Thursday, June 21, 2018

Solstice 2018 June

I hear the sounds of children crying
I feel the exploding volcano
Children stolen from anguished parents
Magma blood of the planet hemorrhaging
Buries the land

Somewhere there are those sleeping next to the ground
Smell of the earth near their lips
They sigh their untethered wonders
Rivers of water of fish of moss of rocks worn smooth
Play night music

Let us go to the sea
Find the green jeweled sand
Wear it upon our speckled skin
Ocean the blue of sapphire of dreams of seaglass
Waking wishes of summer

We cannot forget that we are the ones
We the authors of our lives
There is no choosing the outcomes for another
For me it will be a matter of carrying children’s tears
In the vial of my heart

Let us do this together, A communion of souls
Let us taste the summer earth
Remember the wildness we are born to
Honor freedom so free it flies on every breath
Unleashed solstice

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

Volcano Morning ~ A Bedtime Story for Pele

They said the air would be bad today, the breath of the volcano sullying the mist. I do not mind exchanging the Ha with Madame Pele. It seems right to greet her of a morning. I stepped onto the lanai, a less committed sharing of breath than venturing out into the forest.

The scent was not what I expected. The sulfurous taste is there and also something else, a hint of the stone dust of the grinding of rock against rock. The mountain is subsiding, slip sliding, not away, but down, the crater opening wider. The door to her house needs expansion. This is a remodel. It is noisy, I can tell you that.

She emptied the place of her furnishings and is distributing them down mountain, to the consternation  of many. Others say, good riddance, as if those people down mountain do not deserve to have homes of their own. The cruelty of people is what we felt in grade school, and there it is all over again. But it is small, a little cold marble of intolerance for the newly unsheltered. What is left, the larger part, is the aloha. The love people have for each other, their now anxious love of the 'aina, the land, the land getting a new surface.

I pulled on my boots and some blue jeans and wearing my sleeping shirt and sleep rumpled hair I ventured out into the forest. My dog came along the path to the pavilion with me.

Out of the corner of my eye in that spot of peripheral vision where sometimes there is a wild animal or the ghost of the child that grew up, the woman in a yellow and black kihei emerged. At first I thought I saw a woman I knew, a friend who often walks the forest paths to honor beings of this place, stopping by maybe to talk story. This was an older woman, her hair long like my friend's. but black with a million metallic streaks, each a single hair glistening like platinum and gold. She carried a carved ohia walking stick, a paoa,  and laid it across her lap as she settled onto a bench. I was about to light the firebowls for some warmth after we greeted each other, but they sprang into flames before I could touch them.

When we first moved into her forest, I was uncertain how Pele would feel about that. Would our efforts to both honor her sacred forest and make it our own meet resistance or acceptance? We came in slowly, visiting at first, then after many years taking up residence.  There were those who said, you must restore her forest to what it was before, only native plants. But we had our own vision.

"I like what you've done here," she remarked, waving her broad arm at the pavilion and the landscape. I listened for hints of sarcasm but she nodded thoughtfully. "Even the white orchids. I would like to see them all bloom at once." The plants made tiny sounds and the birds fluttered and gathered and sang new songs as the orchids extended their spikes and the flowers burst out. As the flowers came open you could hear muffled pops as their petals pulled from being together to being apart. Their fragrances filled the air like fresh cookies from a bakery, like hives of honey. Dewy perfumes mixed with the drowsy datura and in the distance the volcano exhaled a plume of flower breath, plumeria and pikake, tuberose and frangipani. The plume traveled high into the sky and then dropped its essence in Hilo and Papaiko, Laupahoehoe and Honoka'a. It fell onto the ashy desert of Ka'u, and embraced Honaunau and Kealakekua.

The woman with the paoa in her lap turned her eyes to me, and they glowed with deep fires. "It is time to take back the land, the 'aina," she intoned and I shuddered. I couldn't help but feel foreboding and a mild sense of treachery. "I am showing you how to do what needs to be done in your own house," she went on. "You want to reclaim all you have lost to those who have taken from you, do you not?"

I sensed her impatience, and her fury. I felt the rage in her bones, and my bones engaged in the sense of all the violence done in the name of certain ways and ideas, those grabs for an ultimate power by whoever has that in their blood. "Your way of undoing the wrongs is one by one. My way is to start over."

The pavilion shook wildly. The flames in the firebowls grew tall, but stayed in their confines and did not go near the rafters.

"I am not about politicizing everything," I said as meekly as I could and still be heard. She raised her peppery eyebrows.

