bliss I am currently raptured by? Excellent question, my brain… Let’s think on it until we are rendered an anxious heap—the logical thing to do, undoubtedly, to be sure.

Oh, but if it is true… we should be engaged by the end of the year! And I shall not die young & unmarried as the wicked demons in my nightmares tell me!

What an effect this elixir has had on us this night, my love. But I trust our Father is working—working in all our ravenous sin & ridiculous impulses—all things together for our good.

I Dreamed I Had a Daughter

I dreamed I had a daughter.

She was dark-haired with big, searching eyes. She was small & quiet, quick & happy. She was the happiest when I was near her.

She loved to babble about the silliest yet the most intriguing things. She ceaselessly asked questions, danced goofy little dances, sang nonsense songs that meant the world to me.

I miss her. I hope I meet her one day. I hope she has a brother—oh! with my dearest’s sweet lips & strong hands… I hope I dream of him when I fall back to sleep.

Seasonal Depression

There was little reason for that routine evening drive to be particularly memorable. All I can think is that it was already late December, so by this point in the year I fully expected to be settled into the cold, desaturated world of seasonal depression. Upon my return to Ohio from a week in sunny Texas, I prepared myself to see nothing but plains of white twisted with varying lines of black, every scene frozen under a vast shroud of gray.

But all the way down that seven mile stretch of road from the highway exit to my heart’s home, I was blessed by paintings of gentle colors flickering through my car windows. The decomposing earth produced a grayish-green sea about the scattered islands of rusty leaves. The wet tree skeletons donned an array of plum & mossy browns. Hazy purples were thickly present in the damp atmosphere. The low sun poured out a sheer veil of soft, mango light over the prevailing winter.

The joy I received from this seemed to rise up slowly from within myself, like warmth radiating out toward the beauty around me & spreading over my skin, like a tide reaching up from the ocean to kiss the lover shore.

But just as the tide must always recede back into deeper water, so does joy in the wintertime.

It is January now, & I am still thinking about that drive, recalling the journey fondly as a blur of muted colors—my favorites.

The scenery now has entirely given itself over to a jumble of leftover browns & dirty white, & the sky has already faded into a ceiling of drooping gray.

I am by the window with my notebook, as is my preference during this evening hour, when the sun is warm & golden in its descent & casts a romantic glow over everything that is usually so painfully unremarkable. This is my favorite hour, my only happy escape from the tedium of the season.

I am waiting for the streams of gold to trickle out upon the frost. There. I can almost see it! Wait. No. No, not today. Today, the sun is not going to come. The gray ceiling has chosen to be merciless. Today it is truly solid, a thick, even coating of bleakness; it offers no break for the soft winter sunbeams to peak through for me.

With a numb scowl, I accept what is denied me but remain by the window until the filtered light is fully under the horizon. Only God knows if the ceiling will break tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day either.

I bitterly think that it would be best not to hope for things at all in these downcast months. So, I turn & resolve to expect no more moments of awesome joy from nature, or anything else, until the appearance of Spring.

 

 

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