Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Interstell​ar traveler caught in wintry mix

The grey sky
portentious, waiting
a sense of always waiting
not anticipatory
not really
more the flatlined relief
that no more catastrophes
can happen for a moment
let alone miracles
my friend writes to me of magic
and I know it is afoot
everywhere and at all times

Yet I am encumbered
by knowledge and
the distance between
my old lover and me, as he
burrows through his tunnel
of pain and suffering
hopeful that the torches will last
the journey
I call upon my light beings
and ask them
to speed my healing to him
as in days of yore

Yore - a word not
much understood
these days
how I stood on
the small platform
between worlds
and held my hands
down toward the sick and wounded
letting the truth and power
and purity - too many words already
for something that has no translation -
sparkle down like stars
upon them

Perhaps I was a conduit
in those early days
of cooperation in
earth's affairs
And now burdened
by memories
I wonder how complicit
my bloodline is
in the later conquest
as Gaia heaves a sigh
I nestle in her bosom
and wait


An Africanist said...

This poem is pure, wintry magic!

Stirling Davenport said...

You always seem to go to the heart of my poems, Matt. Thanks for being such a great reveler. (New meaning for a word also not much used...) :)