The Mourning After

*Written 9/12/2001

It is the mourning after
and there is a stillness in the air,
an emptiness that has taken hold
and will not let go,
shrouding us in sorrow
in shock
in fear.
 

One life may be rebuilt
reborn
for every life taken, yet
every life taken
is taken for good,
stolen from us
whisked out of our waiting arms
in a single moment of madness.

A chasm has opened beneath us,
a void of impossible depths...
 

it will not pull us in.

Today
we stand uncertain--
but we do stand.
Our feet our firmly planted on the ground
and our eyes already begin to look ahead.

Tomorrow
the sun will rise

And so will we.

Exile

What can you do when you’re lost, when you’re desperate to be found even while you’re certain no one is looking for you? Perhaps everyone has forgotten you were ever even there.

Here I am, lost and afraid, wandering a vast desert of dry, cracked earth with no hope in sight from horizon to horizon—to horizon and beyond. I hear snippets around me, transient conversations, fits of laughter, inane chatter about nothing at all, so close and so unreachable. I am apart from everything, a part of nothing.

Sometimes I think I can see traces of a river ahead. It beckons me. I can already taste the cool water. I can hear it too, like the tinkle of a soft bell singing sweetly in my ear.

Come closer! It sings. Come to me, you poor, drifting soul.

Drifting. Yes, I am drifting, drawn away by the very winds of fate I had once cherished, I had once believed would never lead me astray. And yet that’s just what they’ve done, luring me here to this empty place, this maddening pace, this … exile.

The river ripples…

…And is gone yet again. It is a tortuous, teasing temptress that seeks to break me. But how can it, when I am already broken?

Help me! I cry out in the rasp of a whisper that had once been a voice.

I fall to my knees.

A hot breeze, the breath of embers brushes my cheek as though to wipe a tear despite the dead riverbed my eyes have become.

The voices return, familiar and haunting. They laugh as I weep. They live as I die, all for want of them.

Help me, I cry again, without words.

I close my eyes, lashes falling like brush over the riverbed until I can almost believe it was never even there.

Pebbles

There are many battles being fought, perhaps against cancer, perhaps something else. But what do you do when the time comes to stop fighting? And what do we do, those of use you must leave behind?

Pebbles

You want to fight, and you do. You fight. And perhaps you even seem to turn the battle. You start to believe, to really believe you can win it after all. And then…a sudden thrust. A jab from behind.It strikes you unaware…unexpected. Your eyes widen in surprise.Your breath quickens.

You want to continue the struggle, but against what?

The damage is done, and you know that.It was a mortal blow. There is no earthly science that can fix it, not this, not now. Perhaps one day, but not this day, not for you. And the enemy is beyond your reach.

No. You cannot fight. You can only…accept.

Accept.

It is an easy word to say, falling from your tongue, from your lips with barely a breath of your waning energy expended. But the thing attached to that word, the feeling, the concept…now that is a different matter entirely. 

What does it mean, really, to accept what is to come? Can there still be fear? Can there still be sadness? Regret for things left undone? 

If you say you accept your fate, can that statement really erase all those feelings, those emotions?

Or…like the fireman rushing into the flames for the sake of another, are they merely set aside for the sake of something more important, a purpose greater than your own?

When a pebble on a mountain tumbles into the sea, it leaves an emptiness behind, a space that can never be filled. Still, the mountain itself will not crumble. Not yet. Not all at once. But what of that pebble? Does it fade out of existence?

Or does it simply become a part of something new, setting the foundation for another mountain, one that will rise out of the sea reaching endlessly toward the stars? 

It might even be the pebble that does the reaching.

I, too, am a pebble. Today, perhaps I have no choice but to watch you tumble. I can no more hold you back than you can fight an enemy no mortal sword can strike. But the day will come when I must tumble on behind you, as other pebbles must tumble on behind me. And as that new mountain rises, I gain hope in knowing

it has been raised on pebbles like you with the wisdom, the courage and the heart to hold it firm.

Tick Marks

Tick Marks

A robin drops to the pavement,
grabs a twig
and is gone. 

An ant zips past, caught in a steady gaze
that follows it across asphalt
and around obstacles --
a stone,
a helicopter seed pod,
a plastic straw --
the gaze traces its determined path to the grass
until it, too is gone.

And the sun slips from its zenith,
sinking slowly,
unalterably toward the depths.

It could be a measure of life,
that slow sinking --

that and the steady stream of people and things
passing in and out as though carried by industrious ants
that take it all away,
undaunted by our fortress walls,
leaving nothing behind but a mark on one's soul,
the tick marks of time,
of moments,
gathering and growing,
molding us into what we must become,
what we will be at the end of  our vigil,
the one borne by each of us alone,
a vigil crowded with memories, both wanted and wanting,

the vigil that has brought this watcher here
to this place,
to this now,
to this tick mark
where he sits watching a robin,
an ant,
a squirrel,
a dog and its oblivious owner,
a man wearing faded blue jeans
and a crumpled tee shirt,
his face unshaven,
his eyes haunted,
his brow furrowed in the way of those
who have watched their own tick marks
tick away,
taking a dream,
a life,
a love out of reach,
leaving them lost,
confused,
lacking direction.

He watches until the other feels a gaze
finding his tick marks,
fusing them to its own.

The crumpled stranger turns,
and begins watching the watcher
who sits on the edge of a bench
on the edge of a path
into the darkening woods.

And there it is --
the end of the vigil.

The stranger's eyes find the watcher's tick marks,
filling the chasm another passage has left.

As a moist tongue strokes the watcher's hand,
he laughs at the uncanny instincts
of a wise, old golden retriever.

And he feels retrieved.

He rises, wipes his hand and reaches.

The stranger is hesitant, but his grip is firm.

And then his eyes gain focus

as the sun drops to the pavement,
chases two shadows to the trees,

and is gone.

What 50 Years Have Taught Me

What 50 years have taught me:

Life is less about finding answers than it is about seeking them.

An ideal life is not a steady, consistent progression. It involves 2 steps forward and anywhere from 1 to 3 steps back. It involves peaks and valleys. The peaks feed your soul and fuel your strength to endure the valleys. The valleys feed your heart and build your wisdom to appreciate the peaks.

Whatever ideal life I can envision with clarity will always remain elusive. The true ideal is one I cannot see. It will only be revealed to me in time, and it will only be revealed if I keep my eyes and my heart open enough to see it.

The only certainty in life is that it will be fraught with uncertainty.

Promises are not guarantees, and even guarantees can be voided by the uncertainties of life. Each promise that is fulfilled should be recognized for the gift it truly is.

If I limit my expectations to the unexpected, I will never regret what never comes to be.

I thrive on stories and dreams, the greatest of which highlight compassion, understanding and brotherhood, and serve as reminders that love and faith really can conquer all.

And lastly:

Life really is a walk in the park...at least, that's where the filter is, the one that sorts fiction from truth and helps me to see who's really behind the curtain.

How I Saved Humankind (short story)

Note: This short story is moving to Smashwords and will be available for free download to mobile readers.

Summary: Armageddon. There are as many stories about how it will happen as there are cultures on Earth. What if it started to happen, and then, just as startlingly, stopped? And how would you respond if someone told you he was responsible for stopping it? Here’s a thought: have a seat; grab a cup of coffee or tea; and settle back to listen to his story. Then decide.

And This Gives Life to Thee (Short Story)

Applying a little Shakespearean philosophy offers reasons to go on--and reasons to smile--after losing a loved one.

And This Gives Life to Thee

This story is moving to Smashwords.