Mirrors and What to do With Them

A shattered looking glass, oft the result
of a decline in respect for the visage staring back.
Shattering a looking glass results in a fragmented
image that once gazed back from a perfectly polished surface.

All the time and effort mending broken glass,
a result of deceit.
Recovering that old aspect is foolish pride,
but what is a reflection?

It is simply the throwing back, by a surface of light
without absorbing it.
Reflection has no depth, no memory,
conscience or redeeming quality.

Reflection is a sideways, casting glance.
A vision to be interpreted, not taken in the literal.
The result of a shining lie
held in place for both subjection and objection alike.

Reflections are often more distortion than validity.

They show us what we want to see at times
while there are quiet and hard moments when they
show us an image we wished we had never gazed upon;
Dorian tricked and thus vanity meets reality.

Breaking mirrors serves no purpose
the mirror, only an instrument.
The true fractures occur not in the ephemeral vessel
but in the soul.
Beginning minute, undetectable; festering begins
with the emotionless ticking of a second hand.
They start when lies are used to construct a pseudo countenance,
innately more pleasing and grow when lies
take root and become a truth;  a truth inevitable as the season’s cycles..

The diluted self has no foresight, nor a desire to ponder past lives.
Self loses meaning, direction; becoming much like
“wandering stars for whom the gloom of darkness
has been reserved forever”
Lost; no rhyme nor reason.  
A heartbeat away from chaos.


So we mend what has been broken
taking care to patch the gaping hole,
so as not to offend or to reveal,
reveal any cracks in our carefully crafted masquerade.

The mirror is for the surface, reflection.
The back of the eyelids, soul’s introspection;
a much better gauge of the human condition.

Leave the mirror, forget what you see
focus on your hands, the actions taken during any given day.
Reflect on your promises, those you broke
as well as the ones you kept.
Reflect on your dreams, discard the clutter
embrace those filled with light, insight and
“consider the lilies, they neither toil nor spin.”

Energy

The I, the You
and later
We.
Forms that were still,
animate and breathe only to draw closer.

Expand, contract and release.

New energy weaves throughout and is thrown out.
Sunrise, sunset and balance.
The We softly sighs, in awe of the destruction and creation.

New matter.

A phosphorescent mass of limbs and emotion
moved half a degree to the left of center
and a step ahead of time and tides.

Flowers are for the Living

There are wilting flowers
hanging limp across a marble tombstone
petals are falling, covering the over-grown grass
in deep reds fading to black.
Blanketing the ground where
the body was laid down, so long ago.

Year after year the flowers come without fail
replacing the ones that have fallen into decay
becoming part of that hallowed ground.
Hues of grey and brown hang like a cloud,
the cemetery evokes a somber mood.
It is there, we speak softer,
walk lighter and remember
with unclouded thoughts the love, laughter,
and the loss of voices that will
no longer be heard floating on the wind.

The flowers offer a contrast to the solitude,
the brightness breathes new life into the gloom
and helps remind us that
beneath the overgrown grass and
the cold marble slab rests a body,
a body that once tasted the free air
and laughed with a melody
that reverberated through every dale and hollow
and loved, loved deeply
treasuring both family and friends.

That heart no longer pumps blood
to the body, the color is gone.
No rosy cheeks left to stand witness to Winter's chill.
Those lungs no longer have the power
to inhale the fresh smell of a first dew
or the strength to exhale wisdom gathered over the ages.

Though these things are now gone
the love lives on,
like the flowers we leave
year after year.

And it continues as long
as we remember to walk
the length of the graveyard
and leave fresh flowers.

The ritual is love removed from the realm of the idea
and made concrete by its action and repetition.

The flowers will always die,
as flowers must do.
It is the ritual that reminds us
the love never will.

