An image, i could have swore
was your face, while mine
dripping wet, glasses on the
sink, blurry vision – hands
cupped, water splashing like
morning prayers – I saw your
look in the mirror. The one
when you were fighting all
the King’s horses and all
the King’s men, like when
somebody was messin’ with
one of yours.
A feeling. Like old women
wailing at icons and kissing
pictures of saints – and I
get this feeling, that rushes
through my soul – something
like a haunting, ominous breath
or a reminder … “These are not
children, playing children’s games!”
A warm kiss on my ear from
somewhere there, and my
morning ritual continues …
When you were dying, i asked
to whom were your praying …
like two students might ask, who
are you reading these days, and
you said … “Mother Mary.”
I should have known you would
say that. You said, “She was so
powerful, and knew what they
were doing to her son. She even
saw her own son, die.”
And like that, this little boy wakes
with a download! A muse whispering
from some distant star. Vibrations
tickling thought and memory. A
voice of a writer who never was
allowed to speak – slips in like
a dervish merchant, like a little
kid tapping one shoulder and
then playfully running
the other way. —
… and after writing that down …
i walk out my backdoor –
in ritual, trees waving – frigid
breeze of morning and yes
i hear you! That lonesome
whistle! We used to be.
And, I loved you.
Your cold steel friends, unforgiving
extremes … heat like radiation –
cold like death. Everywhere
I look this morning, i feel
as if I am walking a graveyard.
Memories like grass and weeds
not cut for years around markers
long forgotten …
Escape is not relative or
being courted –
death like vision and mission
moves about like fireflies
in every tearless glance.
And i feel a peace
in knowing love is
as a lover sings lullabies
to a dead child as leaves
fall to renewal – as
light fades like a life
connection – as an old
person only remembers
the good old days.
John Paul Wright 