Monthly Archives: November 2016

Night

She.
She has no face and no name.
She says nothing.
When she greets us she brings quiet.
When she is here, we are calm.
With her, we heal our pain.
With her, we heal one another.
They use her to hide.
They use her to stoke fear.
We use her to plan.
We use her to fight.
We use her to listen to one another, to touch one another, to know one another.
She is our guide.
They are afraid of her.
They cower beneath her twilight.
They shield themselves from her depth.
They falsify the sun and moon and boast of their great and powerful light.
Their light flashes and blinds, fractures and burns, makes the false appear true.
Her darkness comforts us.
We embrace her.
Above us, above all, she obscures us.
As we hush her rituals go on slowly: the sound of the airplanes, the smoke of the pipe, the blinking of the fireflies, the stardust of the Milky Way, the steady solitude.
It is the hour of slumber, and she is awake.
She unites all creatures under her protective spell.
She offers us comfort;
She offers us shelter.
They offer us nothing.
An olive branch.
An empty promise.
A pretty corner in the history museums
In a space dark enough to match her color but never her power.
We say no, thank you;
We will return to the shadows on our terms.
We are home.
When she leaves she takes our refuge with her.
Light knocks at early morning’s door,
But we no longer hide under cover —
We know she will return for us.
And when she does she opens her arms wide
To embrace us once more
And inspire our uprising.
She carries with her the winds of change,
Thunder and lightning, united fronts under her watch.
She is our strength, our shield,
Our sanctuary.
We were born of the night.
We live in the night.
We will die in her.

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , ,

What’s He Doing In There?

An homage to Tom Waits

What’s he doing in there?
What the hell is he doing in there?
There’s a sign on the gate saying “go away”
But the lights blaze at all hours of the day

He’s up to something, we know
On a hill up that long driveway
And he always keeps the gate shut
To keep in that one mangy mutt

They say he’s a widower and fought in the war
And he wears the same clothes, always grey
When he waters the flowers on his walkway —
At least, he used to before

He only goes out now to check the post —
The only time we catch a glimpse, almost
We can’t see inside; we’re too far away
What’s he doing in there?

Continue reading

Tagged , , , , ,