Vague memory

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Picture, if you will, the old, run-down motel sign ahead on a darkened road. It flickers in rhythm with the wind, and shivers as the busy cars fly by. Illuminated gases dance their praise to all who have resorted to such a flimsy form of shelter on similar dark nights. They welcome a new soul in need of rest, bring peace to the weary, and comfort to those who used to stare, in wonder, at the “open” signs in the window before entering the store for a Christmas adventure. The parking lot reads the history of countless truckers and their ever-long trans-U.S. excursions. A bell rings as a door opens to reveal a young Indian kid hungry for tips and ready to earn them. Lights wander lazily in and out of reality as you pass down the aged hallway and set your first foot on a creaking motel stair…
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Motel Stairs

Crumbled crunch on asphalt aged,
Blinking lights and cabarets,
Familiar taste of moldy air,
Accent of a foreign page.

Sight it out with sandy eyes,
A backlot room as midnight strikes,
Lock the car and windows too,
Ascend the stair, an aging stile.

Creaks and groans and swings some too,
Steel protests with every step,
Concrete cracks dye good hairs grey,
As motel stairs quite often do.

Rusted spots on outdoor paint,
Echoed steps wake flick-‘ring lights,
A muffled cough this soundtrack night,
Then through the door all sounds grow faint….

Effigy

The Old Man rose from his stooped position next to the image his ideal. He leaned back heavily, stretching the aches and pains of great age from his tired joints. Rubbing his hands together, he filled the cramped workshop with the dust of his great creation. The particles once attached to a shapeless rock rose and fell, covering the worn surfaces of the room that had born witness to the origination of countless artifacts through its existence. The Old Man, humbled in stature by time, sat and gazed at his nearly completed masterpiece. The long silver threads gracing his face moved with the rhythm of his thoughts as he twirled the strands and immersed himself in memory.

The pathways of the past became clear and sunlit once again. A verdant meadow, an avenue lined with the brilliant hues of an extraordinary Spring; songs of joy and hope filled the air, overcoming all other sounds as the wind pulled gently on loose clothing. An azure sky gazed down upon the comings and goings of a busy world with tempered amusement as it displayed the glory of its Creator to all with eyes to see. A small child then filled the scene with her smiles and laughter. The sun became brighter, the sky deeper, the colours more vivid, and the song of Spring inescapable as it played along with the hymn of the child. The girl’s peals of amusement and gentle giggling overcame all other joys as the scene began to fade back into the present.

The flutter of eyelids and sharp intake of breath disturbed the dust settled on the Old Man’s face. With a familiar sigh he lifted his head and once more laid eyes upon his ideal, the final effort of his craftsmanship. He felt a silent regret in contemplation of the sculpted form waiting to be finished and brought fully to bear on the world in which it was created to stand. The form was bowed by choice, the Man bowed by Father Time. The Man inhaled slowly, and exhaled a prayer for the peace needed to finish what he had started so well. Slowly, he reached for his chisel, and then became still once more, transfixed by the gaze of the form before him. The figure kneeling on the cold stone in the middle of the room seemed to cry out the words written beneath his still and vivid effigy: “A broken man on bended knee.” Now was the time. Heaving a sigh, he rose to his feet, and, with a prayer for strength, took up his chisel to complete this last work of love.

Cut into the space beneath the figure were these words taken from the grave of a patriarch:

Earthly soul alive today,

Meanings fail and fade away,

Prospects burn and voices say,

To those who follow, come what may.

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What to say when words can't tell,

The story of the dark and fell,

Or tale of those alive and well,

Those whose souls they cannot sell.

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Here I stand, it falls to me,

To make a choice, with vision see,

So I chose the one I'll be:

A broken man on bended knee...

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Stand

I was reading recently of deserts and sandstorms, clouds and skies, sins and forgiveness, and deserts and sandstorms. The heroes and heroines of both tales responded in different ways to these deserts and sandstorms. Some sheltered down into cool and protective rock homes, others stayed outside in the brutal heat of the deserts and the wicked thrashing of the sand storms, deserts and sandstorms. The vivid images painted by these two sharp scenarios has stuck in my mind to the point of fueling an imagination lain dormant for too long a time, like the sands in a desert before the storm.

