Free Write (10Jan09 16:36) - Loneliness

You hear people comment that "it's darkest just before the dawn," and, while that may be true - that everything seems its most desolate just before the dawn breaks through, it seems to me that the most lonely time of day is that time right at sunset. It's that time the world is calming for the night - settling down for a slumber meant to renew and refresh the bleakness of a sun-baked landscape.

It's that moment, when the sun settling into the horizon sets the sky ablaze with a bounty of colors too beautiful to be real, that the realization of how alone you may or may not be sinks in. You watch the canvas as it's being painted, longing for that special someone with whom to share that moment - only to find yourself irrevocably and totally alone. Alone in the majesty of a night symphony that was written for two - and only being played for an audience of one.

Putting pen to paper only soothes the ache that is building in your soul for a short while - soon you're wanting to cry out to the world, denounce just how unfair a hand circumstance has dealt you in that moment. Longing to share that moment - that most intimate of moments - with someone who turns your world upside down... and unable to do so. You continue to put pen to paper, hoping - no, praying - that it will quell the yearning you feel; quench the fires burning within you and feeding your passions.

And does it?

For a while. But it's a temporary fix - a band-aid for the larger problem you face each and every day. What is it about that person that makes you freeze? What is it about him that keeps you unable from finding your voice? What keeps you from singing his name from the rooftops, alerting the media... telling him?

Is it fear? Lord knows we've been hurt before - oh yes, but then what man, woman, or child hasn't? Hurt is a normal part of growing and changing in this life. It's the hurts and disappointments who make us what we are - stronger beings capable of handling the most insane circumstances imaginable.

Is it the finality of it? As if just uttering those words - asking a simple question or making a simple statement - means you can never take them back? Who would want to? Who would choose to take back words so simple, so meaningful - straight from the heart?

So what is it? What dictates this oddity that, if left to paper or screen, the words flow freely... yet remove those media where you are faced with the situation at hand (no defenses, no barriers, nothing left to get in the way) and the words freeze. And, not normally one to allow intimidation (or fear or whatever is keeping you from doing this) to rule your life, you meekly accept it as the norm - you never once question anything aloud, only in your head and in the recesses of your being. You never once say, "Why don't we..." and instead just keep on with the way things are.

So what makes this one act so impossible to perform?

Wasted Beauty

large, dark eyes stare out of
a once pretty face now
tanned brown and dry as
weather-worn leather.
small, yet foreboding,
she never thought about
the short-lived beauty of
countrywomen –
that is, until her own daughter
flashed a brilliant smile,
revealing her own radiance.
she bore no regret
for the passing of
foolish youth or beauty –
having come through
sickness, poverty, and danger,
the sight of a pretty face
may bring a smile to her lips
but only as a simple reminder
of the truly bountiful life
she now led.

Simple Pleasures

a sunlit field and a sense of serenity
washed over him with
the smell of spring drifting daily
to tease his hopes and
to give a shy promise of
a coming radiance.

he settled against the split rail fence
underneath a weeping willow and
comfort poured all through him
with the relaxation of his body
and the clearing of
his work wearied mind.

considered lower class by most,
he felt fortunate as he watched
his children play –
their small white feet pretty against
brown waves of freshly plowed earth
laying sleek and glistening in the sun.

his heart burned with
the lonely ache beauty sometimes
brought him –
the beauty that came from
the contagion of his children’s devotion
to finding the joy in life every day.

Life As A Slave

their stories are written on the water –
the men and women who were
broken in body, soul, and spirit
by that peculiar institution known as
slavery –
men and women whose names are
lost forever to history,
left only to be whispered by
the lakes and rivers of time.

for these people,
death
was better than the degradation and abuse
suffered during a harsh life lived on
a cotton or sugar cane plantation.

Very violent, sudden
uprisings,
where liberty – not malice – was
the motivation for their work,
were an acceptable, welcomed way to die.

and once finally freed,
these men and women crossed
the length and breadth of
a land which had scorned them.
they walked the land in search of
a promise of freedom and
a chance for a life outside the
bonds of slavery –
a promise meant to go unfulfilled.

Familial Sacrifice

made to fear somebody above all else,
he was born for another’s benefit -
firstling of the cabin flock and
selected as a meet offering to
a fearful and inexorable demigod,
whose huge image so haunted
his childhood’s imagination.

she kept him kindly ignorant
of dreaded events about to transpire.
upon that long, tiring journey,
she kept sad facts hidden from him.
he was naïve, innocent – helpless!
and she led him along by the hand,
like the spring lamb to slaughter.

and her gaze lowered, resisting all inquiring looks
with the reserve and solemnity of a priestess.