Clouds carry whisper colored memories
And soft lightnings — flashes like sentinels
Against a darkened pane, thick memories —
Impasto hammered pains sharp with angles.
These clouds, these ever turbulent mists,
Listen not to small voice or Thor’s hammer,
They are blind to mouse, blind to pugilist,
Blind to the pleas of the eyeless seer.
For these mists, these airy kaleidoscopes
Of reflected light, live outside hist’ry.
They dwell there e’er in the eternal tropes.
For these mists led my fathers from the sea.
These solid mists, these son-born billows,
Billow an’ dance, lifting all from sorrows.
© rl busséll 2018 – All rights reserved
Face façades force me to face
the clay that clings to my flesh;
that clay that shapes itself
depending on the crowd,
depending on the shroud.
I just want to kick the goad.
I’m angry at death,
angry that the stain
still clings and reigns,
angry that death’s not done
wreaking havoc, gaining gains.
I should speak in tense-past,
when discussing death’s out-cast.
I should light where Light
has dealt death to death.
death’s death is shrouded,
hidden from my unseeing eyes;
blind I stand and blind I rise.
I refuse to wash my muddy eyes.
© rl busséll 2018 – All rights reserved.
for my friend KW
A reflection on James 1:23, Acts 26:14, Hebrews 2:14-15, and John 9:6-7 and the too soon passing of a friend; may light perpetual shine upon her.