"Ha ha ha ha," she laughed, and I heard the laughter of my friends in her voice, the laughter of the women who are the emotional ballast that sustain me beyond the solid ohana in my own house. "This land here you care for, nothing will happen to it, not because I like you so much or even because I love your flowers, because I am not about honoring the creative spirit in you." Her eyebrows went up again. "And...politics schmalitics", she laughed. "This is my forest. You know that."

"And the rest of the island?" I wondered. I am not sure I even said it out loud, because wrath was coming out of her in a primal overtaking of all the air around me. I was afraid I might be overcome and suffocate. She relented and I gasped for breath.

"You would do better with my sister Hi'iaka." Her paoa slipped off her lap with a clatter and it felt like the pavilion might jump off the ground. "The land is its own being. The mana that mixes with the land through the roots of the ohia has become weakened."  She pulled herself up. "I protect my forest. Mana, mana'o. Honor the land and the land will honor you."

It came to me then, what was different about us. I did not care to reclaim anything that had been taken from me. I do honor the land. My friends in Leilani honor the land.  I did not want to argue with her.

She shook her shoulders a little as she stood, as if dust from the volcano may have landed upon them. "It is not that some fault is in the people of Puna, but in the earth at the part of the island are the paths of the magma. It is too late to change all that now. There is more life in change than in staying put. Perhaps I will take my own words to heart and take a journey.  A hui hou, my friend. Watch for my sister. She is on her way here next."

As the visitor trod the path away from the pavilion, she called back to me, "Watch for Hi'iaka. You can hear her coming now."

The sound of an ipu entered the forest with fresh mist. A distant chant, the clattering of 'ili'ili. I l'ea ka hula i ka ho'opa'a. There would be hula. There would be renewal. Sooner rather than later. The dancer is important, and so is the drummer, and so is the chanter. All in, all together.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Of Those Who Went on Ahead

Today the sun shines brilliantly and there are clouds
These clouds are billowy so pillowy they cover most of the sky
And still there are light fragments thrown off the pond surface onto the knotty ceiling
Threads of dancing shimmering ephemera

Like the memories of those who went on ahead

Pearls on the strings of memory
Spacer beads between are the high times
Those solar eclipses where poetry of truth of being
Emerges out of the darkness falling into midday

Most days are smooth like silk
Falling all over each other
Drops upon drops in the waterfall
Splashing onto stream bed, throwing off prisms of all the colors

Then comes that day where someone has left us all
Their lives elevated suddenly like statues in our plazas
Our ever-changing array of Lovers and Friends, Sisters and Daughters
Brothers and Mothers and Uncles all of them, coming and going

How I miss them all, those who are absent
Taking joy as warm as pan fresh toast from those who will return
The heart heaviness from those who will never ever be but spiritually present
Sometimes smothering every breath and ounce of joy

Then comes my daughter's voice
She who had been lost more lost than every yesterday
She who returned
Reminds me that in her baby's unbidden smile, focused upon nothing we discern

In that smile
There is the connection with those who went on ahead
Penetrating the thinner veil separating those who have recently arrived
Touching their beings, the last loving caresses of the unforgotten
We know we are within that self same circle of being and not being
Coming and going like every beam of sunlight on any day replete with fluffy clouds

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Girl About to Sink into Mudhole

There is a book of photographs of China. It was once my book but as with all things moving with us in time, it has fallen off somewhere along my path. There is a photo inside of a young girl trapped in mud. She has sunk well into it, and will not be saved.

The horrifying aspect of that photo came unglued from the image and lodged itself in my spirit, a splinter of sorts, an ice sword as if from a fairy tale for the far north of ice that cannot melt.

We cannot turn away from her
And we can do nothing

Her eyes are already accepting of this surrender of everything
As if to say
Just go, this is my fate
Pay attention to your own

Where is the rope?
Is there not an ox nearby?
Two strong horses?

But no.
She will sink
Like the glaciers will melt
She will be gone

Where is a truck and rope
Where is the simple solution
So needed
So much not there

The girl sinking into mud
Without hope of rescue
even though it is possible
Just not for her

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

King Claudius

King 👑 Claudius
A recovered fairy tale style tragedy told in the real olde style, or
a tale of revisionist history as tends to be promulgated by those readily bamboozled by the perfidious among us

Claudius, while in his first marriage to the lady Philomena, sired two daughters. The older was Genevieve, a dark beauty, and the younger, Letitia, a redhead with green eyes and melodious voice. 

