Puritano

Something Less than Pain

In Uncategorized on June 25, 2017 at 1:44 pm

Something less than pain has settled on my shoulders.

It is not heavy and I think  I can bear it,

as I often have the flagrant laughter of

strangers, or the orphaned light of dusk glimpsed

upon returning home.

Listen, I wish to say that I have been needed, and

there were those who were ready to whisper

my name in moments profound, intimate and true.

And, after all, I live still.

Here at the edge of the city autumn too feels at

home. Memories grow sparser, faces paler, and

one can breathe. Inward, outward,

focusing on small things that cast no shadows.

Yes, that’s the way– do you know another?

Holidays are spent admiring the imperial tombs, or

measuring the angles cast by wandering flocks of birds.

Of such careful pleasures a life could possibly be made.

And all the while the silent face of the world has

watched over me, calm and still as a

forest in the dead of winter.

Thus burdened and protected I will abide,

the life I never dared to hope for

encased in amber like an ancient bee.

 

 

 

 

Journey

In Uncategorized on June 15, 2017 at 2:21 pm

You set out late in the day.

Down the road you go, head high,

arms swinging to the ancient rhythm of the earth.

Horizons slowly devour each other in turn;

the land buckles, folds, swoons at your feet.

The gleam in the eye of that crow perched on

a stump tells you all you need to know

about your chances. Nights give you

no quarter, it’s true.

But a terrible strength courses through

your limbs, and morning finds you miles on,

your hands clenched around the throat of

an overconfident brigand.

The shadows of mountains and grass blades alike

ask what distance would truly mean to

one such as you.

Sheer need carries you past dozing noonday fields,

raucous villages with sad-eyed priests standing sentinel,

crossroads, crossroads.

Perhaps you find an old cracked compass,

perhaps a sturdy farmer gives you shelter for a night.

You press on, unwearied.

The wind sings impossible songs while falcons

carve ruthless cathedrals in the sky.

By the road a meal has been prepared for you but

you have forgotten how to eat.

Armies cannot halt you now, nor raging torrents.

Your pack is as light as the air; even the road dust

has grown luminous and floats with you,

past all suffering, all change,

until the great green god of the world

tenderly whispers, “Rest.”

Birthright 

In Uncategorized on May 14, 2017 at 5:53 am