Waning

Φ

Pale in Forgiveness

Hemorrhaging Faith

Staining the shadows binding

in Despair

φ

 

 

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Chasing the Equatorial Horizon

Ω

Walking in a circle

revisiting each step

again and again

Ad infinitum

.

Ending and beginning

in the Chasm

Highpoint of memory

bottomless in despair

.

If if virtue is gold

my soul is poor

each revolution

refilling the pit with debt

.

In it collects the runoff

of apprehension and fear

as a cauldron of doubt

and crucible for folly

.

yet at the edge again

by my choice

i bring myself

wan and bridgeless

.

Though after the crossing

as i emerge and walk yet away

am i really leaving

or beginning the trip back

ω

The Mantel Cracked

Ψ

A timber house built by a calloused hand

The numb hand that built the stone hearth

The foundation of both laid on uneven ground

By a hand too tempted  by haste to mind

Too few nails joining plank to beam

Nor enough mortar to bed stone

Too much need makes way for mindless haste

Always the less in building the less in standing

The hand no more careless than its mind

A mind lost in need unaware of spirit

Spiritless homestead where children dare be born

In a home that has need yet not time

No time for nurturing by the light of the hearth

Soulless fire giving no warmth yet stoking want

A fireplace lacking the ability to feed the souls

of the family starving within the uneven home

Leaving only ghosts who wanted for so much

That the Mantel cracked beneath the load

Ψ

Ungreateful tied hands

Δ

How tranquil the painter upon the hill

Backdrop of Mountains overlooking ocean

Such gifts he is given

–

Standing in tall grass where tall trees once stood

I need to create but this canvass is not mine

These tools are forced on me by bigger people

The frame is cheap pine and weak joined

The canvass unevenly stretched with too little gesso

Two colors on a plastic pallet

One brush

What joy if there is no freedom

So I paint a cave within a Mountain cove

A place to hide

A place to hibernate

–

…and the painter is gone

Δ

and the Winning Attitude is?…

◊

Sure

Everybody has issues.

but

…

My Issues

ROCK

Cold Stone

◊

Walls need not close in

When they block all doors

Defending a fortress

Or haunting a tomb

Lightless and alone

◊

Unreasonable & Yelling

◊

I’m assigning blame

To common imperfections

Hand picked illusion

◊

T.V.

◊

With absolute power

Reality is altered

Fitting the desire

◊

Valentine’s Day or Where’s my bullet proof vest

My daughter’s school was closed on Valentines Day because of snow. Which means she won’t be receiving any valentines from her class mates. Being Dad, it falls on me to get her the only valentine she will receive today. On the way home from work I stop at the store to do some shopping. I find a sweet little heart shaped balloon which will be worth more to her than all the gold in the world. Its cost is two dollars. So, at a quarter past five in the afternoon on Valentines day I buy an “I love you” balloon for two bucks at the supermarket. At sixteen past five in the afternoon on Valentines day I get the “I hope she kills you in your sleep” look from the cashier at the supermarket. Well at least I made my daughters day…

I’m such a puttz!

Winter Mood

It occurs to me that I lose touch with my Soul when I am away from it to long. This statement may sound obvious but the recent holidays and guests, however enjoyable, are far from routine. I am a creature of habit. I have working tolerances to my daily grind. When I exceed my specifications for a long duration problems arise. Namely, I become sullen and withdrawn. The so called Winter Mood. The time when I seem numbed from the loss of connectedness.

There are other times during the year when this malady can strike. Its onset requires a substantial diversion of focus from myself or inner peace (IP in Lady Sorrow terms). To hold the bond with my soul I must maintain a constant level of attentiveness towards it. Seemingly any lasting event can trigger the Mood. Though other than family vacation nothing seems to last long during Spring, Summer, and Fall. However, mid-November through mid-January are fraught with distraction. We all know what they are so I will not list them. Hence I suffer from a weakness of presence during this period.

Yet I know those who flourish in the season, reveling in the many chores. I notice that they act through a rehearsed plan from year to year. Apparently due to something called Tradition. They have slowly worked throughout the year towards these series of events. They then pique in the accomplishment of the multitude of labors. Labors that exceed the proportional load limit of stress during the time frame. Yet they truly feel gloom when it is all over and they must return to normal daily activities. Until next year of course.

