A Winter Poem

A Winter Poem

                I stand looking at the small window at the back of the house, a candle yellow hue framed in black. 

I breathe in the freezing air and it feels like the blackness of night as well; the sting of it burning my lungs and bleeding steam as I exhaled. 

You are not there, no one is but I picture you all the same.

                I have to, or go mad in accepting I can’t bring you back.

 I lift my scarf up to cover my face; the faint tenuous fragrance still in the fibres lifts my spirit and closing my eyes I fold into the din and disappear.

                 I have to accept the madness of knowing you have disappeared too. 

They say time heals all wounds but I think it only outruns them.  Time encapsulates the memory so you can only see it as if behind a glass, preserved but no way to get through it.

                I hold my breath and picture you, I have to or it will be like you never existed.

But I see your smile, your soft amber lips and emerald eyes and I so dearly wish I could understand the wordless stories they used to tell me.  I reach out to touch you but I stop myself for if I don’t then it will only remind me you are gone.

I stand looking at the small window at the back of the house and I breathe in the freezing air letting it burn my lungs so I cannot speak.

                I have to or I will go mad with the knowledge I can never say I love you again.

RB).

To Move

To Move

Go forth and bellow for the art of moving men is a simple recipe of blood, fire, metal and stone.  Given no reason at all his seductive mind conjures all the ingredients to produce spontaneous and combustive prejudice against everything in spite of himself.

Whisper into empty shells and let the echo reverberate, sail on the breeze and to the ears of those that have nothing to lose but their passion and so the seed of influence sprouts and feeds their minds and soul for power.

Sit alone with split fingers, molding together reflection and perception into art that transcends time and space to alter tradition and faith with the subtlety of ocean tides.  Cast the net and capture the essence of man’s soul and let eternity either chide the maker or praise his end.

Compassion and hope to heal the dispirited minds and fractured bodies in simple gesture and reassuring tones that teach and multiply efforts ten thousand fold to bleed away sheer existence.

Love yourself unconditionally and in that truth, share it in order that others can understand it and erase barriers hidden by all other senses.  

A Letter to Myself

A Letter to Myself

Forgive me, my friend.  for I do not mean to make you feel sad - melancholy.  And it is with trepidation that I enter into this one sided dialogue but it is important, these things that I must tell you for the summers grow short.
Some things are obvious, like the changing of the seasons, each quarter year unique and yet comfortably familiar.  Almost lulling you into a kind of sublime rhetoric.  It is only wen you look back that you can truly see ahead.
For instance, you will probably type this and save it digitally on the computer.
1's and 0's
Don't fool yourself into thinking it is more real than pen and paper, the paper you leave behind as you are typing. This technology only came into existence in your lifetime, along with cell phones, remote keyless anything, hell TV for that matter. No good sir, nothing you take for granted now even mattered when the only thing that did was just letting you be.
How simple (pause) how simple it is to find the frame of reference in your mind and imagine the innocence and beauty of youth but impossible to find the tongue to speak of it.
Friends come and go along with the changing seasons, scatter like the fallen leaves of Autumn and grey like the mantle of fresh fallen snow.  On and on it goes......melting away into spring.  New generations to replace the last.
You will travel many miles in your life, physically and mentally and always will you have a place to call home but none so grand as the home you make for yourself in your heart.
So be good to  yourself and keep the heart of youth to carry as companion on your journey and always remember to remember.

rb)

The art of life

With monkeys paw I scribe the notes of grandeur and bliss, of hope and dreams on loved ones missed
to each days end I push the barrow filled of stone
up the hill and through the bone
In a hope that a path may one day lead
to ever eternal peace
but for now I struggle onward and bound
by pain and strife and grief.
(rb

A Kind of Homecoming Chapter 5

5

                A single yellow leaf dropped onto Melanie’s lap as she sat sipping coffee and scanning through the virtual pages of her Face book account.  The concept of changing seasons to a Canadian is a simple truth that is as accepted as night and day to everyone else but the hard evidence of that truth, in the form of a falling leaf still evokes a certain melancholy.  Kind of like a torch being passed over; the warm forgiving nights of summer for the golden hues of yellows and oranges and cooler days that is autumn.  From there it is only a matter of time until the long dark nights of winter accumulate as much as they do in a season as in our own selves as the years pass. 