Claudius, while his daughters were still babes in arms, upon seeing Philomena in the gardens laughing with a young nobleman visiting from far away, grew jealous. In his dream of a night, he saw the two of them escape in the moonlight and make love in a bower of grapes. The next morning, he came upon them sharing a breakfast of figs and honey upon the terrace and became enraged.

The nobleman hastily took his leave, and Claudius confronted Philomena with accusations of adultery. The proud queen refused to answer his assault on her dignity, and in a rage he beat her and banished her from the castle. 

Later the king spread the story through his henchmen that Philomena had not only engaged in adulterous behaviors with the nobleman, but that the two of them had hatched a plot to do away with him and take over the kingdom. According to Claudius, the plot had been foiled when the nobleman was found with poison he was pouring into the wine Philomena was about to bring to the king before bed.

Philomena had no intention of giving up her daughters, and arranged for them to be brought to her by her lady in waiting, to a stronghold in the forest where she had taken refuge. She listened with horror as her lady recounted the stories being told in her absence.  Over their life together, Philomena had spent many a mead drenched eventide at the grand table in the castle. listening to the King's endless trove of stories of evil deeds being done both within and without the kingdom. She had come to understand them as confabulations, stories built with sands of truth and mortar of pure lies. That most within the court accepted his nonsense as if God's own word had been apparent. Recognizing that Claudius had seen to it that her reputation would soon be ruined throughout all the kingdom, Philomena was forced to flee to a neighboring realm with Genevieve and Letitia. She abandoned all hope of ever returning to life in the castle. Her daughters grew in good physical health and in beauty, and yet could not help but wonder what they had lost in having been removed from the neighboring kingdom and the castle, and their birthright as princesses, by their mother.  

The terrible story of Philomena's betrayal of the king seemingly became undone by time and by her comportment that befit a lady of compassion and dignity. Philomena while deeply wounded by the stories that had circulated in the kingdom at the end of her marriage to Claudius, had thought little of them in the long years since. Her daughters, neither of them old enough at the time to string together more than two words, would not have understood what was being said had they heard the whispers in the castle.  Over a decade of life tied to the all important King had been enough adventure of that sort, and once Philomena recovered from the indignity of her abrupt exit from the castle, she made a life more to her liking. She found contemplative pleasure in planting and tending orchards and gardens, independent of all need for favors from the man who had been more trouble than he was worth. 

Of a late afternoon filled with boredom of plants and filtered sunlight or the sullen gray up country mist, the king's daughters, now old enough to have heads full of ideas of how much better life might be somewhere else, mused what castle wondrousness had been wrenched from them by their mother's foolishness. 

Claudius though kept as if a personal treasure his outrage that his kingship had been sullied by his own wife, and continued to feed that anxious cauldron of personal betrayal. In subsequent years, when the girls were of an age to visit his castle without their mother, he spoke to them directly the stories of Philomena’s supposed treachery, as they ate quail with wilted spinach and honeycomb, and caught the flirty eye of certain of the knights standing guard.

Unfortunately the young women had no way of knowing the truth about their mother. The king had seen to it that no there was no one left in the castle who remained loyal to the old queen. For her part, in earlier years, Philomena had not been able to keep her rancor as to Claudius fully hidden, and had oft times had unflattering and unloving things to say about the king. The girls grew into maidenhood with the rage their father felt for their mother trapped within them, that rancor awaiting its own birthing, as moths of fate in their chrysalises.  The distrust and betrayal felt by their mother was dimly perceived by Genevieve as richly deserved. Following the tormented path set by her father,  in the weeks of her visitations, Genevieve liberally spread her own version about the castle of not only Philomena’s dalliances with the nobleman, and the thwarted poisoning attempt, but added titillating details that made for rich table talk over pints of ale, as her embellishments found their way into the village. 

Letitia was more internally torn and could not resolve the matter in favor of either parent. She was developing a philosophy of life that held each person's truth to them, as a flame to a candle. Neither daughter took up the tales with their mother, who was unwittingly exposing the girls to the festering unresolved bile their father still harbored for her. Philomena even then as the old stories were crawling out of the swamp of unresolved disappointments of father and daughter, rested in the comfortable illusion that the King's angers like her own had dissolved in the wash of years gone by. Although generally aware of Genevieve's attitudes of disdain for her and the life she had chosen, Philomena thought of it as a natural phase that many daughters pass through where their mothers are seen as wrong through and through. She thought ahead to the days when her older child would become more forgiving and mature in her thinking. She was as unaware of the renewed tittering in the old castle as the woodpile is of the mice nesting within it, as tittering it was, a nervous sort of laughter in response to stories no one really wanted to be hearing about someone long gone from their view. 