Allow me to mention that I have celebrated this holiday period in a different fashion every year since the mid-eighties. I am unaccustomed to anything resembling tradition in dealing with the change of pace. Might I suffer from the disruption of Habit? Habit and tradition are different to me. The order that we dress ourselves each day may be considered habit. While eating Christmas dinner at two in the afternoon is more like a tradition. Many habits fall to the needs of the holiday season. Yet, as mentioned, since I’m without tradition I have only habit around which my day may be ordered. Can I then say that my gloom must come not from a departure OF tradition, as with those who plan for it, but a departure FROM tradition, as with someone who lives by habit.

What is it about tradition that helps us past the angst? I believe one facet of tradition is a possible mechanism for allowing us to behave outside of the norm. Tradition is a cultural positive and an accepted social pattern. Yet traditional activities are almost exclusively outside of normal daily behavior. Evident by a house normally occupied by two senior adults becoming billeted by the latter plus all their adult children, their children, the new baby, and 5 dogs; for two weeks. Where every transgression of protocol is dismissed as “hey it’s Christmas, we only do this once a year”. When under the umbrella of tradition are we not appeased by the alien actions & avalanching stress loads? Are we not permitted to call the unique, normal? Yes we are.

All of this begs the question. Can we assuage stress by planning chaos and making it traditional? This can, of course, lead one into the pitfall of expectations. The other landmine of the season. Yet if I spent the next eleven months planning for the holidays would I not centralize around prime activities. Though they would be odd for any other time of the year they could be a catalyst for focusing energy. The kind of energy that makes people smile instead of grit their teeth. If this is true then I should plan on starting a new tradition in the Polar house. Next year I myself will cut the Roast Beast; while wearing my Santa suit singing Deck the Halls and standing on my head. Did you catch that transition? I’m now anxious for next season to come. I had better start practicing.

I am sorry for making you read all of that just to hear me say, “Man is it hectic around the holidays”. The real reason for these statements is that this year my winter mood was dismissed after only a brief visit. Due mostly to the fact that I realized that my despair was caused by the acute absence of self. After that I had only to invite the awareness of my soul back into my house. Then “BAM” I was where I was before it had all started. I needed to understand my reaction to distraction on scales larger than daily habits allotted for. Once I did I was able to adjust for it.

Of course it will happen again next year if no changes are made. For how can I fully steel myself against these Yule usurpations of being? Considering the above I move towards a traditional remedy. Tradition. I will not create static plans but broad objectives instead. The Santa suit is a winner plus several more simple ones should do. These will not make the problems go away. If I can, however, perceive them as mere stepping stones towards my goals then I hope they will pass easily. Therefore allowing me a Silent Night.

Huh…W-w-what the Hell!

 

        So I’m driving around again today. Moving down the road at a good clip. 100 yards between me and the person in front of me. More or less in the slot. When, of course some schmuck pulls in ahead of me off a side road. Naturally he is in no hurry to get anywhere but in front on me. So my groove goes down in flames and I’m stuck behind someone who can only drive as fast as they think. SLOW. Yeah yeah, I know it happens everyday, quite bitching. Fortunately I was armed with (Easy it ain’t what you think) very calm music recommended to me by Mermaids Muse. Sooo I deal with it. Until. The guy ahead of me pulls out an object in his one hand. He begins to rub it on his head. Odd! “Hey!, he looks like he’s bald“. “No wait, he’s…he’s…shav…shaving….he’s shaving his head!?“. This cat was shaving his egg while driving in front of me? How good of a trim is that gonna Goddamn be? I want to know what this guy’s nickname at work is. I can see him standing at the water cooler talking to his fellow employees with patches of missed stubble sticking out of his pickle, “Hey Chess Board did you catch the game last night“. Or maybe, “Good night everyone. Drive home safely. Especially you Crabgrass!“. I have nothing against baldness (He probably has hair but cuts it off). One side of my family is bald or balding. They do not, however, shave whats left on their noggins while cutting people off in traffic. They may not have hair but they got brains. Just Damn!