She looked up and watched the leaves shimmer in the warm September air and wondered just how she got to this place.  It was a change of season for her in a sense as she looked back down at the picture on the screen.  It was a picture of her husband Gary dressed in a slick black tuxedo, his hand clasped tight around the hand of his new bride running away from the camera, he was laughing and wearing a smile of long forgotten youth.  She clicked on the arrow taking her to another picture, this one of a beautiful girl in white dress, a shower of rice raining down on her.  It was a beautiful wedding, but with one major flaw, it wasn’t her in the white dress.  During a random search of friends she had simply stumbled through the photo albums of a dozen strangers and while looking at those pictures, friends of friends, she innocently came across a set of wedding pictures taken the previous weekend.  Melanie had stumbled across pictures of her husband getting married to someone else while he was supposed to be on a business trip.  She was lost in thought when the sound of a car pulling up the driveway snapped her back to the here and now.  Melanie closed the lid of the laptop and rushed into the house meeting Gary as he slipped through the patio doors into the kitchen.

“Mother-fucker! When exactly were you going to tell me?  Actually what were you going to say, no wait Fuck it I don’t’ wanna know.

“Mel, it was –“

“Shut up Gary you stupid asshole, just get the fuck out!” A small cup crashed against the wall just past Gary’s head and rained fragments of glass down the back of his shirt.  A second one landed remarkably close prompting Gary to charge forward with full intention of stopping Melanie before she did something he would regret.  He only managed one step before a hand-made ceramic mug landed squarely across the bridge of his nose and a Fourth of July explosion that dropped him to his knees followed.  There was so much blood pouring through his fingers he wasn’t sure if it was just from his nose or from the flap of skin that he could feel at the edge of his left hand fingers.  Stunned from the pain searing across his face and how quickly things had unfolded his initial anger faded.  He realized pretty quickly that Melanie must know everything and there really wasn’t much to say.  He got up, grabbed a handful of paper towels and walked to the kitchen sink flipping on the tap and letting the water get cold.  After he cleaned up he casually picked up a few personal items from the bedroom, a couple CD’s and walked out.  Melanie watched from the living room window as he placed the small bag next to his suitcase that was still packed in the car.  He glanced up as he made his way down the side of the car and opened the door, stepped in and in seconds was driving away.

Melanie was still standing in the same spot, trance like, a look of shock and hurt embedded in her features when there was a knock at the door.  She was going to ignore it when there was a tiny click as the latch slide past the strike plate and the door opened.

“Hello?” came a shy voice.  “I’m so sorry to bother you, my name is Anna and I just moved in next door, well renting a room actually while I’m in school.  This is going to sound horrible and I hate admitting this but I noticed your husband leaving, and well, I kind of heard a little of the yelling.  I’m sorry I didn’t mean too, it’s just that with the windows open and all.” 

“I’m not sure if this is the best time-“

“No, I know I really just wanted to give you this.”  She said pulling out a card and handing it to Melanie.  “Where I come from there aren’t many reasons –“  she stopped, “what I mean to say is that if you need someone to talk to I’m a good listener.” 

Melanie looked down at the card, Mystic Angels – psychic readings by Anna.  “Listen, Anna, I appreciate the compassionate speech, reaching out and all that but I don’t think this is really me.”

“That’s what most people say, until they try it.”

“Well, let me think about it.  In the mean time you wouldn’t happen to have a card of a good lawyer on you?

“Actually, yes I do.  She is amazing, her name is Abbey Parker.  I think she is going through something similar to you only she doesn’t know it yet.

A kind of Homecoming - Chapter 4

4

                As the music faded, the voice of the radio announcer came on and started with the top news story.  Abbey reached over and pressed down on the snooze button.  “A little disaster here, a murder there topped off with a feel good story to help you forget how shitty things are, or should I say fucked up?”  Sunlight was pouring into the room over the bed, the warmth of it felt nice against her bare skin; she threw the covers off to the side and just relaxed. The events of the evening put down to a horrible nightmare, “too much work Abbey, that’s all.” She turned her head to the side and spoke to the empty room, “not enough love either,” she said.

 Her cell phone began vibrating on the side table making her jump out of bed.  Standing there, she could only stare at it, as if it was something new, something to fear.   “That’s ridiculous! Glass and plastic that’s all it is she muttered before leaning over to pick it up, “Hello?”

“Abbey my love, how are you I’m so sorry to hear about you and Francis, but things will get better, you’ll see - just look behind you and you’ll see.”

“Yeah, I mean no, no everything is fine, just a little weird.  Wait, what?  Look behind me, but that’s what the voice said in my dream.”

Abbey felt like she’d stepped into a tunnel and let the phone drop away as she began to fall.  She reached out but found only air and came down hard hitting her head on the edge of the footboard and ended up face down on the floor. 

