mindbringer's blog

Descent Decision

The fissure ran straight down,
even seeming to go round and round
spiraling all the way to the ground.
The only person to try such a thing
would be a crazy circus clown.
But this was crazier than any ring.

 

The climber stopped in his tracks.
He contemplated ending this traverse
and prepared to put it in full reverse.
But the sun was setting in the West
and he had plenty of pitons in his racks.
So, he decided to just think and rest.

 

Suddenly, he was hit with inspiration!
Why, he could just rappel down the cleft!
His senses, he was quite sure, were bereft
of all feelings and emotions, just stamina
was all he had left.  That and perspiration!
He threw his rope down and peered over in awe.

 

Four thousand feet down he could see the end.
Of course, his rope was only 150 feet long...
Perhaps this called for a hit from a bong
but, alas, it was not part of his normal gear!
So, he slid down the rope and began to descend.
The rope made it to a ledge and eased his fear.

 

He stood up and contemplated his next move.
Was he to assume there were ledges all the way?
Plus, he was quickly running out of time this day.
So, he decided to parachute down to the end instead!
He put on his headphones and began to groove.
If this did not work he would be as good as dead.

 

He checked his gear and chute and then made the leap.
Out in the clear air he soared and fell, he would tell
people later that was the best part.  A hard sell
for those not inclined to parachuting!  Plummeting
down quickly, he pulled the ripcord before he got too deep.
He had not made the top; today was not a day for summiting.

 

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mindbringer, 11 December 2015

Nine Months (a tribute to Love)

A love like ours most people would find hard to imagine or to believe, one would expect it to fade away and then set like the Sun on a midsummer's eve. The Sun which is always shining somewhere on this rock we call Earth brings abundant life in all of its myriad glories; for all it is worth.

My vision of you often is one of nature's perfection, of nakedness. This always leads to seeming insanity, to temporary madness. I am driven crazy by the sight of your precious and sexy body, so beautiful and made even more so by your posing so oddly.

We have now been together for nine special, extraordinary months, nine cycles of that bringer of tides in the night sky ensconced. Nine months of love every increasing, every evolving, ever growing. Before time even began our love was put into motion by God all-knowing.

How time flies by when you are as deeply and romantically in love as we are! The days and nights rush past in a confusion of dreams as if seen from afar. For we've been separated all this time by seven thousand miles of mountain and sea. Most would say by that standard alone we should not exist, we should never be.

But be we are and are shall we be...or this one was not born under a chestnut tree. Our love not only existed, it flourished and has now become part of History. For upon our unworthy heads did far-seeing God bestow this special place in his story, this place where two such as us were destined to meet and to forever just be.

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mindbringer, 12 August 2014

 

Quiet Silence

QUIET SILENCE

There are several silences.

As in noise levels, there are levels of quietude.
Not measured in decibels nor like altitude,
they are perceived through the senses.

First is that which one commonly meets,
the mere temporary absence of sound.
Knowing noise will inevitably return,
true silence pauses and retreats
until the next time 'round
when it gets one more turn.

Another exists only because the din of civilization
has not yet reached it,
not yet engulfed it.
A silence of anticipation.

This silence knows only the muted sounds of nature.
The rippling of the stream,
the haunting cries of the loon,
the pounding footfalls of the elephant.

But true silence will endure.
Absolute silence, it would seem,
does exist.
We are led to it by Kabirian flute
under the rising new moon,
by the buzzing of bees,
by the gnawing of a tiny ant,
by the whispering winds
amongst the morning mist.

Immutable.  Incessant.  Incorruptible silence.

It is the space between ocean and sea,
the time between the beats of my heart.
It is the period between drops of pure rain
falling from clear, thunderless skies.
First the pitter, then...the patter,
the deluge soon will start!
Flowers stop their turning
as rain comes down in pails.

It is that pause between contraction and expansion of the universe,
that moment before, with tiny arms and legs churning,
a newborn baby wails.

It is the instant after the flash of lightning,
between one wave and the next
as they crash upon the white sand shore.

Between the tic and the toc,
the knock and the knock
upon some distant door.

In these true silences, all nature doth rehearse.

As God's great art was painted in silence,
a canvas waiting for sound,
true silence envelops me in its quiet embrace
and I see the music of the spheres all 'round.

Not one note is louder than silence!

As before Big Bang's creation,
before my first breath
life was spanked into me by noise.

Quiet silence left behind in the womb of space.

Until I return to that greatest of silences,
I am thrust into a life of sound so that,
in its absence, I may find peace in the moment.
If I live for and in those moments between,
if I am fully present then
and in the long progression of silent nows,
I will have a life of quiet bliss and harmony,
ever seeking true silence.

