Residual | Part 6

residual | part 6

roots like veins

dyingleaves

Roots like veins:
How gently they reach first;
Then, not at all.
Suddenly they’re shoots that call
Unto the soil, the earth’s
Very core.

So doggedly
Will not dissolve
Until you know what
They have done so for.

I know this rhythm
All too well:
Overplayed song
I’ve listened to too long.

My garden was
A mess, my friend.
I woke up in July,
Realized all the green had died off;
Every vine, gone dry,

And
All those roots, so much like veins,
Were fallow.
I knelt and wept, because
Not one had a tomorrow, and
I had nothing else left.
Was hollow; so bereft.

But when the sun
Had crested, and
The sweat smothered my skin,
Ruthless, I ransacked it all—
Reckless, I could begin

To unravel and to reckon and to unroot
Every tree,
Those parchment-thin remnants of
All that could never be.

Every page has filled up and
I repeat the words now.
Because I have met my shadow, because
I know now
That I was once the grasshopper, sleeping
Beneath the song
Of what seemed to be rifer days.
But that exoskeleton’s gone.
Now it is the crusted-over chaff left
For the birds.
And I’m starting over with these seeds;
All I have are my words.

*

More gardens. More roots. More of that old life cycle—sprouting growth, fading death, rebirth. Maybe it is the most obvious of metaphors but it works for me.

It’s one that my porch reflects well. Every spring since moving here I have planted literal seeds there in pickle buckets and aluminum bins: cauliflower, carrots, calendula, cherry tomatoes. Every year, they’ve started to get their roots beneath them before the heat and humidity or lack of space or shuddering shadows get to them.

When it comes to the more figurative seeds, it seems to be the same situation. Highly temporal, slow to get going, fading fast.

Perhaps it’s a lack of the right timing. Perhaps it’s not the proper environment or soil. Perhaps they need fertilizer, or compost, or some kind of herbal medicine.

Or perhaps I don’t really know what I’m doing.

But what I am finally starting to integrate is this: the act and the art of trying, those are the important parts. Process over product. That is wherein lies the beauty.

A simple lesson, to be sure, but maybe one to learn anew each morning.

*

Residual | Part 5

residual | part 5

What if I were smiling, and running into your arms?
Would you see then what I see now?

We wait for so much beneath the embrace of fluorescent lights—
Lingering is a natural state of things.
It pushes us towards entropy, that slow-consuming enemy;
It eats at order we desire, and renders patience faint.

How can we take in truth with slumbering eyes,
As if we’re in the cool of a coma?
Dreams try to tell us we still do, but
There’s still the clinging feeling, is there not, that someone’s forgotten you?

How can we go on waiting?
We have rooms for such things.
If there were a cavernous one for us all, well,
Those walls would be heavy with song, with sadness.
For waiting to give life, or to receive it;
To leave, or to return home;
To change, or to see change;
To find someone, or to lose him.

If this story has a moral, perhaps it’s this:
Our names are not our lives,Nor are they graven with any chisel, safe as that would seem.

Yet why should not the opposite be comfort?
Why not tend another’s garden just to see the bloom?
Why sleep curled, fetal, on the floor in yet another empty room?

While our veins are yet undrained of second chances,
Let us be not timid—bravery comes in quiet ways.

Waiting is not wrong—perhaps purgatory is
Like paradise—

And it ends, eventually, and all things are made new.

*

I have little to say about this one. But I do believe that, eventually, all things are made new, no matter how blighted or seemingly depleted. Sometimes it simply requires waiting—patience—to get that full abundant result. That new breath of life. That grace-filled renewal that is real.

*

title drawn from Into the Wild (film version)

Residual | Part 3

residual | part 3

And how does one truly Stay True

(feat. slightly echoic audio right here)

 

and how does one truly Stay True?
as if it were something to simply Go Do—
or, were it not, perhaps it could relate
to that letting the presence of
Innermost You
radiate.

perhaps it is simple as
listening to
the whisper or trill of the pulse that is
something that’s
someone; that’s
You—
all of that which rises
like vapor, like steam,
approaches like a steady friend, saying

And If You Believe You Can
Then You Will Begin Again.

and again and again until
there’s some new bloom,
that you swear to keep alive within
that solemn room
that is your heart.

and never again let it depart.
because

you have an explosion in you, too.
i hope you know.
there are colors that flow,
and enervate,
and energize,
and procreate;
do realize
how palindromes and postulates and poetry
and, at times, pain,
all frolic and gambol and twirl and surge
from those quietest crevices in your
Beautiful Brain.

don’t be afraid—
because its light
circles          around        again.

the outside world is stillbeckoning
still hungry for you to Be There
even in the face of this reckoning
even when you are unaware.

so
take that pain from in your veins and
let it go from you.
take the story from your core and
let it free you all the more,
to speak its piece
and let it flow
and be your peace
until you know
that this is that realest fullest breath of
real              release.

*

 

morning

Who are you really?
Tend to her. Take him out to where he longs to be.
Or, be still and simply be with that truest you.

Isn’t that what the world needs?
Isn’t that what you need?

*

Residual | Part 2

residual | part 2

He could not fathom it:

gardenview

In his garden he spent each day
With the moon at his feet, and
There he sang to the wolves as they
Prowled and preened around the trees
And they howled. Echoed, empty. Lonely
He stood steady with the pines and
Howled –

As if to ask God for something
Heavy and whole as a
Brick in the belly.

In his eyes the flurries fell,
Little crystal daggers,
Inconsequential flecks.

Under heaven he stood still
And his hair turned slate.

*

sky blue sky

Sometimes you see a space and it tells a story. Gardens in particular do this for me: they prompt thoughts of growth, yes, but also of the cycle of death-life-renewal, and of melting into a more natural environment.

And sometimes that environment reflects you in ways that are more painful than productive. And sometimes you realize the seeds you planted didn’t sprout — or that you forgot to place them in the earth in the first place. And from that, sometimes you learn, but then, maybe you also yearn.

*

Residual

residual | a brief introduction

residual2

phantom limbs, and echoes,
and shadows cast — these are the past.                       and can they last?

perhaps,
when left unseen.

but what if, instead,
yesterday’s a handprint?
not quite a palm, no, but
its same design.

would you understand then that
those ghosts were residual,

always meant to be acknowledged, then left behind?


The next poem set is called Residual. The heart of it being those awesomely convicting words of Carl Jung’s:

Until you make the unconscious conscious, you will continue to subscribe to it and call it fate.

And maybe also Cat Power‘s … that is,

the doctor said I was not my past / he said I was truly free

… so! let’s see!

*

Residual: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6