I imagined the terror and exhilaration of staring directly into the approaching tidal waves of winds and swirling sands and waiting to see what would happen next. When the storm had blown past, what would remain? Would the talons of disturbance tear flesh from bone? Would I stand inside a shield of protection watching the chaos surround and engulf the very air outside my translucent shelter? Would I be unscathed?

Can I find the answer to these questions without standing in the storm?

Will I stand?

Or, as countless forms that have come before have seen, would I be shaken, moved, torn, changed, ripped and rebuilt, ground down and reshaped? As the boulders crumble in the midst of the storm, the dunes shift and travel away, the desert dragons batten the hatches, all things of colour fade, the sky darkens, and those that are left are but dust and sand. Out here on this barren plain of shifting sands, those that stand are two grains of sand, and they are blown down by the wind. The children of a parched land are sifted and scattered before the very eyes of those who joined its desolation. But it’s too late to turn back. Storms approach in the desert. A parched land of deserts and storms. So I wait, I watch, I dig my feet and grit my teeth. The hounds pull ahead in the chase and the emancipated are captured. The only question that remains is:

Will I stand?

The only answer to the question is found by standing in the storm.

Tried and Tested

A dusty horizon,
Dark clouds rising high,
The sounds travel nearer,
Like a whispering sigh.

A mob in the desert,
The people of sins,
Approaches, is angry,
Send tension-filled winds.

They bear down upon me,
I’ve attempted to stand,
On my own and alone,
On the sad-shifting sand.

Huge human shapes rise,
They’re fortressed before me,
Intend none but my death,
On this vast barren sea.

I cryout in despair,
Hot tears falling and,
As their wave breaks upon me,
I realize I stand.

As the faces fly by,
Harsh glances are passed,
Great windy giants,
Surround me with past.

They sweep all around me,
Their force blowing strong,
Yet still here I stand,
One suffering long.

Portals

Escape is a common theme resounding through the halls of the worn and traveled hearts of the humanity by which our world is surrounded. Some call it an excuse to become removed from world in which we live. Others hold, dearly, that escape is necessary to maintain a structure of sanity in their lives. Still others stand convinced of the tangible reality of an “other place” that generously impart renewal and rejuvenation to those who find its secrets.

It is, conceptually, both powerful and timid, both peaceful and utilitarian, both real and imagined, both quiet and demanding. Escape is thus a place of unbounded attraction to those with a wandering mind, and a sweet dream for those in need. Indeed, it is a sweet dream for some without need or care. Truthfully, the difference between our own individual worlds of escape, for, you know, we all have them, is not a sense of existence, but the certain and tangible knowledge of the existence of these places of refuge. Some lay hold of this diversity and attempt to offer some profundities in a futile effort to resolve them. There is, however, a simple explanation that will serve admirably to satisfy the curious: Imagination. My personal curiosity led me to discover this which I now share with you.

Kaetti’s World

A frozen sea of crystal sand,
A common sight for those within,
Entraps the image of without,
A vantage point where worlds begin;
And in their midst is Kaetti’s world.

For as one looks, and thinks, and breathes,
Flash colours of life passing by,
Though some are different and reflect,
A scripted, random, pattern nigh;
And thus a step toward Kaetti’s world.

Then landscapes shift and clouds roll in,
Outside, their tears, they shower clear,
And as one scene all blends and melts,
While nature fades the light from here;
The light behind shows Kaetti’s world.

A shimmering, inviting, place,
‘Comes more defined – outside is night,
New colours dance and weave and blur,
Now painting vivid unknown sights,
A glimpse revealed, of Kaetti’s world.

The portal gleams and stands anew,
Inviting one to enter in,
A tapestry of brightened scenes –
Experience the peace within;
The warm embrace of Kaetti’s world.

Thence to fly, be it pain or need,
To weep and pray and heal and rest,
In worlds removed, imagined, free,
The place of refuge loved the best;
A hope renewed in Kaetti’s world.

This gateway to another world,
Found in a mirror looking out;
Where some would see mere darkened skies,
There lays a deepened peace throughout;
The rest and calm of Kaetti’s world.

Like so much rain on child’s chalk,
All dissipates with morning light,
Once more through life someone must walk,
Remembering the hope from night,
Spent at rest in Kaetti’s world…