What is love, beyond that
yearning for connectedness,
the desire to join together,
to unite, establish union in
all forms, become as one,
be held together with bonds
unseen, and unremarkable,
but strong all the same?
What is love, but the slow
weaving of feelings, thoughts,
experiences, knitted into a
shawl of soul, under which
it is possible to shelter, or
even to hide for a time …?
Such is love as called by
heart and mind in being.
Bequeathed in endless images,
stories trailed through earth,
clay clenched drowning water –
painted face and breasts.
Distant was the inner yearning,
mournful was time’s cry,
joyful was life’s great promise-
no sound, but sandy sighs.
Lost in aching age of meaning,
driven deep beyond the cities,
so we walk with shuttered eyes,
curse and bless as we do grieve.
Through the ancient landscape,
back beyond our fear and dreams,
world’s soul beats in rhythm-
truth licks lips and seals.
We dance the steps eternal,
long written in old realms,
remembered now as feelings;
so do we live this world.
The little bits of life,
collected, drawn and
tethered to memory,
holding together as
if they had known
their form, before
they existed; snap
shots of time and
being, pressed dry
between the pages
of years, held in
place so beautifully.
The route we take is written,
no dearth of chances there,
what’s possible is limited,
by natures individual, the
bulk of being long decided,
the stars do tweak the light,
but some pretense can drug
our minds, and challenge
who we are. It is in time
still teeming, the challenge
of our lives, we jump into
our being, and shock the
stories blind. For who we
are was long ago, the story
that we wrote, and sealed
in life material, on which
we make our notes. The
play of life is staged and
set, as we decreed and so,
each soul incarnates now:
we live so we may know.
stood upon the ground where they had been,
among the fallen stones and dark timbers,
and dreamt of life as they had known it once;
now gone, all broken, dispossessed around,
as detritus and ruin of a home once loved.
So did my ancestors still speak through rubble
and whisper dreams in ever-spreading dust.
There was no trace of life as they had lived,
mementos gone and attributes of being, all
carried off, or broken where they stood by
driven days and yearning years, held up in
mortal months where lack of human hand
decreed, they could not last and hold their
shape, no matter how much one may wish.
Cobbled into being through the mind and
heart, scrabbled from the ebb and flow of
dregs, imagined shape of something now
long disappeared, was all which could be
summoned from the screed past did fling
in casual summons at my feet; daring me
to bring back what was irrevocably lost.
Only in the whims and dreams of fancy
can we recreate our history, and even
then it holds no true form beyond poor
imagining and futile yearning, for what
is gone is always gone, unless it lives
eternal in a place beyond this jigsaw of
material, and for that, there is no proof.