When night falls for the bones,
Nothing comes from the dark,
Nothing goes into the light
and the marrow burns on its own.
The tunnel bends
to its own demise
and turns in its cold sack
as the sun dies
and the skies close down
They drown us in the hues of
someone else's nightmares while
our own forgotten dreams
lie down in the grass and
all we can do is lie down
with them and smell it coming
like we smell our own sweat
and wait for the rain to wash it all away.
From the darkness, from
the depths, a crystalline air
vibrates our structured souls
until they shatter into light
while the bones beat and rattle
within us, playing
us like a single drum.
we sit in circles
like dust settling
out of the room
like light fading
into the corners
like dark creeping
along the floor
and are ourselves
only to ourselves
to all others we
of tall grass
on long legs
in the water
we fly at ourselves
and whirl about
our own heads
we the moth
we the flame
we the candlemaker
we hold ourselves
like little children
into our hair
into the sun
[a series I have been working on]
[part one can be found here]
I wonder--did those strange scents jar
your memories and dreams toward
unseen collisions with silence,
that wrong kind of quiet made dense
with soft specific sounds that spell
a place far deeper than our well-
used alphabet of ancient objects?
Our limbic world just disconnects
over time. Our temporal selves
get disheveled. Cerebral shelves
do not suffice any more. We
strive to hold things in place, but see
only place-holders and when age
eats worlds, the words fall off the page.
This hand I hold within my own
holds the man that I have become,
holds the pieces of who I am,
takes them gently in and holds them
close, close as flesh is close to bone.
This hand I hold is the hand that
I will grow old holding onto.
We will sew dreams into our seems
with this hand, one smaller hand, and
my own--all I need to call my own.
A Happy Mother's Day to all.