The first compartment of
Fear.
Is certainly copious my
Dear.

The vast exploration of self imposed
Doom and strident undone promises
Is –
Hope and reconciliation with events.

That solid promise rightly given to you
Fell.
Into wandering inquisition of
Memories.

True narrative spawns when tragedy permits
Joy —
Ruins poisoned aqueducts channeling overt
Wrath.

There was something in the air
Sunshine and beauty
Out there.

There was something in here
Darkness
All encompassing
Vile
Theories
Of them.

There was laughter joy!
We were Jesters and Fanciful knights.

I gifted
Them
My fathers harmonica
Marched out into light
I ignited.

She scribbles me truth in fancy garments where I undertake my own mistakes in life, so much pain. Has faded. We heal one another in this grand confusing play of everything. Death has been here and I passed him walking by.

If the theater of information becomes swift changing dice with hidden undercurrents our boats need strong arms to row beyond downed spirits. Who shake and twist foundations built for them truly. Actors lost at sea confuse vice for virtue. Gurgled bubbles floats up and pops.

Not knowing my blood family had me in wonder. I knew they were probably not good people. I associated their inability to raise me with being evil, a mistake in the series of many more to come. Ever notice that we tend to remember the tragedies more vividly than the fairy tales?

Mystery to me: what would compel one who intentionally adopted someone with heavy baggage to leave in the middle of their developing years? I was at the borderland of sanity from the very beginning. The story of our century is the story of failed fathers and institutional lies.

The paradox is, I loved this man the most of all. I figured out who my biological parents were. They were both very ill. It startled me. The last decade all three have passed and I attended the funerals of two of them. My greatest love was burned and scattered at the ocean, gone.

Peak daylight, I wandered aimless in my capital. People of all shapes and colors share this place: a beehive buzzing with pheromones. Desires manufactured and cloned are sold in clothing stores. The beggars cup, bare bones. Clouds blow gently by searching for eternity.

Northward I follow the blue fox. The Trickster runs upstream along calm rivers far away from murky sandbanks. Where crabs climb to devour their own. When guardians of truth conscript lies into our fabric knowingly I dream of wolves undaunted by warning shots. Within city reach.

Solstice came she went away it really seems like yesterday. We stumble within time in disorganized rhythmic strides. When opportunities and requirements morphs from wet icy dark to bright light I chase her at my future horizon. Mistakes of our past cements in solid warm ground.

Empty words are evil.
Their descent comes surely as nightfall.
And if something is offensive yet true, the error nests in you.
They Compose Engulfing Darkness.
They Expect Northern Lights.
Provoke my longing, stir my heart.
Meanwhile, the world moves on.
Towards certain great unknown.
No cascade of light. No grand wing flapping show.
A slow and steady pace with Truth, calming us to forget clouds.
All that I stealthily thought while wearing different shapes is to me clear like a crystal clean. The bird who sings in dire Darkness with adoration truthfully unshackles wet wings.
Why this silence then? Courage digs its head in sand where truth lies buried. At first the voice returns like an out of tune piano.
It will not be pleasant. Such a headstrong irrational world.
But then you’ll see a home there. Amid cheerless wilderness, Love.
Choose well because somewhere the sun is rising. An invitation to explore shared moments in a slipstream.
To spill gutted unedited rambles. To write stories unending.

The smallest details of her playful nature has me in total awe. I found in her a True poet where she anticipated one in me. The laughter. The irrational discourse. She has me dancing silly daily. Every interaction becomes a back and forth duel where victory matters not. Defeat, I am conquered.

The loss of paradoxical thinking is blindness of our civilization — it happened when we repressed the feminine side of our lives as inferior.

~Richard Rohr