 

The Scorpions Sting

A man

Who never acknowledges insults

That they may fade

Powerless

Yet before leaving

They sting him

With venom that burns

Leaving always a scar

The Soul can not mend

His reaction always aggressive

But he is civilized

He can not say a discouraging word

So his pride he must swallow

Again

Again

Until intoxicated

With doubt

Dead Trees

animism

Pronunciation: \’a-nə-,mi-zəm\

Function: noun

Etymology: German Animismus, from Latin anima soul

Date: 1832

1 : a doctrine that the vital principle of organic development is immaterial spirit

2 : attribution of conscious life to objects in and phenomena of nature or to inanimate objects

3 : belief in the existence of spirits separable from bodies

_____________________________________

The evil in the trees

Is really the insanity in the mans mind

The insanity in his mind perverts the mans life

The perverse life that crawls out into the woods

And becomes the evil in the trees

_____________________________________

I hate the woods at night. They scare the hell out of me. I know there is something is inside of them, something dreadful. I can stand just outside the woodline of a woods looking in at the shadows and silhouettes of the trees. Though I see that nothing is moving, my heart tells me that there is a presence just beyond my vision. My mind screams to me that one of the shadows is alive, malevolent, perverted, and hungry. Instantly I become aware of what a Junco must feels after when its eyes trace out the form of a Coopers hawk from low in a near by tree. At that moment My face grows flushes as hot waves of fear crash into me. Sometimes my muscles seize Left paralyzed as the panic consumes me I become a statue; though my blood boils.  I praying that my stillness will masks my presence and keeps the predator from charging pouncing. At other times Sometimes, though rarely, I have marshal enough courage left to turn and walk away without looking back, terrified.

Obviously, I can never enter the woods at night if alone; if I am in the company of friends I might, but never alone.It is ironic too since I spend so much time alone in the woods during the day.I would be incomplete without the forest.However, night happens, and it happens occasionally while I am out there.Again, if I am with my friends, terror does not strike me, caution does.As long as I stay with the group and do not let myself become separated, I am safe.To me there is strength in numbers.

Please do not ask me what I think is out there because I do not know.I do know, however, that it stands just beyond the limit of my night vision, or crouches behind a bush where even moonlight can not reach.Waiting to pounce.It follows me when I am out there.It waits,…waits to find me alone and not paying attention, which I will never let happen.I may not be able to see it, but I know exactly where it is standing.I can feel its gaze upon my Soul.

Maybe this feeling of mine is just a remnant of ancient instincts that were meant to protect us from ancient predators.If so then horror should confront me during the day as well.Surely ancient man was at risk from predators any time he left the protection of the clan.Yet, this feeling of mine does not act to split my attention during the day.It belongs strictly to the night, the night in the woods.

Yet, oddly, one night something happened.After years of guarding myself from this Evil lurking fate that roams through dark woods, I did what I always thought impossible.After staring for an hour into woods I was only familiar with during the day, I entered them, at night, and alone.This was not just any night, but a dead night.Winter had settled in and nothing that lived was in those woods,…except me, and all things that do not live.

A wet snow was trying to bury the Earth, but I had dressed for it.Many lose layers of clothing kept me warm.I wore a wide-rimmed leather hat to keep my head dry.The snow was covering all of the days animal tracks, including mine as I made them.If I stood still long enough, all evidence of my having walked through the area would vanish.No matter where I went, it looked like I had never been there.The snow was also piling up on the tops of tree limbs as well as my shoulders and hat.I felt as if the night wanted me to become part of it.It is no wonder why I felt a little less human that night.

Before I walked into those woods, my personality had already begun to change.I know now that it was changing into something strange, old, and predaceous.I wanted to find my demon, hunt him down, challenge him, force him to strike me.If he could draw my blood, then he was real.I would know that some fears should never be pushed.When, however, his strike caused me no pain, nor drew my blood, would his power over me be betrayed.I would no longer fear this demon or his woodland domain.

Yet I wanted more than just a release from fear.I wanted revenge for all of the fears that had ever victimized me.My confidence was waxing.It occurred to me that if my demon proved to be weaker than I, that with vengeanced-spite I would harm and hurt him beyond the degree that he had damaged me.This was my plan, regardless of what I may be forced to suffer, the haunting would cease.