Which is joy.

There are different silences.
Some would say it is simply the absence of sound.
But I rather think sound is the poor absence of silence.

Which is love.

There is more than one silence...

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mindbringer, 22 August 2010

The Bath

THE BATH

"Daddy, what is Love?", she said,
her flat chest unaware of future kisses.
Water dripping, flowing down blossoming curves of innocence,
each piercing green eye asked the same of him.
The only hair to be found on Heaven's unopened petal,
matted, cascaded to her knees like a golden waterfall,
unwittingly conspiring to seduce a suddenly struggling father.

Like many her age, they are not yet shrinking from their fondness for fathers.
Quaking, trembling like an open leaf before the winds of inevitability,
in the cold water she was still free from life's complications.

The washer, giver of baths in place of absent mother,
rises, knowing this to be his last giving.
There would be no baptism into experience from his hands,
no long lessons on living.

Turning, tearing himself away, he vainly tried to waken
a still drunk mother in the other room.
He saw the drugs she had taken.

Sotted, hairy and rough was the woman; now aged beyond her years,
dried up, cried plum out of tears.
Unwashed and unkempt she had lost the innocence of her yesterdays
when she too was given one last bath, but then one more, and then one more, and then...

As the father said his goodbyes and turned to leave,
the question was repeated, "Daddy, what is love?" 
With pleading green eyes repeated.

Smooth as silk,
white as milk,
her skin fitting her like a glistening gossamer glove,
transluscent, as if she did not exist except thru love.

How can something so beautiful, a miracle of creation
cause such guilt, such fear and consternation?

He, surprised at the loss of his own innocence, destroyed
by suppleness, by smoothness forever altered, could not now avoid
the sudden loss of mere routine:
the use of baths to get her clean.

The man left, passing by the next challenge asleep in the crib,
to grab the phone, calling Child Services to report abandoned daughters,
those he had hoped to teach their do's and oughter's,
having taught them to put on and take off a bib.

He had arrived at the choice that all non-lying Daddies must consider.

He now knew that he will take the right fork,
the path down which all fathers are expected to take, not dither.

Passing by her again, he was startled to see a woman aborning
behind those haunting green eyes, those knowing green eyes of the morning.

Skin flushing, mind burning
soul yearning,
he trudged away.
A man now truly alone,
a daughter crying,
tugging at his heart,
a mother sighing,
he struggled to depart.

Passing her pale pink knapsack and matching lunch pail,
he went thru the trailer door left open for air,
now banging in the strong breeze out of no-where.
Glancing back one last time,
the wind-risen nipples,
her accusing green eyes
pulled at his will, made him pale.

So like her mother so many years ago,
butt white in the wind,
breasts like derigibles hanging over him.

Hearing the river he realized he was free,
as free as ancient hunters used to be.
A race of liars man had become
but not he anymore, not this one.

Looking inward he stepped out,
moving forward,
not looking backward,
into the morning he ran,
into the rising sun beaming through dying rain.
A rain that washed him and the morning clean,
A bath.

Alone.

But a man...

He'd left her with a look on her face
as if she were taking notes while the Universe dictated.
Her last words, heard now at a distance,
still ringing in his ears, burning in his mind, gnawing at his soul,
"Daddy, so THIS is love? This?"
"Yes, my Darling!  Yes!", he cried back.
He knew then that those grieving green eyes had lost their resistance.
Those haunting, knowing, accusing, pleading, piercing green eyes!

The further he fled, the harder it became, like hitting a wall.
Like trudging thru molasses in winter time, fixated.
He would not heed her Siren's call!

As if he were swimming, sinking, running out of breath,
he stretched for the light above.
At last, he broke thru the surface into innocence.
He saw the shores lined with millions of men while
other millions, lemming-like, leapt off the Cliff of Temptation.

All men fear death,
just as all men must choose a path.
All men fear the end of time,
just as all men must drink this wine.
Each fork's tine,
by design,
is either exciting, gaudy, but earily beautiful;
or, plain and simple.

The path of a carpenter.

Fear, tread not so lightly!
For lack of it had so nearly led to horror.
But petals were still closed,
and innocence retained.

He awoke betwixt two streams,
two worlds, still himself or so it seemed
in sunlight's beams,
reviewing countless springtime themes
looking for the one which redeems.

Some loves are too deep.
Too complete.
Into ones soul and mind and heart
will it creep.

Her memory as sweet as honey from the corner store,
he swims now towards that distant shore.
Her angry green eyes into his back they bore,
a condemnation of his leaving.

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mindbringer, 20 July 2010