I mourn the loss of the moments of lucidity.
When the words run like liquid gold. When joy envelopes me. When clarity ceases to be a mystery.
Then Elegiac spreads its wings and my vision falls once again into the shadows.
What I saw disappears and I am left wandering through the rest of the day stumbling like a blind man after elusive Braille.
I am so tired. Yet I cannot let go of what I thought I glimpsed beyond the veil.
Another winged companion joins Elegiac. It alights upon my other shoulder, a weight so heavy and cold that it seeps into the very marrow of my bones.
Its name is Lethargy.
I have always liked ravens.
Not because of a certain Poe-m or its iconic phrase.
It is not that.
I have admired their black bodies’ flashing hues, sparkling eyes, cackling conversations in the spinning trees above me as I step out into the clinging fabric of another day.
The one that sits on my shoulder is silent.
Even on good days, it is there, a shadow just on the edge of my vision.
I sense its weight, shifting ever so slightly when I move my heavy arms to the task at hand.
We are reluctant companions at best.
It could fly away I think, remove its talons from my clavicle and seek after some shiny thing.
What I mean is that it is not hindered by broken wings.
Somehow it has chosen me.
When you see me, you would not know.
I am generally social, of good humor, articulate.
This creature sitting next to my molasses head is not visible to you.
But if you come closer, perhaps you will catch just a glimpse out of the corner of your eye.
And in the days ahead, I will try to introduce you to my familiar.
Its name is Elegiac.
true peace of the heart ~
is like the chrysalis womb ~
struggle cuts the shell
John Paul Jones was right,
I have not yet begun to fight.
Though tattered, torn, and tempest-tossed,
I know that all hope is not lost
And victory is in sight.
Tenacity is the key,
Coupled with creativity.
E’en with vessel broken and battered,
The Enemy shall be scattered
‘Til I alone sail on the calming sea.
like you my friend
i too am dry
but the rains do
the choking dust
from many tramping
feet has left me mute
but a wet morning
greets my waking
throat cords are
watered and a
song flows forth
Sometimes you miss the target,
but that doesn’t mean it was a bad throw
because how will you ever hit the target
if you don’t keep learning to throw?
The rains have been a long time coming.
I walk beneath the wet,
The hurricane off the coast is predicted to bring more storms,
yet I wonder if the drought within me will ever end.
So I wander beneath weeping skies,
my thirsty dreams outstretched in my hands.
in the valley
exist in the
of the light.
at times it is a stretch to reach the cord that hangs down,
to find the tiny line in the darkness of your life-room,
to gather the strength needed to put a probing hand up into the invisible air
but still you try and eventually the cord is found, pulled, and when brilliance fills your space, you realize even if the light had not come on, it was the reaching that really mattered