My Rooftop World

Yellow, sickly horizon

Fading into rain speckled,

Wind swept, gray

The chanting of a distant mosque

My orna flapping in the breeze

A surreal moment of yellow

Then, within minutes, a drab blue-gray

And just as quickly

The clouds are outlined in pink

Firm droplets pound my forehead and chest

The chanting intensifies

As other mosques begin the call to prayer

Crows fly south

Ten, fifty, a hundred?

The breeze lifting them up

Blowing the orna off my shoulder

In the cement cage of the building nextdoor

A bird sings

Just one

So many faces

They say the strangest things

And play soccer in the flooding rain

And sing

And dance

Will I really never see them again?

Will they forgive me

For the many times I let them down?

It’s growing dark

And the rain is more sporadic

I expected violent gusts and downpours

Instead, there is only a wet, gentle breeze

What if the sun refused to shine, what color would the sky be?  Black, the color of nothing, or a translucent sort of emptiness?  The shape of hope turned inside out?  It wasn’t a wish, but there was a plan… a purpose.  You held an unformed future, a hope, and ground it into dust.  A hope for a second chance, a bit of redemption, —gone—leaving only a cold, dark emptiness.  Months of construction on a tower of ideas took only seconds to demolish.  It’s gone, and in the broken ruins I see the year’s mistakes.  The fall around me and my hands hang limp.  If only there was time to put them back together, to do it right.  A sentence, maybe two… that’s all it took.  I see now I don’t get a second chance.

I’m sure life finds a way.  A new hope will spring up.  Perhaps it’s for the best, but I have yet to see the tender sprout among the ashes.

Over a month ago, a friend challenged me to think about why I post certain things.  I don’t think her comment was aimed at me but it still hit home.  My writing?  Yes, it’s dark.  It’s not what I’d write if I was where I should be but that’s the point.  I’m a lump of clay in the process of being molded and it’s a messy process.  I want to be honest about where I am… and at the same time there’s a part of me that wants to say things because the words themselves have a certain power—they create feelings, images, entire worlds.  Is it about being honest or is it about power?  I’m not sure.

The following was written two months ago.  I haven’t written much lately so I guess that’s why I’m posting it now…

“Dark beasts and hideous faces jump out, smacking into the glass.  Jump, turn, run.  The faces follow.  Nowhere to run, they hide in shadows.  The sun is never bright enough.  They bring torture in the moments of silence, when there is discord.  They know, they see, and they laugh.  The hideous faces smirk behind my back.  They know when I blush and when I stutter.  They wait in the silence, ready to fill my head with screaming.  They can’t win.  I know it, they know it, but there’s a difference between winning and doing well.  Sometimes I walk above their heads and they can’t touch me but the moment I slip and fall they’re ready to tear me apart.  Sometimes they have names from the past.  Sometimes they are the faces I see in the mirror.  I run and I’m out of breath.  I can’t do this and yet I go on.  The strength with which I run is not my own.  Why can’t I use it to fight?  Why hide?  I run from friends and enemies.  In the end, both are dangerous.  No, that’s not true.  I don’t run from friends, I just won’t let myself be seen.  I can’t let them in.  They see more and more but not enough.  I hide the darkness and the snarling faces.  They don’t need to see, right?  The monsters chase me around the room.  I run and trip and fall.  The dream is on a never-ending loop.  I don’t know what I say.  Does it even matter?  The monsters come, I run.”

Man

I hold his hand

With both of mine

And coax it open

As two doves guide an eagle

A soft, cool breath

On scarred and calloused skin

His fist, as big as both of mine together,

Yields

He turns away

A shattered blade

Implanted in the palm

In fire and scabs and blood

Take his hand

Hold it down

Grasp the blade

Breathe

I have to pull it out

            Peace looks like wide stretches of rice paddies—bright green beneath a pale blue sky.  Meandering streams slowly flow in from the sea.  A cool breeze, pale clouds broken apart by the wind, wads of fragmented cotton.  Silence.  Only a few voices call in the distance.

            A soft sunset.  Light slowly dims among pastel colors as the golden sun sinks somewhere beneath the clouds.  Catch it, grasp it, imprint it on your heart because the moment will not last.

            I will face the chaos, a biting cold wind from the North and the sting of cuts and bruises.  I keep saying I’m not depressed.  I may not be happy but I’m content.  I have a place, a task, a purpose.

            Rays of light stream from the break in the clouds—golden paths into the sky.  A bird sings, maybe a frog.  I will accept what comes.

            The sun is setting.

River path

Sweep through my fingers

Wash away the past

So that I can fly

Evening breeze

Lift me up in your arms

Hold me, dry my tears

And tell me I’m safe

Free me