It could have been seconds, minutes or hours but the room was black when she opened her eyes and uncomfortably hot.  Her body was glistening in sweat and rivulets of water trickled down from the curve of her back as she tried to sit up. The sensation of pins and needles tickled her left arm suggesting at least that it had been more than just a few minutes.  She began to rub her fingers to relieve the sensation looking around as she did.  The question of the oppressive darkness was easily answered by the long heavy drapes that were drawn tight and that the door to the ensuite bath and hall were closed.  The air was dense and humid, triggering a coughing fit that at least kept away a case of claustrophobia. 

Abbey reminded herself that she’d been in the catacombs of Paris and through the Carlsbad caverns in New Mexico.  The memories of that time made her smile and she started feeling a little foolish.  “Francis must have come back and… and what, left me here naked on the floor and closed the drapes?  What the hell is going on?”

The phone started vibrating on the floor and she was back in the tunnel; her mind swirling as all the memories from the night before came crashing in on her like waves.  She tried fighting it off, tried to rationalize it away, “Please, please, please, no!”  Then the buzzing stopped. 

Tears began welling up and there was an overwhelming urge to scream when the phone began buzzing again, the backlight casting an indigo blue light across the floor.  It had fallen beneath the bed, just out of reach from where Abbey sat cross legged on the floor.  She felt around for something to put on in spite of the sauna-esk temperature when she remembered that she had thrown a pile of Francis’ clothes on the floor.  Her hands were shaking as she pulled a shirt on and started fastening the buttons.  The phone clicked on again only this time it began to ring. It was a special ring tone that Abbey had set up for when Francis’ called, a Cold Play song.  The indigo blue light was like a beacon sending a message of hope.  She dropped to her knees and crawled around to the side of the bed, “Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry You don't know how lovely you are-“

As the music played Abbey tried to reach under the bed frame but the phone was farther up than she thought.  “-I had to find you, tell you I need you, “time was running out and she began to feel panicked.  She dropped to her stomach and reached in hitting her hand against a storage box. “Fuck!” the phone was on the other side of one of those long flat rubber maid containers for storing extra clothes or bedding.  She grabbed a corner and pushed it to the side, watching it slide down the length of the bed as the music continued to play. As she turned back to the phone she could see something on the other side of the indigo blue light. It was on the opposite side of the bed but she couldn’t quite make out what it was. “-Tell you I set you apart -“Abbey grabbed the phone and lifted it up on an angle using it like a flashlight.  The soft blue light illuminated the far side of the bed and along the base of the wall. Abbey’s breathing quickened as her heart raced and she fought the feeling of fainting as she lay still, staring at a pair of bare feet, then the call stopped and the song ended and the room was dark once again.

Abbey was almost hyperventilating; her scream came out with each word like its own sentence “What-do- you- want?”

The reply came in the form of another phone call, the same ring tone as before, as the song played Abbey lifted the phone up in front of her but kept facing the floor. The blue light cutting into the darkness and with it the very thing she was too afraid to look for.  Her head felt like it had a weight attached to it and it took all her strength to tilt it backwards.  The bed frame first, then a corner of the down comforter that draped over the mattress came into view; finally there was nothing left between them.  Her eyes saw all the familiar- safe things but in her mind she also saw the feet on the other side of the bed, those horrible ghostly feet.  Her nose was dripping and tears were streaming over her cheeks, she didn’t want to look, the third line was playing now, only one more before the phone would shut off Abbey thought to herself.  She wasn’t prepared for what happened next, what she saw, it couldn’t be.  Abbey was looking at herself standing across the bed dressed in a 19^th century bed robe, torn and dirty, her hair was shorn to bearded stubble.  Shaking she dropped the phone as she rose to standing preparing to run. 

“LOOK BEHIND YOU!”

It felt like someone was shouting right next to her, Abbey cupped her hands over her ears and pulled back tripping on the rug coming down hard on her left elbow.  A loud crack told Abbey that it was broken long before the pain coursed through her body.  The snapping sound was different.  It was more like tearing sound.  Not that Abbey was a Doctor, or had first-hand experience with a lot of trauma but it was no sound she had ever experienced.  There was too much happening, the pain blinding and pushing away everything else.  Just before she blacked out Abbey saw the hole in the floor.  She had stumbled on the rug and somehow uncovered a secret compartment in the floor exposing a stack of letters and pictures.  The drapes burst open and the room was suddenly filled with the brightness of mid day making her squint, the last thing she saw before she passed out was of the apparition disappearing through the window. 