My farewell speech that I read for my cousin Scott at his funeral

For the most part I have used this blog space as a place to share prose with family, friends and acquaintances.  This will not always be the case as the blog begins to grow and as I grow with it.  A few weeks ago my cousin Scott passed away.  He was my childhood hero.  I idolized him the way small children hero worship Superman or Michael Jordan.  My hero was much more accessible and a hell of a lot cooler than any spandex wearing charicature drawn on the pages of a comic book.
My Aunt Wanda, Scott's Mother, asked me if I would say a few words at the funeral.  I was reluctant to do it at first.  I didn't know if I could.  I thought about it for a long time until I came to the realization how rare it is for a man to have the opportunity to share the stories of his childhood hero and to be able to offer a proper farewell.  Men are given many gifts under the sun and most squander their gifts our of pride or some other foolishness.  I am not much of a carpenter and I have no idea what strange magic causes an automobile to run but I do understand love and I have written about it and a thousand other things since I was old enough to put pen to paper.  I realized it would be an honor to share my words concerning Scott with his friends and family, and so I did.  The following is a copy of that speech.  I added some things as I went along and left out others but that is just the way the spirit moves us.  Life is never lived exactly as the script would have us live it and love has trouble being bound by lines and verses.  I wish more people could have known him, he was definitely one and only.

To Scott

During my Freshman year of college I wrote a paper about Scott, on the moments we shared, the things he taught me and the impact he had on my life.  When Scott went on, I dug the paper out and reread it.  From that paper I discovered two things: one, I was a terrible writer when I was nineteen and two, I had let time and distance obscure the profound impact Scott had on my life.  He introduced me to the genre of literature that shaped my young adult life; Tolkien, Dungeons and Dragons, the legends of King Arthur and the histories of Greek Gods.  It was that spark Scott ignited that led me to major in Literature in College and gave me the drive to travel all over the country presenting papers on Arthur and his Knights.  

One of the most memorable experiences I shared with Scott occurred when I was fourteen.  On a humid Summer Night, Scott opened my mind to music, Philosophy and independent thought.  We sat on opposite sides of his living room, with the lights turned out and Led Zeppelin blasting on the stereo.  He spoke of philosophies and the love and pain behind music.  He brought “Stair Way to Heaven” to life, opened my mind and soul to the rifts Jimmy Page so savagely bled out from his guitar.  Thinking back on it now, the event seems surreal.  Like a scene from a movie.  We sat there for hours, digging on the music and I just listened to this amazing man talk.  To the soundtrack of Zeppelin, Scott wrapped me in his words and for a moment we were of one mind.  There was no other adult that I connected with when I was a child as I did with Scott.  By some stroke of fate, we had developed along the same path, separated only by age and circumstance.  By taking the time to talk to a 14-year old boy like he was a man, Scott changed my life forever.  I owe a large part of who I am today to that dude.


As I walked around the funeral home yesterday, flashing between intense moments of grief and lucidity, I watched and I listened.  I listened to Wanda talk about Scott growing up, and the struggles they shared when it was just the two of them.  I listened to Little Bobby talk of the admiration he had for Scott, for always living life on his own terms and having a strength that has nothing to do with muscle and bone.  I watched Becky, so much like the mother that raised her, talking to everyone and making sure everyone else was okay, while keeping her own emotions in check.  I shared a smoke with Christy, who told me about a brother who knew the secrets of her soul without ever a word being spoken, a brother who was her best friend.  Before the night ended, I heard the soft humming of an off key “Danny Boy” and watched an old soldier walk a young soldier to say farewell to a fallen son.

I heard countless stories about Scott, shared and retold by those that knew him best.  Listening to all these memories I realized that I was not so unique.  All this time I had been under the impression that I was the only one whom had been affected so deeply by Scott.  But, as I watched and listened, I realized that Scott had an impact on all of us.  Whether it was his free spirited days of heavy metal and hard loving or the dignity and grace which he showed in the face of unimaginable adversity after the accident.

Brother, I hate that we have to say good-bye so soon but good-byes always come sooner than we would have them come.  I consider it an honor and a privilege to have walked in your shadow  while you were on this Earth and though your Earthly body no longer casts a shadow that mortal eyes can see, I know you are walking towards those Pearly Gates free of the burden you carried for so long and I hope God sees fit to welcome you home with the most beautiful rendition of “Stairway to Heaven” you ever heard.

