Tankabun
Broken Vow
Looking back on days
and forward to years ahead a sheen of tears curtains my view. A
gentle touch and a dazzling smile once greeted me. Now the
coldest of indifference remains. This then is what the others
knew. While I lived a lifetime with my childhood sweetheart,
never parting until he died, others loved and lost and fought
and loved again. Each parting must have taken them through this
darkness, wondering how the love that began them was lost. How
can love die? Mine is still as deep and calm as the living river
under winter ice. It only waits for spring and the quickening of
warmth once more. The death of love is beyond my ken. In my
heart love cannot die. Did I watch as the light went out in
those loving eyes so far beyond my reach? Though I cannot see
them across the miles, veils, and years, that golden light would
shine across them all. Surely I would see it, if it were there.
How can love die? Where love would grow forgiveness, what lies
buried there? Is this where lies a broken vow?
love to unlove
turned
dark bitter moebius trip
back and down and in
when this sweetest music
became a dying scream
Let Me Go, or
We Both Shall drown
He knelt before me
shaking with rage. He was speaking urgently but his words made
no sense. Blame was the theme but nothing was coherent except it
was clear that I was to blame.
Let me go, my love. I wanted to touch his face and soothe away
the anguish that I saw there.
You can’t control me. I won’t be controlled. You can’t own me.
You need to let me go my dearest love.
I knew that touching him or even speaking was a bad move. At the
best he would walk out. It was entirely possible he would hit
me. I was looking for a way to break through, to communicate.
Letting go of that vain hope is what finally set me free. Free
from the sickness that made me hope for rational or even humane
behavior from the man I loved. Free to set the fire of goodbye.
He is not sane.
chiaroscuro lover
broken deep within
the glue to mend his fractures
not my burgundy tears
Rainforest
The hike across the wasteland has
been long and difficult. Each time I think I see a waterfall, it
turns out to be a mirage. One more painful than the others
repeats—a
recurring dream. On a good day the recurring image slides off my
consciousness like background music and I walk on, living,
thriving. But oh, when the need is greatest the image takes on
so much real seeming I convince myself that it is, it has been,
and perhaps will be. It seems so solid, so real. I approach
smiling with hope, reading promise in the falling water. Yet as
I get closer it wavers and the reality beneath the shimmering
image intrudes, the glamourie is lost. What I loved was a
seeming, an image. It never existed. In reaching for the unreal,
I found ways to pass the years but never to quench the thirst.
In the middle of the sleep time
when the world is quiet, I awaken and waterfalls come to mind.
Real waterfalls. Not the kind that leave me parched and thirsty
as their image wavers on approach. The kind where real footsteps
bring real fatigue and when you have touched the water under the
falls you emerge drenched and tired and enriched in ways beyond
words. It took so much work to get here. My legs were shaking by
the time we reached the top again with younger hikers shaking
with fatigue beside me, even the children stopping to rest and
breathe. These, then, are waterfalls. They take a lot of work,
leave some bruises, and when you leave you are both tired and
lifted. These are the waterfalls to remember.
Yet once again flute music drifts
on the wind over the sound of the falls teasing me with the
scent of roses. Once again images of nevermore draw me along
seeking that which never was nor will be. Reality slides across
my consciousness like sunlight and I glance away from the
bright, shading my eyes from that special blindness of seeing so
much you see nothing. Too much light brings eternal darkness so
we look away, knowing that in seeing this, we will see no more.
In looking away, we miss the shimmer that tells us that once
more this is glamourie. Real waterfalls do not come with the
sound of flutes and only children follow pipers to their doom.
The music of real waterfalls must be enough. Life does not come
with background music.
The path through the trees
strewn with fallen branches
echoing love song
breathless heart-deep yearning
this rainforest cathedral
