You Never Returned

It's been a long time since I posted in this blog...however, I'll be returning to the place that inspired this prose-poem next week, the land of the Cherokee, the rivers of the Tuckaseegee and Natahala. It made me think of this prose poem I wrote a couple of years ago and so I thought I'd bring it up to the top.

It was there in the misty mountains where my life began and ended. You left me at dawn, promising return by nightfall. I waited for years in the meadow of songs where we had built our love on pledges of golden sun and milky starlight.

You never returned.

Only the music of the storm was my solace. Shattered by the force of time and weather, I became blind. On my knees and with fingers numb from cold, I tried to find the path before me and stumbled into the dark echoes of the woods to seek shelter. Finding comfort on a bed of hemlock, I slept next to the gray wolf who consoled me as I wailed, holding me in his paws and licking my brow.

You never returned.

Only the laughing crows and battle cries of raptors could be heard in the forest. Songbirds fled to sing their cheerful melodies in less mournful places. My tears became the creek that flowed from the great mountains into the Tuckaseegee. Beyond an eternity of hope, shards of my crystalline heart can still be found.

You never returned.

__


Dedicated to those left behind on the Trail of Tears.

A Hummingbird Moth on a Phloxy Day

The Hummingbird Moth considers its plan of action.

Sticking its long tongue into a phlox flower, it discovers a pleasant nectar and slurps it up.

"This is tasty," said the moth. "I like it, I want some more."

The moth flies over the flowers and with eagle eye vision, looks for the mother lode.

Ah...sweet satisfaction is found in the smallest of things.

Dinner

Trying to grow legs?
Perhaps you thought you could leave...
Silly Relleno

Things Upon My Altar

Trinkets from my former days
Collected through the years
Remind me of the friends I’ve known
The laughter and the tears

Elephants for wisdom
My wise grandma gave to me
Silver relics from Tibet
Remind of tyranny

Kwan Yin for compassion
Yin and Yang are hard to be
Somehow balance comes askew
When life’s in front of me

Orchids then for Beauty’s grace
Around me every day
In every single thing I see
Her magic light will play

The cloth once wrapped the head of she
Who made the thing by hand
Dyed and blocked in fruits she grew
In India’s native land

The whole thing sits upon a frame
An instrument to play
The harpsichord my father built
In distant younger days

I’ve many altars through the house
I pass throughout the day
My heart and soul, my family
For whom I love and pray

And I, romantic soul I am
With reminiscent mind
Am wrapped in love from all of them
Who treated me so kind

***

Hi folks, I'm still on a break because my kids are visiting and I'm still deeply steeped in Jason's contest. I hope you enjoy this sentimental tribute to my family and friends. It's not quite the dark and mysterious poetry I usually write, and I'm not apologizing by any means! But I'm just feeling the love and wanted to share. I hope you are all enjoying summer.

Joan's Debut at The Met

I am taking a break from blogging for most of July, except to participate in Jason Evan's flash fiction contest over at Clarity of Night: In Vino Veritas, (Truth in Wine). For your enjoyment, here is my entry:

Joan's Debut at The Met

“Sing it again,” the master instructed. “Control your vibrato.”

Joan put her hand on the Steinway and tightened the muscles in her back.

“Ah ah ah ah aaaah,” her voice rang up the scale. Sustaining the high note, the tone vibrated her head.

A crack chimed. Her goblet shattered. Wine spilled into the silver tray beneath.

“You are ready for the stage, Diva,” the master grinned.

Joan glowed.

*

Walking toward the subway, Joan dreamed an aria as she passed the Lincoln Center.

“Brava!” the Chagalls applauded from behind the glass, luminous in the empty night.

Joan curtsied to the murals. Raising her head, she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Your money and your jewelry,” the thief demanded.

Her heart pounded. She tried to scream but no sound came.

The thief rammed the gun into Joan’s ribs. Her back muscles tightened. She opened her mouth, emitting a high note. The thief stepped back in surprise. The note grew stronger, Joan’s body vibrating with the pitch. The thief dropped his gun and fell to his knees, clawing his head. Her voice rose to a crescendo. Windows shattered throughout the center, shards dropping to the courtyard below. She gasped abruptly. Alarms sounded. The thief lay unconscious. Blood dripped from his ears.

Joan’s muscles were taut piano strings. Hearing footsteps approach, she whirled toward the sound. A policeman. Her shoulders dropped in relief.

“Are you alright ma’am?” the officer inquired.

“I could use a glass of wine,” she whispered.

The Messenger

Often I find myself wondering, damn, why can't we talk to them, why can't we make them listen! There is something wrong with the way things are; the way the rain falls all at once, the urgent feel of the wind, the pounding heat from the sun.

Something about that woman across the road is different. I think maybe she can hear me. I'm just going to sit here staring at her day after day, for weeks, even months, until she gets the message. I have to make her understand that only because she has speech and is not confined to the field, she has the power to change things.

What I wouldn't give for power like that...