Coming to know my Shadow
October 25, 2000
I stopped--
And that which follows me
stopped too upon
the cool gray slab
of dust it slept
so beautifully.
Dutifully it drags behind
my form
until my feet remind
my body
that I'm tired...
then quickly
in obeisance ties
its tethers
where my person lies
and rests there
'till the sun demands
its presence
in my wake.
like a precious pearl hidden in a shell of skin
the light within breeds fire and wonder;
intensity constrained but reaching higher
than one could ever dream.
a glowing orb of utter beauty,
light and vision...
innocence untying
the trappings of mere flesh.
my reflection in the rain-slicked window
of the upper room is melting down like wax
from a candle long forgotten now,
and flickering there in the oily sheen of glass
I find my consciousness.
the warmth now growing low and steady
with a subtle grace will soon erase
my fear and longing in one fell swoop
I'm crying soft and poignant tears
that sway the seaweed of my long-forgotten soul.
and wrought with images seen only in my head
my eyes betray a quiet calm...
smatterings of gray replaced
by crystal blue--
serenity anew.
The flowering tree of dry earth grows,
and like the bird of Heaven sings
I trouble thee with smothered prayers--
a deity of stone but still a god to me.
Arthritic limbs
old as time itself stretch long;
and twist below the surface
of my skin much thinner now.
Shadowed by its girth
I close my eyes in contemplation.
Life is as the tree
whose blooms are born in drought,
forsaking thirst to quench
the desert of our sad and seeking souls.
One petal from its blooms can feed the world entire.
Scarcely there, it seems, so small
and yet to me she's all the world.
From her perch upon a branch
she shakes the powder from her wings
and in that instant, seemingly
the world has stopped for this.
When the morning shed its secrets
butter-warm against my face
I cursed the day! I wished to die,
but how was I to know...
beauty in its purest form sits
just outside my window and for once
I feel my breath, I feel my life
and I have purpose, I am here!
In a string of pearls and paste
I am the thread that fills the cadence there.
Her armor, shining white,
could well be lost among the snow
but not to me...
for now I know what truth there lies
in simple little things,
and can scarcely wait to greet the day with joy,
instead of sorrow.
I set out to paint the world,
and though the trees are all but naked now
I found some colors wholly worth my effort.
By the wind
I walked with leaves on asphalt
hot with rain, through puddles stale with rest
I sloshed a jagged trail.
Needles clumped
in musty heaps near gutters
didn't bother me...
for I was young and wanted all of it.
In my time I witnessed robins
fret with sloppy perch,
upsetting leaves that fell to sod
which fed the lichen under rocks.
They showed no sorrow and I smiled.
I listened to them singing each to each,
and relished in their rhythm
trickling down like waterfalls.
I like to think they spoke of me...
sharing secret whispers of the one
who stands in shadow-light.
Yet shadows cast so dim a ray
when all the world around is gray,
and up above the sky moves all at once--
a misty sea of clouds before the storm
that comes to visit me.
By the wind
I gladly took what I was given and moved on.
Absence.
Presence.
Life to the inanimate.
A thousand suns moving across
the floor of an angry sea--
the mystery I foster falls away from me,
dissolving into shards of fractal truth
I dare not look at face to face.
The ocean has betrayed
the very soul from which it came
and all is calm, again--
within my soul resounds
the beating of my heart,
and nothing more.
The spirit is quiet
in the dawn of day before
we've had a chance to say,
"Awake to the dirtiness
of man...be brave!"
But I am not.
In the stillness of room 214
I'm hiding from myself.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw it,
not coming through the rye
but across the floor,
and under the bed,
where my conscience
makes its nest among the sheets.
[In a dream
the asp of longing
coiled around my feet,
and looked at me
with yellow eye
and caused my heart to weep]
Oh, if it were enough
I'd reach for you,
across the divide,
and finding fingers splayed
along the milk-white sheets
I'd claim them as my own.
(and you'd be here)
then gone,
lost in the shadows from the TV
long forgotten now.
Those images wash over me,
wasting my lucidity
and forcing me to face
the hidden things within my soul.
Absence. Presence.
Transience.
Shadows liveth and are dead
then gone again,
clicking in time with my own heart.
Casting runes over an empty sea
I saw this night, so long ago,
foresaw the guilt I show
as the morning's rusty promises
seep in around the shades,
dispelling dark for sake of truth
and for once I lift my eyes unto the sun...
Inquiring of the lump of clay
that soon will be another day,
just why I am the artisan
and what it wants to be.
