Word Pastels

“I AM FROM………”     by Susan O’s Brother

I am from a place between two worlds filled with flames of light and shadows of living soot.

I am from an upstairs closet where windows clatter to the elevated trains and the radiator belches steam when the basement behemoth grows hungry.

I am from a crib dangling over the endless darkness where the wild creatures live.

I am from the branches of a leafy tree in a field of daylight where I first heard the Voice.

I am from an acorn, eaten, that should have been planted.

I am from a world where art is real, but color is not.

I am from music and poetry, science projects and rocket ships.

I am from a funny school, Masconoment, and a funny park, Mashashimuet.

I am from cold November nights where evil pierces the darkness and meteors skate trails across the black sky of death.

I am from a Dummer place where wonder soars above Camelot, where aristocrats and debutantes park their children.

I am from a Tufter place where books like stones pile high on my heaving chest till I yield.

I am from London in winter where the Voice wrestles my heart and touches my hip.

I am from Paris in April, Arles in May, and a mythical place called, “L’Isle-sur-le-Doubs.”

I am from the Lone Star, a lone star, the writing on the wall, “mene mene tekel upharsin.”

I am from lobster claws and demon tales.

I am from Veritas.

I am from Billy Graham and bathroom bills, steepled dungeons, and the Queen of Heaven.

I am from a nonfiction, fiction, that in a dream of passion, could force his soul so to his own conceit.

I am from vanity of vanities, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

I am from a place between two worlds filled with flames of light and shadows of living soot.

I am from a place where I do not reside, do not belong, untamed by art, caned by poetry, lost in quantum uncertainty.

I am from that place, until the Voice calls me home.

Cathartic oceans long receded
Leave caked compresses
Pasted and pressed into wounds that
Refuse to heal
Tears as nettles burn
I don’t want to do this anymore
When’s dinner?

He holds her heart she holds his hand
She guards his soul, he calls her friend
He holds her night, she forms his day
She smiles, he smiles, together play
Collecting seashells she and he
Growing up together he and she

She cried but once because she knew
He could not know
What she could not
With words to him explain
So she and he without a word
Walk on and grow apart
One knowing all and one unknown

And when she left
With unskilled hands
He cups her to his heart
To hold her near to find his friend
And try to understand
A single thought a single tear
A simple heart a shrouded fear
For what she knew, and he could not
Could never be revealed
A broken shell lies on the sand
For what she knew and he could not
He’d never understand.

I was there the day he died
I was there that blood-soaked day
A shallow gasp, a silent cry
His shadow slipped away

Death creeps in to steal a soul
And colors fade to gray
To stand and mourn without a song
When all else fades away

I was there without a word
A soldier at his post
An honor guard to pay respect
Before God’s heavenly host

To think that one might matter
Is brazen pride of life
To think that one might matter most
But folly of the heart

I was there the day he died
A flicker choked by smoke
When life found out it counted not
Nor did it matter most

I was there the day he died
I was there to pray
A whispered voice a sad goodbye
When all else fades away.

He never got to hear her sing
Nor see her morning eyes
For just a moment side-by-side
They sat without a song
Without a word she flapped her wings
And flew when evening yawned
Through purple hues he searched for her
But knew that she had flown
And in the night now all alone
The bluebird sings his song.

It’s not easy being a polar bear
Or looking like Winston Churchill
But someone has to do it
Someone takes the fall
For sure as day that one must lose
For one to win it all

So to all you pretty people
–You know who you are–
To all you pretty people,
Enjoy your parties and debutante affairs
Your cuddling fires and rocking chairs
Forbid the winter’s snows and squalls
And when you glance up at the wall
That skin like Churchill scowls and calls
Right back defiant in repose
Remember then it’s not so easy
No not as you suppose
Remember then the truth be told
It’s not so easy, no not at all
To be a polar bear hung on a wall
But someone has to do it.

Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.

Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.

Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.

Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.

Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.

Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.Words.

I don’t believe you…

Some days weigh heavy
As wool drenched in winter rain
Not a lingering aroma of percolating coffee
But an unyielding procession
Drumming not the passage of death
But re-calibrating the rhythm of life
Now unsettled by the shock
Life was this way when I found it.

Words are razors.
Yours are hyacinths.
Yours cut deeper.

I would rather you thrash and scream
Ripping your claws through my flesh
In boiling tempest and blood-spattered fits
Than to stand frozen in time
Muted contortions, alone
No time, no direction
Reduced to memory
An archived friend.