The sky was closed-off by the clouds of a winter’s storm.The light pollution from town made the night sky ash-grey. The millions of gorged snow flakes falling through the air consumed all sound.The only remaining noise was my breath wheezing past my ice-covered lips, and my heart beating as loud as a calving glacier.All I could see were the boles of the sleeping trees, their silhouettes seeping out of the ground and spilling into the night.It was as if the night had rooted itself to the earth.

So I entered, and not as cautious as usual. Instead of scanning for the reflection of carnivorous eyes, my signal to flee, I just walked forward with raised brow, as easy prey.Baiting its hunger.

After several minutes, I stopped beneath a small tree. I scanned all around the woods with my eyes, and saw only night.A few areas that seemed dark enough to conceal my demon I openly investigated.He was not there, just night, trees, and snow, so I continued marching through the dark woods.

I made my way by marching between the gaps in the trees.For there are no paths where people never walk.This went slowly.One step, wait as bait.Another step and search for movement.When I came up to the thicket I did not stop.Not now.I simply crouched down on all fours, then continued hunting.Under the brush.Like an animal.Hidden by the night.

When I came to a low, flat area something began to growl ahead of me.I became as still as a rock, except for my head which mechanically pivoted towards the sound.I stopped breathing and calmed my heart to hear better.It then called out with a low muffled bark, though more like a menacing gruff. I could hear the dog pulling its chain trying to break free so it could engage me.

I remained still, and thought of what the dogs owner might see when he looked outside his window.From the sound of it, the dog would be standing on its haunches against the pull of the chain, barking and pawing at the air towards the black woods.I am sure the hair on the back of the dog’s neck would be standing straight up as well.What effect this would have on the owner I did not know, nor did I stay to find out.

Out of the thicket, and once again on my feet, I was now headed towards what was the deepest part of the woods. It was a place I had never been to before, not by day nor with my friends. Seeing only in grey and mostly black, waiting for something to reach out and gut me, I alone would enter this area for the first time.

And still I walked. In dead silence. Except for the snowy crunch of my footfalls and my fear laden breath

As I openly crossed the Natural Gas line into the unfamiliar woods, I again felt different.Besides what affect the snow and the night had on my mind, the dog had aided in making me feel like a true denizen of these woods.My fear was slowly ebbing away as my interest, for this night-shrouded woods, climbed.I was becoming comfortable in the dark veil that was these woods.

Near the center of these deeper woods, I came upon what was left of an old forgotten house. Only its foundation remained standing. Encompassing it were the old trees that had once been part of the house’s external grace, but now were decrepit and venerable in appearance.

Hung from those trees like a spider’s web made from thick steel cable, was grape vine.Its giant knotted mass undulated its way beneath the snow, attacking every tree like cancer.Young trees stood mummified by tendrils while older trees had entire limbs torn from their trunk by the weight of the vine.Near its heart, and like a black candelabra, its eight inch diameter arms climbed skyward into the ugly trees.The vine set upon the woods even though it was winter, a time when trees and vines should be asleep.

Looking at this vine, I somehow felt it was alive, sentient, and aware of my presence.Without fear, but with awe, I walked into its space and began to examine it, to see if it was real.I pulled off my gloves and stuffed them under the epaulet of my jacket.Touching the vine, it was cold, stable and rough.I impulsively climbed onto a lower arm of the vine; it held my weight well. I spotted above me where two arms were narrowly crossed, and began climbing up to them.Only a trace coating of snow had found its way onto the vines, so climbing was easy.When I had gone high enough, I straddled both vines with my legs.Then sitting, I leaned back into the crossed arms of the vines. It was much like a natural hammock. I put my gloves back on before folding my arms over my chest.In this way my silhouette sank into the form of the vine and trees.

From my perch I saw no demon in the woods below me.I felt no fear from the night surrounding me.I recognized no existence of malice or death.All that I could perceive were the vines, the woods, night, snowstorm, myself, and silence.All of us alive and sharing in an intimate peace.Communion.If there was a demon, then he was not interested in me that evening.Everything in the woods made sense to me now.I knew what was behind the trees because I had been there myself, and found nothing.At that point I did not know if the woods belonged to me or if I belonged to the woods.Whichever it was, I felt good, like something that is natural and instinctual, and is just always suppose to happen.