Over a few short seasons of periodic castle visits, the rift between the old queen and King Claudius manifested in differing forms in the daughters. Genevieve grew to hate both her parents, and became obsessed with punishing them for depriving her of the life of the castle that had been taken away. First, when back with her mother, she destroyed the few things the queen had removed from the castle when she was banished. The rings and bracelets her father had given her mother vanished from the vault. A painting of the dogs of the castle was slashed with knives where it hung in the dining hall. Genevieve built a storehouse of favor with Claudius by bringing him made up tales of Philomena in exile, leading a life of decadent debauchery, until such time as she made her home back at the castle, a princess restored.

One might think her wishes fulfilled, Genevieve would settle into a life of riding the Arabian horses and having her hair set in braids with adornments of ivy and daisies, perhaps learning French and practicing a demure glance through lowered lashes. Instead, Genevieve set about to destroy the king's trust in her sister. 

Letitia had caught the eye of several young men of the court, and was enjoying the life of a sometime princess, albeit removed from the castle. Claudius had taken a new wife, a woman of frail health. Genevieve filled the king's ear with lies about her sister, accusing her of duplicity and ill will towards her father, and alluding to rumors of promiscuous liaisons about the castle. At the same time, she made confessions to the frail queen about having been raped by the king's own knights and brutalized by her mother's guards. She swore her stepmother to secrecy, saying she feared if her father knew, he would have everyone involved including her mother put to death.  The new queen Alouise begged Genevieve to allow her to share at least the identities of the castle guard who had pushed her against the wall and taken what was not theirs to even touch. But Genevieve warned her stepmother against any such betrayal, and Alouise wandered the parapets in the middle of the night when she could not sleep, wondering which among the knights standing guard below might have been the ones who hurt the king's daughter. 

Claudius, ever mindful of his own reputation and fearing it could suffer through his younger daughter’s improprieties, brought Letitia before him and forbade her from indulging in the attentions of the courtiers. He threatened to confine her to a convent if her behaviors did not improve. Once again, Claudius blamed Philomena for failing to raise Letitia with manners appropriate to a princess, and lauded the pernicious Genevieve, rewarding the older girl with travels abroad in the protection of the very knights whom she had told her stepmother were savaging her.

The unwell Queen Alouise could not bear to think of what might befall the girl in such company. She agonized over having kept the secret, understanding it was too late to act. After sleepless night upon sleepless night, she suffered a burst blood vessel in the brain and died while Genevieve was away. The girl hurried back to her father's side, meantime confiding to Letitia that she had meant to hasten the death of their stepmother with her tales of relentless, soul searing sexual abuse. This left Letitia wondering if indeed her sister's torment was due in part to having been so ill treated, or whether the tales of sexual violations were more of her sister's inventions designed to cause anguish to those who loved her. 

It seemed that wherever Genevieve inserted herself amongst the people whom she ought to have cared about, she found ways to not only do mischief but cause deep pain. Genevieve had taken a fancy to one of her sister's suitors. Letitia and the young man were secretly discussing plans to wed, and Letitia had made the grave error of sharing that secret with her sister, such was her joy in anticipation. Genevieve lured the young man, Joffrey, out in the moonlight and cried bitter tears about her sister's insanity and multiplicity of secret lovers. The foundation for these lies having already been laid in the stories of Letitia's promiscuity let the vague and pernicious tale fall into the heart of the young man like the lethal arrow intended.  Genevieve of course consoled him passionately and in so doing wooed him away from Letitia. 

After that act of cunning betrayal, Letitia abandoned her father's court and her perfidious sister, and confided ever more readily in her mother. Letitia did not however ever bring up the story of the mother’s nobleman in the garden and the poisoned wine, as she could not bring herself to repeat this story to her mother. Perhaps she was afraid to hear it might be true, or maybe she was not ready to face her mother’s unleashed and perhaps predictable pent up anger at the king. We cannot know if the course of events would have changed even had Philomena been made aware at that late date of the king’s continued lies being fed to Genevieve and Letitia, as the damage had been fully done. 

On a happier note, Philomena had also remarried, and was living a modest life in the countryside of a neighboring kingdom, where she contented herself with her pear orchards and her dogs, the kind attentions of her husband, and loving friendships with others who peopled the wooded vales. 

