The intersection of flowers and crucifixes

Now, stepping onto the magma of a nascent awareness/ she wonders if she could call it that/ but the words escape her before her lips have anything to say/The heart though, is exhausted/ for it has no memory left/ no thread to hold in place it’s helpless muscle/ They speak of organs of love but love in the realms she inhabits/ flowers intersect with crucifixes and metamorphose into something grotesque/ under the scythes of the crescent of a moonlit night/ that observe this desecration of the softest issues of the soul/ If there is peace in this valley of sorrow and a drought of tears/ it is that the mind yet traces virgules in the sand/ pouring redeeming letters onto them/ begging and pleading for the wind to sweep it all away into the dunes of forgetfulness/

.

.

.

.

.

.

I think poets are the emotional lightening rods for the tribulations of others in addition to themselves. It is the only way one can distance oneself from what one feels so deeply for in the world, by consigning words to paper, articulating them like music to the soul of the universe. I like to see myself as a vehicle for the lyricality of life through my poetry.

I see so many people suffering, that attempt to express themselves in poetry, even if they don’t have the words nor the training to do so, it is heartrending. I believe Poets have a responsibility to help configure this chaotic thought process into something coherent.

The intersection of flowers and crucifixes is a metaphor for the fragile intertwined by the vicissitudes of life, along the lines of something that I am always fascinated by, a biblical allusion to the crucifixion. The irony of the sentient being, traumatized so, is not lost on me, but it is a fate one does not seek. So too with life, grief is altogether the fate no one chooses since humans always seek comfort or to escape pain, physical or psychological.

The present, like the faded memories of footsteps, belongs to no one

Shoes on my feet and the road can feel me/
this connection to the inorganic/
the patter of muffled thuds resonate
to core/where water runs in subterranean rivulets/
coursing with the memory of faded footsteps/
The roots should know too that I walked past/
and whisper to the entwined masses beneath/
of narratives of a walk in Eden/ charting territory
that others have stamped their claim to/
Do the spiders know or the groundhogs/
that paper bequeaths ownership/
Do the roots inveigle their way through pebbles
and mud/ staking rights to every inch of space/
My feet cannot reach these places/ and yet
exult in the measure of messages/ to them all,
those within which/ simmer perceptions
of halcyon control/ possessing in permanence simply/
a faded memory of footsteps/
Who can contain the present thus/
It belongs to no one and to everyone/
No paper nor stone nor beast/ nor man
can stamp it’s claim to it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

This month has been debilitating for those struggling with political theatre, the virus saga, the confusion of norm and reality, the hangover from 2020 and changes in the way we live.

I try to encapsulate this in a poem about a walk, drawing an analogy of how human perception distorts life, time, the material into suiting its own desire for control and possession.

I learn that stability is in the walk, the trailing of footsteps, the coursing of a river, the growth of roots. The present is filled with such. All else is perception.

I would argue against defining it as impermanence, that sounds so pessimistic and grants heaviness to the heart.

A coursing river should not make you unhappy just as the pulsing heart makes you live. Footsteps take you someplace and that’s the beauty to the present.

Look to adventure, every moment every second bleeds forth an opportunity for difference, in change.