Dark Morning

Dark Morning

“… Like images in a puddle bent / Projected from the night.”

The misty morning haze
Paints thinly my coat
But kisses wetly my face
Unwelcome & contrite

And quite like a fuzzy mote
In the vision of the day
Floats dejectedly the sun
A lazy leak of light

And trees on the horizon
Hue muted & translucent
Like blue veins under pale skin
Rise then vanish from sight

And that dreary sun’s ascent
Queer’ seems to darken the day
Like images in a puddle bent
Projected from the night

 

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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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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.

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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The Thunder—It Mocks Me [A Short Story]

I sat out waiting until the storm rolled in. My tired, half-moon gaze never strayed from the night sky—it flickered almost constantly from electrified whites back into the cloudy indigo—until I felt the first drop of water fall onto my hand. I looked down and tenderly wiped the tiny bead of moisture off my thin, trembling fingers. You poor things. They hung off my hands, barely sensible, only twitching back to life in order to stroke a slightly dissonant-sounding variation of an A minor chord after each deep rumble of thunder I heard in the distance.

Again I lifted my head to the sky now frothing up with sheets of incoming rain, and, with my trail of thoughts disrupted, I came back to reality—the reality in which I was outside, sitting shivering in the storm, doing nothing but waiting. It always seemed to be that way, that I was always waiting for you in some form or another.

Vision blurry from the mix of tears and rain drops caught on my eyelashes, I bumped my guitar on the doorframe coming in from the strengthening mists of wind. This sent a twang of sound rippling into the belly of the sleeping house.

It was late—too late for people to be at the front door, and the dog knew that. Upstairs I heard her stir by the dainty jingle of her collar tags. I prayed she would not find this disturbance a threat to the family, which would undoubtedly necessitate her unleashing a siren of whimper-like barks to ward off “the intruder.” On most occasions, such noble precautions would earn her nothing but my love and praise, but at this hour they would come at the cost of waking the rest of the household, and the last thing I wanted at the moment was a bombardment of questions from an irritable mother.

What were you doing outside so late?
Why do you look like that?
Have you been crying?
Is someone out there with you?

No, Mom. I’m alone.

I heard another tinkling of the dog’s collar but nothing more, so I turned the lock, released a heavy sigh at this symbolic abandonment of all my romantic “making up in the rain” fantasies, and continued as discretely as possible into the dark, intensely air-conditioned living room.

The items I carried in from the storm weighed on me even after I set them down on the lumpy, muddy-green couch: my guitar that always seemed to favor your touch to mine, as you always made it sing so much sweeter than I ever did or could; the soft, simple plaid blanket your parents and sister gave me for Christmas; the mustard-colored wool hat your aunt knitted me, also a Christmas gift, already stretched from so much use during the long winter; my well-worn-in journal that must have held a hundred bled and dried copies of your name in between line after line of all my desperate scribbles of thought, an obsessive habit of mine.

I was just about to sink down hopelessly beside these things when suddenly the backdoor swung open with a slow but forceful push. In came the voice of the grumbling thunder, a strong gust of wet May air, and then, its silhouette revealed by a long burst of lightning just overhead, a tall figure hunched over as it passed through the doorway.

“Ah, good.” In the darkness, I couldn’t quite see his face, but I knew it was my brother. He twisted and shook his lanky extremities of the rain until he succeeded in making himself laugh at his own ridiculous movements. “I thought it was Mom I saw through the window, but then I thought it might be you, so I decided to chance it and come in. And it is you, so that’s cool.”

Though my chest still clenched in an uncomfortably unnatural way to hold my aching heart, and the indigestible weight of loneliness still sat swollen in my stomach, my spirit was instantly lifted by his effortless humor.

“Yep, it’s me,”I said lightly—or attempted to say lightly; I felt each word flop out of my mouth and die on the floor as they came out. “I was just out on the porch playing guitar, but, you know, the rain…” I was about to make a guess at what he was doing outside, but just then I caught a pungent scent wafting up from his damp clothes and I knew it had something to do with destroying some plant matter in a series of small, contained fires.

“Glad I came in when I did. I have my nice headphones on me.” He slipped off his shoes and returned the headphones he had shielded under his sweatshirt back to their usual place around his neck. He stood for a moment, then, with his hands on his protruding hips, and as if to a room full of awkward party guests, announced,“Well, who else is starving?”

My body, from throat to stomach, tensed with nausea at the thought of eating anything in my current state of heartbreak. My appetite was destroyed. In fact, for weeks it seemed like all I had been living on was worry, writing, and prayer—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—in that order.

But for some reason I followed him into the kitchen anyway, holding myself around the waist, like you might have done if you would have stayed a little longer that night; you might have noticed how great a need I had for being held.

I spread my fingers out wider, pressed them into my flesh tighter, both adjustments to mimic your bigger, stronger hands.

This trick-of-the-mind worked well enough, I suppose. My nausea settled and I was able to forget about you long enough to be entertained watching my brother concoct a very unconventional breakfast sandwich he dubbed with the name “The Spicy Spicy Thunder Hump.” Whether he were under the influence of certain psychoactive substances or not, anyone would agree he had one strange and fascinating mind.

But when his sandwich was gone and we parted ways, him retreating to his basement cave and me ascending the stairs to my lonely tower, my distracted thoughts were quick to recede back into the darkness of myself, back to you.

Do you have any idea the kind of hell you put me through?
Does your wild selfishness conjure even a pebble of guilt inside your head?
Do you see me?
Don’t you love me?
Do you see me?
I bet you are already sleeping soundly.

The thunder rattled my window, a mocking snore in the night.

 

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