The time came when the king once again became enamored of a young woman, and began a time of feasting and festivals with his announcement that she would soon take the place at his side as Queen of the realm. The years had flowed by like the rivers. Long before now, he had taken pity on his younger daughter when her favorite suitor had abandoned his affections for her, and indulged Letitia's desires for a summer cottage by a lake with swans. His generosity toward her sister infuriated Genevieve, who had grown accustomed to the King's primary attention. It appeared she could not be happy if she did not receive her father's undiluted, single focused affections and interest. Claudius, unnerved by the intentions of his older daughter to occupy a primary position in the castle in the face of his intended nuptials, sent a long letter to Philomena.  He informed her that Genevieve had threatened to abandon him forever if he married again. He also said the older girl had demanded that he give her a wing of the castle and assign her a retinue of knights and ladies in waiting as befitted a queen. 

The advisors to the king, upon being told of these demands, cautioned him against giving in to Genevieve’s whims. Furthermore they informed him that both his daughters were rumored to be plotting against him. Ironically the plot was to poison the wine that was to be brought to him and his newest love interest, the lady Umberphalia. As King Claudius and Lady Umberphalia plumbed the sources of these rumors,  they uncovered a plot wherein one of the servers was to pour hemlock into the king's wine the next full moon feast day. Letitia by all reckoning had nothing to do with it and knew nothing of it. That left Genevieve. Claudius and Umberphalia were reluctant however to release either girl from suspicion.

As was his wont when matters of his daughters troubled him, Claudius called Philomena before him and expressed his outrage at the scheme one or both had planned. Letitia appeared in this audience by her mother's side, and burst out with the obvious fact that this was a duplicate story of what he had accused their mother of years before. 

Philomena was rendered speechless with the double shock of the hearing the old fabricated tales of false betrayal coming out of her daughter's mouth and the horror of Genevieve's possible level of hatred for her father.  The entire episode reeked of the penchant Philomena knew the old king had for putting forth the worst face of any matter. She fully recognized her ex-husband’s artifice at work in the tale. Her sensibility that Genevieve could not have been involved in any such plot was shattered to rock dust under the quiet counsel of Letitia who conveyed Genevieve’s expression of malevolent disdain for all of them, communicated by her stated wish for their deaths, every one of them. She heard and not for the first time the stories Genevieve had told her stepmother, and the credit the girl had taken for driving that queen to her grave. But just as Letitia could not resolve the stories told by father into a single truth, her mother could not know with certainty what part of the tales of Genevieve were embellishment and which real. She did however know that anything Letitia said was true, the younger daughter did believe. 

Philomena, whilst believing in Letitia's truthfulness, and having felt Genevieve's endless disdain enough to know the girl held a grudge long and hard, knew as well as any person alive that Claudius was prone to falsehood.  She simply could not fully accept the story about Genevieve let alone believe in any collusion between the two girls. She urged Claudius to be merciful toward their older as well as their younger daughter, expecting that if it proved impossible to eventually peel back the layers of this latest deception and arrive at truth, time would plow it all under the earth and life would go on its desultory way. Put in another way, Philomena might have said, it is not after all, all about us, but it is about the love we make and the love we keep.

Philomena pleaded on behalf of Genevieve even though her daughter had removed herself fully from her mother’s life, and no words had been spoken between them for so long that the dogs that had come along from the days of living at the castle had both died in her absence.  A new pair of dogs had grown white muzzles without ever having felt the warm touch of Genevieve, who had always slept with the first dogs in her bedroom. For Philomena who had not seen her daughter’s face since the days of yore, her heart memory was of the innocence of a girl napping with hounds and awakening with stories of dreams of sugarplums. 

Claudius had by this time confounded his sense of all three women. The old king had grown silver with age and hobbled slightly bent forward with a spine that barely served to hold him upright. He no longer knew whether Philomena had betrayed him with the long ago nobleman, nor did he care. He seemed oblivious to the damage the story had done to his family, or even that he was its author and promulgator. The idea of being poisoned by a woman he trusted felt all too familiar yet he too remained reluctant to fully accept that either Genevieve or Letitia could harbor that degree of malice. Upon being assured by his advisors that whatever concerns he entertained as to Genevieve were entirely justified, having taken to heart the lady Umberphalia's wishes on the matter as she had a keen sense of the characters of his daughters, and finally hearing whether in his sleep or while awake, hatred of him from the lips of Genevieve herself, Claudius was forced to act.  If nothing else, he would preserve his reputation and his legacy, even at the cost of his daughter's dubious affection. 