A Kind of Homecoming - Chapter 3

3

                Behind closed eyes Abbey could sense a flickering light and a quick procession of thoughts cascaded over her.  “I should get to bed, geeze I didn’t realize I fell asleep with the TV still on, I wonder what time it is?”  The drug of sleep was set deep and the act of doing anything was a struggle, especially considering the late hour and the fact the sofa provided a cocoon like nest that was both comfortable and comforting.  If only the TV was off she thought, there would be no reason to push out of the blissful slumber.  But the flickering light was nagging and relentless and soon it was an overpowering and a controlling thought that had to be dealt with.  The muscles in her face reacted and a slit of light came into view.  As gradual as warming water the slit increased letting in more light, and the haze of her surroundings expanded and came into focus.  Something was different, something about the quality of the light didn’t feel right, and the usual brightness from the static after the final hour of the broadcast day was usually softer.  It was also inconsistent with the video tape of the fire log playing in its eternal loop, and yet the artificial fire that had soothed her into slumber only hours ago still danced and cascaded light over the floor and walls of the room.  FIRE! The suddenness of the recognition bolted Abbey upright and out of the passive comfort of restfulness that she so desired and needed.  That recognition evaporated like summer heat off a stretch of highway, replaced by wonder and fear. 

The large 52” display that Francis had purchased was gone, along with the entertainment center that stood sentinel on either side.  Her eyes widened unnaturally to the scene that lay before her.  In place of the flat utilitarian shelves that were lined with DVD’s and CD’s was an ornately carved Oak bookcase.  It ran the length of the wall, from floor to ceiling filled with hundreds of books, ledgers and pencil sketches in small wooden frames.  In the center was a massive brick and stone fireplace with a timber mantle and a hearth that extended 2 feet into the room with a fire burning softly within.  Abbey stood with mouth ajar, staring into the fire letting her eyes retrace the unnatural wall and its holdings.  She forced herself to look around the living room and beyond, catching all the changes, some subtle, some not.  Hardwood floors beneath her feet, plaster walls with smaller hand tempered glass windows, no lights in the ceiling, no switches, no thermostat, no microwave, or appliances, gone, it was all gone.  Outside the night seemed to have swallowed all light including the street lamp that had stood as a beacon and usually filled the room as a constant reminder of its presence.  A loud clang and a spray of water shot across the floor making the fire spit as drops from the fallen vase hit the flames.  A small round table lay on its side at Abbey’s feet.   “What the hell - where did that come from?”  Abbey turned and found that the sofa she had been asleep on moments ago was now gone, replaced with a hard looking wingback chair.  Things began to change faster but always away from sight, to the left, right and behind her.  Abbey began spinning in circles trying to keep up; feeling dizzy she stretched out her hand to hold herself upright. 

A loud bang and a rumble carried a vibration along the floor to her from somewhere down the bedroom hall.  From deep in the shadow a pair of red eyes was staring back at her.  Abbey could hear herself screaming but it sounded far away, like it was coming from down the hall with the thing. 

She lifted a candle from the mantle and held it with an outstretched arm, willing the light to go farther into the black.  A shuffling sound started and they eyes moved, whatever it was, was coming to her.  Abbey could feel her pulse quicken and her breathing became shallow but couldn’t move, fear had gripped her as solid as stone where she stood.  As it moved closer, faint images began to take shape as it touched the light from the candle.  Abbeys arm began to shake, the light bouncing across the wall, trying to pull back.

“Who’s there? What do you want, why is this happening?”  Abbey began to cry and had to reach out with her other hand to keep the candle steady.  The shuffling stopped, the shape of the person, thing, was just outside of sight.  “Please, please, don’t hurt me, I don’t want to die!”  Nothing happened for what seemed like an eternity, her tears splash

ed on the floor.

A thick watery voice called out, “Aaaabbeeeey!”

Abbey shrieked and dropped the candle.

“Aaabbeey, look behind you!

Shaking her head, her eyes cast down to the floor, paralyzed with fear, tears were now streaming down her cheeks, and she could feel a hot breath on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and could only wait for something to happen.  The breath grew in strength becoming a constant breeze, then a strong wind buffeting and pushing into Abbey making her feel like she would fall over any second then nothing.

She stood in darkness, afraid to look, until a light music could be heard.  The music slowly got louder and louder.  Abbey opened her eyes and found herself looking up at the familiar ceiling of her bedroom.  The clock radio playing was on and playing a piece by Chopin.