I remained on my perch, staying as still as the trees, watching the storm blanket us in snow.

Later, while still cradled in the arms of my vine, I mused to myself about a group of deer that might wander into this area.They would not sense me; of course I would be part of the night, a section of vine.The deer could scratch through the snowand begin to browse. I could watch, long, and in silence.Or, while staring directly at one, I could whisper a small unnatural hiss through my lips.Of course the deer would immediately raise its head, stop chewing, and freeze in movement.Its eyes would quickly scan the woods for the threat, while its heart began to pound a little harder.Its instincts would tell it that something unseen was watching it.Something that could be hiding in the shadows behind the trees.Something dreadful.

HORNER, JACK

      I don’t know how long they’ve been here, drifting through the room touching people. As far as I can remember the ghosts have always been here; they make us normal again. It’s always so quiet after they have come and gone. When they touch me, oh they are so beautiful, I can begin to remember things again. I know when they have touched me because my throat feels cool and my mouth is wet. As soon as I stop shaking I go to my window.
     I love my window because it is so bright, just like the ghosts. I know that I am normal when I look out the window because I see people walking in all that brightness. They must be normal, so I’m sure that I am too because otherwise how could I see them?
     My window is so pretty. For so long it shows me a green world; then it changes its mind, turns a bunch of colors, and then turns white. That’s when it’s the brightest. I can never remember to count how many times it’s turned white for me, but my window likes me because it’s done it a lot. Even though it changes colors all the time, I know it’s my window, my name is on the bed under it. In little letters it says “HORNER, JACK”.
     But now my hands start to shake again and I don’t like to sit by my window. The Outside people can see me here. They stop walking by and start watching me. I think they see my hands shake. The ghosts say that Outside peoples hands don’t shake ’cause they’re normal. So if they see me shaking they will know I live with the ghosts. When the ghosts make my mouth wet and cold my hands stop shaking. But now my hands are shaking so I can’t be normal. I wish my window would help me stay normal.
     I have to get up now. Maybe I can find a ghost to touch me again, but all I see is the other people. All of them are Inside people. They wear stripes like me. They are so noisy. Whenever my hands begin to shake the Inside people get too loud and hurt my ears. I always have to cover my head with my arms and run to the quiet places. But I’m looking for the ghosts and I don’t see any.
     My favorite quiet place is over in the corner under the shelf. It is a very tall shelf, but it does not scare me. I know nothing is living up there. I sit in my corner because I am smart. I know that because the ghosts stay away from us Inside people when we are loud, so I must be smart when I hide from the loud people. I know that if I can be like the ghosts, then I am good and they will have to say I’m normal.
     The ghosts have come back to stop my hands from shaking. I stand and walk over to them. I try to float like they do. I practice. One ghost smiles at me, touches me, but my mouth is still dry. I hope I’ve not been bad. They make it dark when I’m bad. The ghost says today we are special because one of the Outside people has given us their food to eat.
     But if I eat Outside people food, then wont I get smart and become normal? On the table is the Outside food. It’s a pie. It must have brains in it or something. The kind that will keep my hands from shaking.
     So I grab the pie for myself, right in front of the ghost, and run to my corner. The ghost gets all loud and noisy like Inside people do. This pie must have the ghosts brain in it. It wants the brains for itself. It only wanted to give us a little. But I know now. I’ll get a brain and I’ll be normal. When I get to my corner I sit down with the Outside pie. I don’t want to break all the brains by mushing them up with my whole hand. The ghost is so noisy now. I don’t want the ghost to think I’m bad and make it dark so I stick only my thumb in the pie. When I pull it out there is a brain stuck to it, it looks sort of like a plum. I show the ghost my new brain, so it knows that I’m smart and normal now. I say “I’m a good boy” but the ghost says I’m not smart.
     Then the ghost makes everything go dark…

Pity the Gods

What is a God without believers?

Perhaps alone

Maybe insane

Definitely mortal

–

Forgotten Gods

No one to take them seriously

But themselves

The mumbling and pathetic lunatic

Stumbling down the street

Living in a reality

That rots his soul

The world he created to rule

Turned out to be just another hell

If only he could admit to himself

His mistake