Darkness

I know too well the darkness that I see and feel

I know the comfort that it brings to me

The isolation, the loneliness that seals me away

Yet I long for the sunshine, its brilliance and warmth

Its energy that I lack.

Dare I step from the shadows into the light?

So many things to be done along that path

Can I, do I have the strength to see them done

Would someone reach out, no, it is mine

My track to take, my footprints to make

Put the darkness behind me one last time

Deep inside I sense it will be a fruitless attempt

I know the light dies and darkness returns

I will begin again to struggle to wrench myself from its cloak

Again and again and again

But I will rise against it time after time

If only to see the light in the distance and dream of its embrace

To imagine the passion it holds for my being and soul

Tomorrow, tomorrow is my day, my chance

For now I will lay in the darkness hoping for that tomorrow…

Sunday morning Out the Front Window

It’s nearly the middle of the morning, brilliant sunshine and pale blue skies have brought on the day. Lost in the morning activities the changes outside catch your eye; it’s time to relax for a few moments and gaze out the front window. The thick blanket of white that covers the front yard is beginning to sink to the contour of the earth.

The grayish planks of the front walk are dry; the tumbled stacks of snow along its edges seem to guard the corridors of passage. Icicles hanging from the eves reflect the sun from their frozen crystal shapes while a constant flow of droplets begin to fall from their sharp tips.

The air is clean, crisp, no longer the harsh stinging cold that revealed your breath hours earlier. The radiance of the sun warms the south facing surfaces while the shadows hold on to the chill of the winter day.

Images of winters long gone by slip silently into your mind. Snow ball fights with your brothers, lopsided snowmen sentinels built with leather mittens, ruddy red cheeks and dripping noses, admonishments for tracking snow across the carpet. The acrid flavor of your coffee momentarily changes to a sweet chocolate taste. The urge to abandon the morning chores and step outside to play grows inside; soon to be subdued by more mature impulses.

Turning from the window you leave the enticements behind with a shrug, in favor of more noble behavior…

2 Rocks

A few decades ago I wrote a poem based on an experience I had as a grade school teacher supervising the morning playground. A young man had found a special rock amongst the tens of thousands that lay across the play area. I watched as he squatted close to the ground, careful not to scuff the knees of his “school” jeans. He fondled the misshapen object, holding it up to his eye and then at arm’s length. Pushing it through the air like an airplane and crashing it to the ground. He continued to play with his new found treasure until the bell rang. He moved slowly to the end of the line outside his classroom still holding it tightly in his fist. When he reached the doorway his teacher took it from him. She tossed the rock back into the playground as she ushered him inside, his head turned over his shoulder to try and find it again in the sea of gravel.

The Rock

Patiently waiting throughout time,
Layered textures, smooth yet jagged,
Secure in its lonely place.
Finally lifted from the cold earthy mass,
Flecks of crystals and colors,
Admired by warm young hands...
First a fish, then a meteor, maybe a man or?
Carried home like an egg,
Tucked carefully in a jacket pocket,
Caressed by small fingers,
Desired for its magic...
"That's dirty, go wash your hands!"
Cast aside, back to the earth
Alone again, dying...       

I tucked the writing away not thinking much about it for a very long time. Years later a week or so after my father passed away I was given the task of sorting through his things. That included a small package of the items that were in his pockets when he was admitted to the hospital. As I dutifully spread them across his dresser something unexpectedly appeared among the keys and coins. It was a small rock; nothing special, certainly not a gemstone, not part of a keychain or anything explainable. I examined it for a few minutes; its smooth surface, delicate veining and nondescript shape. Holding it in my hand I tried to make sense of it. And then I remembered the young boy and his rock. This one had succeeded where his had failed. So I wrote a second poem – Dad’s Rock.

Dad’s Rock

Found among his pocket’s contents

Veined with colors and sparkling crystals

Smooth and shiny from wear

No particular shape, No particular value

Why is it here? Where did it come from?

What connects this piece of earth to him?

Calloused hands had held and caressed its shape,

Why? A good luck charm perhaps

Kept tucked in his pocket, for how long?

What magic did it bring?

I’ll hold it as he must have held it,

I’ll keep it safe, as he did

It’s part of him…

Now it’s part of me too…

I still have his rock. I don’t carry it every day, I save it’s for magic for special days. When I do, I find myself drawn to it, holding it tightly in my hand or rubbing its glossy surface. My mind often turns to trying to decipher its mystery to no avail. It is a connection that I will never understand, but one that I will covet as he did. It makes me happy that once he found it and enjoyed its power that it wasn’t cast aside by someone who wouldn’t have understood.

Find a rock of your own… actually it doesn't have to be a rock. It could be just a metaphor for those things in your life that bring you joy, happiness or love. When you find them, keep them close, nurture them, caress them… let them do their magic!