resistance | Taps and Ratamacues

Sitting down at a cliff, my feet bare and dangling-

I stare at a horizon that’s confounding and mangling.

Where one should see glistening sunlight and all,

an iciness glooms in the form of a squall.

A hollering wind blew down from fell shadows

stealing the Good from the ones who bestow

kindness to strangers, as said by St. Paul-

unusual – I wonder to the face of a squall.

This kindness flies over and under and through

and cuts into natures of hate – like a coup.

Something that causes precipitous grace

blanketing iciness over in glace.

I sit on the cliff, my feet cold and misused –

while my dangling thoughts, now bright and suffused

cover a page that is much less embrangled.

I put on my shoes and go forth to the mangled.

And as we are shuffling, waiting in line

birds sit and watch from evergreen branches.

The mystery rises, twisting, revealing our faces

tired from the digging with tools of our making

just to stand in the queue, biding our time.

Even on holiday, following the line

for small worlds, or out of this universe thrills,

the heat from the pavement blows into the shade

and we await our turn at willful escaping.

Something has bound us in place in this time.

Staving a cadence with melody lines;

whistling a tune with hopes of inception,

I choose the notes that fall out on the page.

Writing as though I have skill for creating

a world that exists for our meeting in time.

But now in a bulwark, some hold the line

awaiting a plane of a choice, to unfold.

Dots creep and crawl from out of the trenches

enveloping ones who can’t hear the ground breaking

and those who are wicked die time after time.

Taps and Ratamacues