The Intangible Puppeteer
A poem of a nightmare’s anatomy.
I have come to this precipice time and time again.
Heart, mind, and soul alike,
And so, once more, I peer down
Into the accursed subliminal chasm.
And from its maw, ever so faintly, a lullaby creeps forth.
The mind resists, the soul rages,
And yet inevitability strikes into the heart.
Oblivion itself is contemplated for but a moment,
And yet I must press on.
I know the rocks well.
The crevasses, creases, outcroppings,
Every jagged, threatening edge,
Thrusting outwards to ward against intrusion,
Yet fit perfectly against the palms of my hand.
A feigned welcome, a false pleasure,
Designed only to facilitate the descent below.
And at the bottom I know I shall meet him,
As we have done so many times before.
An impossible man garbed in silky dark,
The Intangible Puppeteer.
The Craftsman
A poem for my father.
Architect, builder, father, shaper, molder.
Those who wait above hear him toil down below,
His whirring machinery impregnated with lofty purpose,
From which crawls forth mind-forged obelisks,
Monuments to his craft, yes, yet imbued with far greater sentimentality,
Derived not merely from its material existence, but much more from recipient’s joy.
Heavy sets his brow into a stance of determination,
for the craftsman labors not for his own glory or gratification,
Forsaken wood and frozen steel,
is warmed by hearth and not by mettle.
When We Emerge
A poem of sadness for yesterday, and the fears of tomorrow.
We dip our toes into the bitter cold;
Of the dark, encroaching tide.
Our innermost oracle telling us to be strong, fearless, bold;
But such is all before we hide.
We meet once more to share a somber goodbye;
For we know not where the next hellos will surge.
We take comfort instead in one shared dream;
Of the day when we emerge.
I read today of a tragedy;
Yesterday, much the same.
A doctor, an artist, a politician all taken by malady;
That we so brazenly thought we could tame.
Time, elastic, yet bent, now lost in the quarantining.
“What day, what month was it, did you say?”
But such things have since lost all meaning;
For we who know only that it is still today.
From the night, reprieve is sought;
Yet it taunts with what it refuses to give.
Terror for when we emerge is all that is brought;
Comfort and peace here do not yet live.
Instead dwells a specter in dreams frequently shown;
Flaunting pallid flesh and a ghostly grin.
Its face bearing a complexion much like my own;
But its eyes are as lively as tin.
I awaken feeling something has shifted;
And similarly find our shared dream broken.
For somewhere in the night we had drifted;
In disagreement over when we can reopen.
Now pestilence owns the streets;
While anger rules the heart.
Lies masquerade as the mind’s treats;
So that unity can be torn apart.
Into the deadly uncertainty do we now submerge;
And a new sobering reality are we forced to explore.
That on that day when we emerge;
We will find far fewer faces than we recognized before.