as a freshening teenage boy
just shy of sixteen years
foisted from a battle-scarred home
into this supposed school of highness
he is already in retreat
from vitriolic violence
from love that has gone
from hormonal eruptions
from the Bullies Three
the ostracization of the ostrich
he builds his defences
hands upon hands upon hands
he pushes away, and keeps all
at arm’s length.
On an errand from my town to another
(a lazy man’s errand- don’t you dare schedule me anymore)
I pass by the old weathered sign “Trail Entrance”.
It’s a blue arrow, meant to point north, to the left,
but now decrepit and flaccid in its old age.
Doing a face plant into the dirt,
telling us all to go to hell.
It’s been ten years, maybe longer,
since i took pride in making that steep ascent,
fording streams on stepping stones,
marching up muddy slopes,
finally reaching my destination:
a balding summit called Teapot hill.
It commanded a beautiful view of the countryside, and,
immersed in its quietness, on just the right day,
I could watch the cloud shadows roll across green fields,
gobbling the golden sun.
In the late summer, when these dark ships passed over me on the summit,
I felt a slight chill,
as little vortices of whirlwind seemed to spring up from the earth around me,
dispersing bugs and scattering the ashes of old campfires.
Tempests on the Teapot.
After a time, those black windblown spaceships would disperse,
giving way to green radiance once again.
A one act play that I would give anything to call up at will.
Today is such a day, and I know it, even from the pavement well away.
God, can I make it? (I think)
I surely would like that feeling once again.
That feeling of being soothed, of being comforted, of being spoken to
without words.
Of owning my place in this, a green jewel of the universe.
I stop, and reverse back down the gravel shoulder. Lock up and go, you fool.
It’s mid September. The rains have not been kind this summer,
and so the steep sections of the trail are not so muddy.
And, another kindness- someone has built rudimentary bridges across the streams.
Even with these blessings, I have only half the wind, and take twice the time.
I look nervously at my phone. Plenty of battery, but no signal.
On my own, I stop three times, and then reach the flat top.
Someone has carved an old stump into the form of an armchair, and I sit,
catching breath, head bowed.
There’s a sign, crudely carved.
You Are Here
You Are Here
Welcome Home.
what makes a nightmare for you?
says the man who’s been stunted
’cause his whole life he’s been hunted
what makes a nightmare for you?
when cold comfort is all you can find
all the time you must be wary
and the heavy weight you carry
means the devil’s stalking you not far behind
and you may become entangled and entwined
what has your conscience done for you?
when you care for all your brothers
but they give their love to others
what has your conscience done for you?
when those who seek your confidence are few
and the troubled souls who’ve found you
with their sorry hearts surround you
and the burdens that they carry are so true
your conscience is what marries them to you
what is a man like you to do?
when you’ve been through so much sorrow
and you’re swallowing tomorrow
what is a man like you to do?
your spiritual strife will be undone
and your suffering be ended
and your weary heart be mended
when you call upon the mercy of the one
who knows your soul and cries his tears for you
who knows your soul and cries his tears for you
photo credit to: https://charterforcompassion.org/becoming-compassionate/compassion-accepting-life-as-it-is-without-sorrow-or-emotional-reaction
Aremyfeetofftheground 