14 January, 2013

Losantiville Lines: Of Staying and Roaming, Of Coming and Going

Untitled Poem, Draft 2
The world is full of wanderers
cursed and blessed
among the minions of the Earth.
Scattered since pre-history
breaking like waves
breaking down walls
immune to edicts
from disembodied self-proclaimed usurpers
of health, of wealth, of good taste,
of morality, and of obligation.
The first obligation –
to one's fellow wandering souls
and to the road we create
with each and every step we take.
All our souls are wandering ones
whether it has a mortgage nailed to it's back
or whether home is just a silly blue ruck sack.
The soul is a sacred bindle
and we must all be ready to pick it up
and we must all be ready to pick it up
and we must be ready to follow the wind
on short notice.
Go and stay at the whim of the universe--
grand design that contains us –
sacred design that includes us
whether we understand or not
whether we are understood or not
whether state and local officials
worry about our vote or not.
We vote with step we take
and with each step we walk further away
from a faulty system of locks and doors
and barred and shuttered windows
that do not protect
but lock out the sun
and the scent of morning air.
With each step
my foot creates the road
I was made to walk
and the path will sometimes cross paths
of old friends –
and that is a blessing,
entering back into the lives of those loved
and rarely seen,
recognizing the imprints we make
on one another's journeys
in this creation our individual paths
that lead back to the common root,
that leads back to whatever comes after
we shed this mortal coil
and the soul is released
to wander ethereal lands
that these plump and juicy eyes
are not designed to see.
The world is full of wanderers
and I am one.
Do not cry mother.
Do not cry father.
Do not worry brother.
The road that takes me hence
will bring me back again
and I will be ripe
with stories and songs and poems
and we will sit around ancient familial fires
and fill in the gaps of our collective memories
telling the things that have transpired
in the time between.
Do not cry daughter.
I carry you with me.
I have always carried you with me.
Our roads have not always been parallel
but the light in your eyes that shows the way
is the same as the light in mine
and our paths will cross again and after
even after I have shuffled off
this mortal coil
in favor of some better suited to the road ahead,
you are a daughter of ancient line
like I am a son of ancient line
and the universe has plans for us both
written like constellations across the night sky
of landscapes among deep internal geographies.
There is a plan if you have the ancient heart to follow
and the feet that will carry you there
though to do sometimes
means enduring great pain.
The world is full of wanderers
and I am one.
Do not cry beloved.
The light in your eyes shines the way
that leads me back to the sweet solace
I find when I am wrapped in your arms.
Your bright smile is a rapture
for my road weary soul
and I know you are with me
watchful like the moon on early autumn nights
sleeping under the stars.
The road is sometimes winding
and mile markers have rusted
and returned to the dust –
but I do not need them
when I have your heartbeat as a compass to guide me,
the sound of your voice echoing on the wind,
calling me back and I follow
and I find the dirty sacred river
and I know you will be there
letting loose your hair
and pouring the blackberry wine
in anticipation of my arrival.
The world is full of wanderers
and we are all one –
born with a sacred blemish
that marks our spirits for wide journeys:
wild poets, prophets, seers, and song makers,
painters of new geographies reflecting something better
than Plato's notion of perfection.
Finding luxury in a soft bed of grass
or in a memorable companion
I wander with the broken
and the confused
and the botched
in search of unknowing saints
and the great burdened intellects
who have pieces of that ancient secret
that they will share
if I only ask
and if I only reach out my hand
and call them brother
if I extend my arms, hug them
and call them sister
and if I am aware of my sins
and I learn to forgive myself
and if I take unto myself
the great all-fire breath of God
that warms and cools Earth's common root
like coals under these feet
that cannot stop
but that would accept any honest companion
who accepts me
and who understands
that there is dignity in being a nomad
and that some souls
can find no house large enough to hold them all.

Location:Cincinnati, OH