Cogburn

Well, this is a little different from the rest. I watched "True Grit" the other night and just started writing. This is from the perspective of the young one and I felt that character as I wrote, feeling her words, the soul of the moment. In the end, it is what it is. Inspiration comes from all around, this is where I grabbed it from this time.

Snake bitten, riding home at sunset.
My thoughts begin to meander like so many
oxbows on the Missouri River.
The snake fever gives magic to thoughts,
granting, what the Natives would call, visions.
I saw the sun set and knew it could be my last.
Those golden rays danced across the Winter wasted forest
as I lay dieing on the saddle of the West’s last tragic hero.

I have felt great vibrancy of life in my fourteen years.
Even at such a young age I have encountered
both miraculous and truly deplorable acts by my fellow man.
I have tracked miscreants and their ilk throughout the Indian Nations
and have discovered that the true grit of a person lies not in their reputation, demeanor
or boisterous claims but in their actions.
It is the actions of Rooster Cogburn that I will hold dear to my heart
until I too am lain to rest on that hill where he now spends his days.

beware the prophet, the man who cares not for the trappings of this world
for he cannot be bought with gold or with whiskey
and he is a terrible danger to the false democracy under which we are governed
and all men who’s bellies rest lower than that of the serpent.

To My Little Brother

I wish you could have seen her:
with her calloused hands, digging potatoes
with her smiling eyes, laughing at Hee-Haw
with her ragged apron, fixing Saturday morning breakfast.
I wish you could have known her as I knew her:
singing me out of my dreams so I could watch cartoons in the morning
rubbing salty meat grease on my chigger bites
saying prayers with me before I went to sleep.
I wish you could have heard her:
laughing at all my antics
warning me of the dangers of our family's blood
saying prayers with her quavering voice before dinner.
I wish you could have felt her:
beautiful, wrinkled hands wipe away the tears of adolescence
serene presence as she sat eating oranges in her rocking chair
warmth she left behind in that rocking chair the day she passed on.

Your memories may not be able to walk as far down
that dirt road as mine wander, especially when the frosts melt
and the Spring rains come that bring so much life to the holler,
you are, nevertheless, distinguished by her love, forever marked by her creased hands upon your face.
And though the years since her laughter was heard begin to stretch
into decades and move faster and faster each time March becomes April,
our inheritance is as valuable today as it was on the day which it was first received.

We have been gifted wisdom and love in abundance,
wisdom, which has come down to us through ages uncounted
wisdom, which we must carry through this life, add to when we are
able and pass on to the next generation, so they will not be without.
Love, which cannot be measured by lapses of time or markings on a stick
and flows from one person to another like the Summer wind through an old grove of Hickory.
Love, which has no limitations but springs forth eternal
from tiny seeds planted by wrinkled hands.

Love and wisdom, the wealth of poor blood.

Inspiration

Inspired tonight, talking to old friends and new.

Woke up this morning with a lack of purpose, lack of drive.
It confounds me how you can go to sleep, comfortably tucked in
under a blanket of inspiration and wake up, with the inspiration
quickly fading like so many other profound dreams
that quicken your pulse,
lift your soul and disappear before the noon-time bell is rang.
You find yourself wondering if the fire was real,
if the warmth emanating from it was just some mind trickery of the subconscious,
or a mischievous serenata performed on an outlawed pan flute
by a well-meaning sprite.

Then the day goes by, the cup fills.
You begin to remember the words of mentors
long gone and those that still reach out with their words
to comfort and direct.

You remember that inspiration is only the first step,
a rousing speech only gets the soldiers on to the field.
The cup-bearer brings the elixir but you must drink it
and after having done so, are entitled to face the day.
To take the melody, even if only half remembered, and dance.
Dance as if you were alone and unashamed
with only the eyes of night's children upon you.