The king announced his engagement to Umberphalia, and commanded Genevieve to absent herself from his kingdom for all time. He handed her a dowry of 100 horsemen and 10000 pieces of gold in return for her promise never to return. 

The day Genevieve left, there were fires set in the woods surrounding her father's castle. Some say they were the work of Genevieve’s protectors around the kingdom, among the revelers who had passed many a midsummer night becoming intoxicated upon the wines from the castle storerooms she smuggled out for their moonlit parties, where she entertained the revelers with colorful tales of bad doings within the castle walls.  There are always plenty of people eager to believe scandal about those in high places. It was said too that Genevieve stole as much of the treasure from the king’s storerooms as would fit in her trunks, a tale fed by the king himself over pheasant and spirits the evening of his wedding several seasons later to Umberphalia. Letitia continued to spend summers in the cottage by the swan lake for many years to come, relieved at last to no longer be ridiculed and shamed by her sister. For her part, Philomena refused all further audiences with the king, absenting herself frequently from her gardens, as she and her happy husband devoted themselves and their modest treasure to the cause of protecting elephants being killed for their ivory.  

Genevieve vanished from sight henceforward. No one knew whether she had ventured onto a sunny sandy island in the Mediterranean or traded part of her retinue for passage to Africa, where some said she had joined her mother in seeking an end to trophy hunting. Philomena would have wept pearls at the return of her daughter, but alas, their separation was a permanent one. Rumors flashed periodically throughout the kingdom and some continue to this very day. It was told far and wide that Genevieve had become pregnant and it was because of who the father was that she was forced out of the castle by the combined efforts of her father the all powerful king, her estranged mother and her sorry sister Letitia, and her father's new consort, all of whom ostensibly vilified her to protect their own shadowed truths and iniquities. But no one could quite agree on who the father of Genevieve’s baby had been. Some mused it may have been the king himself, a story even Umberphalia is said to have laughed into the vaulted ceilings of the royal bedchamber. And yet, the stories persist, even at this late date and in these enlightened times.  

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Be Curious, Seek Truth

Sullen shadows of behaviors
Ungladdened by curiosity after truth
They fall on the sunniest of times
Hidden in that dark of voices not spoken
Fancy little lies lay in wait
Mulling their private disasters
In the places we would rather not go

Bland accusations founded in distrust
Distrust grown where compassion is lost
Compassion tied up in lies

Yes it is painful to throw the light upon these things
When they are found like fungus upon our only bread
We must learn to discern truth
Understand there is no redemption for bread gone bad

Sometimes it takes a fiend after truth
Someone who can stand to be scorched by lies
Someone brave enough to reach into the cauldron of deceit
And show us that
     Every lie has an author
     Every deception, a promoter

The only real responsibility any of us has
Is to the truth
Not to the truth as we wish it was
Or the story we are afraid might be lurking
But this
     The reality of what came before
     The honesty of what is here now
And from that
Comes the vision of a future free of the despair of the liars
And their misdeeds.

Monday, November 14, 2016

A love lost letter to my country

You and I
We had always been together
As children we wandered
blackberry patches and the furious play yards
You, always the there one
You, the accepting
You, in the face of pain
The one with the remedy

The rejecting, that too was there
Sometimes your eyes were a little too blue
To reflect the brown of mine

But we made promises
Especially you did
promises in rainbow colors
And I, I fell gratefully into your arms
And I, I fought your battles

Always aware of course that there is change
But change would be to the good
the arc, one of good
ultimately, the argument would resolve into acceptance

We murmured to each other as lovers do
of ever the brighter coming days
wine and roses, yes, and the intangibles
You called those freedom
You led me like Moses to the top of the mountain

And there, in the fickleness of one day turning to night
As I leaned into you
more hopeful
than ever before
you pushed me away

What's wrong, what's the matter
I was in a panic but I knew
I looked into your blue eyes
We have been together so long I have learned
to know rejection when I see it

Isn't there anything we can do to fix this
You shook your head and walked away

You broke up with me
You were supposed to be the one I could trust
Now when I lie awake at night
thinking and praying
Please don't do anything worse
I think on your phone messages and texts
about how you won't really hurt me
But I see you and your friends
quietly grooming the horses
ready to ride maddeningly
into the darkest of nights
I see you
I hear you
I wonder why I even
keep caring
keep wishing for blue eyed redemption

*dedicated to and inspired by Tramaine Murray*