I wish to know
but mustn't show
my willingness to learn.
Time begins its dance
in lazy circles without song,
and flounders in the dark
of our beginning.
Oh He that makes the time,
go fourth, be not confined
to rhyme or reason without step.
The seeds of fruit in twisted
blackness grow, to ripen
in the sun of infancy.
When the raiment worn forsook
its tender host I stared at you--
Time had born you well
and gained its footing once again.
the dance with maddening grace
replaced the longing of my heart.
Tint his smile with early hope,
be known to him...
remove the veil of innocence
that bunches at his feet,
and etch upon my face
the years of passage.
Time,
hold fast the promises
I whisper in his ear...
make light the mourning
when my time is drawing near.
when summoned let me fall
the sum of grace, full aware,
for Time in darkened silence waits for no one.
Gone is the passing of the evening lost to
Me for I forsake it all; my parcel, my sin,
Chasing me through the woods of misery.
Sadness is a friend.
Life is a nuisance.
Regret is unavoidable.
I wish I had
The inability to wish, but
The will is strong.
I am a child in that way.
Hopes and dreams will
Not subside, though I spit
And curse their needling.
My banner flung high,
Beating the wind...
Expectant, searching.
It will blanket my grave.
Thick-skinned, thin and waiting,
Squatting in the squalor pools
With lepers as They pass.
The World--
They pass on tiny cat-feet,
Their footfalls boom like elephants.
In my mind beneath the shroud
And crowd of voices, rising higher
I can hear what sounds
Like laughter from a distant point...
Laughter ringing through my soul.
I am food for the bland of tongue, the destitute.
Call on my name and I will not answer.
Eat at my table and you will starve,
My manna strewn for vultures who sniff it in disgust.
I am absolved,
And needn't work so hard.
I am diluted wit
In a soft-boiled core of edginess.
I am tired,
Worn and weary running circles in the woods.
My love
is reflected in nature.
Soaring like an eagle's wings,
my mind absorbs so many things
I struggle sorting through each thought
and putting them to paper.
If I could translate every vision,
every dream to tangibility
then you would see
and know my heart and all the things
I've yet to do.
I have walked along the shore,
seen all and wanted more,
but never held the sands of resignation.
For as long as the fire within me burns,
persistently my soul shall yearn
to tell the whispered stories
my pen begs to impart.
Today I meet the mission
hidden deep within my heart.
Along the sea there stands a child,
blond hair billowing behind
as she slips her tiny hand in mine
and leads me down the path
I've been so hesitant to walk.
So delicate, she seems,
as fragile as the seaweed
that tangles at our feet;
yet with steady hand
she guides me to the water.
Oh, surely no deity has power
such as this to be so infinitely
knowing as to dimple every hand!
Even hers so firmly wrapped
around my own bears marks of youth,
and yet, her eyes...
her eyes have drawn the
tide of all my memories.
And in one instant I am lost
amid the current of my consciousness
*~*~*~*~*
The Prophets say it is not by fire, but by water that the world shall sleep, until one day we awake and
mourn the fate of our reality.
The call for rain evokes a storm and
from the clouds there pours a torrent--
drink for the earth.
A shock of white
before the noise that flirts across the hills
sends cattle lowing in the valley 'neath
the watchful eye of God. You can see Him
in the moments dying just before the storm
that rumbles hungrily...
a dissonant whir, then nothing.
I've often thought of these small promises,
lying dormant, never spoken; constants
always counted when the tally comes to sum.
I used to think the stars would burn forever
but they died and yet the light from 'round them
travels through the ink of that reality.
The wishes made on ghosts can never last,
save for a child's--whose words
will serve no epitaph when spoken unto starlight.
--Oh twinkle
twinkle
little star,
your light
is but a
troubadour,
and you are
nothing more than
empty promises
and dreams--
Small promises that soothe the open heart
impart the fear behind the lids that hide
our shame from actuality.
The comfort of the vault of empty promises
and dreams that saved us all the misery
of knowing perfect truth could well be lost--
the failure of the cord across the gap
will break the spell, and quickly quell
the panic shrinking slowly out of view.
In dreams of causative unease I tumble restlessly
then wake, the pallor of the morn from
out the wing of last night's storm is here
to greet me, eagerly, it nudges with the warmth its ribbons shed--
and yet, the hour...my head lolls.
Some promises are kept. Some are never made
for fear of melting on the tongue.
And some are simply lost amid the storm of new beginnings.
©Brandi Clark
Home | Other Fiction | Other Fiction by Brandi