After Silence

The faintest warble of the thrush comes from deep in the woods, even before light. The tiniest warp in the cool air, as if the sound was not apart but deep within the cochleae. Before joined by the raucous jay, the trill of the junco, the staccato drill of the chippie, before the cock his strutting wail begins; a reminder of how rare silence is.

-Patricia Thrushart
http://patriciathrushart.com

Upon Watching Someone Set Themselves On Fire

They say that the nervous system 
Takes over so that you run
To escape
Even if you don’t want to,

But you didn’t run.
You casually walked,
Like a toddler who doesn’t
Have full motor control yet,

In a circle, stopping in front of
A roadside table with a plastic cloth,
Turned to face the street
As if you meant to,

Your feet rooted like fiery trunks
While every other joint waved
Like paper in flame, sparking and
Rising, no voices in the vacuum -

Not even the cameraman spoke
As he stepped back but around for
A better astonished, mesmerizing
Shot, transfixed by sheer horror.

Your reason mattered to you,
I know.
But as you melt joint by joint onto the
Concrete sidewalk soundlessly,

All I know is
No reason is reason enough.

-Sabne Raznik
Internationally published poet, Community Theatre actress, award-winning artist with three poetry collections - "Following Hope", "Linger To Look", and "Rabbit Hole". Founded and co-edits AvantAppal(achia) ezine and co-edits North/South Appalachia.

Birthday

It’s my birthday.

I’m swiping dust from my bed with a rag

While “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses”

Spins in the CD player and I sing.

“You know those songs real good, don’t you?”

He smiles from the door, ogling my hourglass frame,

“You’re quite the woman now.”

I know what’s coming,

Feel the paralysis deaden my body, my mind.

The child in me says, as it does every time,

Be docile, be silent, and then he won’t take it all.

We’re on the bed: he starts to kiss me again, to “massage” me.

I swallow the dagger-fear, let it rip me

Open from the inside out, let the physical pain

Of it going down metamorph me into 

Warrior Goddess Rage.

I stand up.

He cowers on the bed like a whipped dog.

“Get out. Get out of my bed. Get out of my room. Never come back.”

“Sure,” he says. “Just don’t tell your mommy.”

I turn the stereo up, let “Acrobat”

Shake the bricks off the house,

Slam the door behind him.

He didn’t touch me again.

Forced a tongue-kiss once more in the kitchen, but mostly

Just found excuses to be nearby 

When he knew I was getting dressed.

I learned to dress in the dark, avoid mirrors – 

They’re not for doing hair and makeup.

They’re for spying out Monster

Who thinks you can’t see it.

That’s how I lived, for a while.

Then my little baby sister started acting strangely.

I knew it would detonate a bomb I couldn’t control,

But I told my mommy.

Now I stand in the war-flattened ruins of all our lives.

Every year on my birthday, 

I try to take myself apart at the cells

And flush each one down the toilet

Where it belongs.

-Sabne Raznik

Internationally published poet, Community Theatre actress, award-winning artist with three poetry collections - "Following Hope", "Linger To Look", and "Rabbit Hole". Founded and co-edits AvantAppal(achia) ezine and co-edits North/South Appalachia.

Waldeinsamkeit

My son believes in Bigfoot

And I’m glad
He has a face for his monster

I hold his hand tightly
In that reassuring way
To keep him from straying
Into the forest
(Where there is no Bigfoot
No Wild Man
No Sasquatch
No earthly creature that wouldn’t be
Terrorized by his scent)
Though I know I could lose him
To the forest
As each sublime discovery
Leads him farther away
Towards the monster he fears
And yearns to love.

At night I see glowing eyes
In the forest
By the light
Of my cell phone screen
I know what is real
And what is not--
But my wide eyes,
My quickening breath,
My beating heart
Know only monsters.

-Jessica Weible

https://thewatershedjournal.org

Static Interference in the Upload

Walk the line

Say nothing

Say something that means

Nothing

Like breath

In dark

River of mist

Refusing to lift

Kissing mountainside

Cool morning

Closure

Walk the line

It wasn’t said

Wasn’t acknowledged 

Carried

It was carried

And covered

Birds rise in clamour

Soundlessly

Walk the line

Until you die

Two dimensional

Black and white sketch

On lined school paper

Composition

Without proofing

Pavement implosion

Twisting deliquescence

Delectable  calculation

Like steam licking

On skin 

Wavering

And whethering

Language limitation

Say anything

But That

Walk the blind

-Sabne Raznik

http://www.facebook.com/sabneraznik

What Cannot Be Spoken Of

"Thank you for. . ." and the words

of the prayer from my father

end, fade there as he stands

across from me right hand

to my left shoulder connecting,

joining the two of us in some

accord that has not, cannot

mean utter agreement

because that's not how it is between

father and son:  there is always

the shadow of Solomon's Sword which

is used from time to time to separate

the dead from the living.

                                      The blessing --

which sometimes turns 

to the curse -- between father and son

cannot be given by the mother;

this is the blessing of the father

and I have received it, have

given it to my sons the words

fading right after "for."

-Byron Hoot

Reflection

Reflection

        6-1-1952 -- 6-1-2019 

 

Now,  I look back on the landmarks

that have brought me to this place,

to this land among the hills of central

Pennsylvania where silence and stillness

and dream have so combined

into a prism through which all go

each person, each feeling, each act

given its own light and fitting in with

the colors of which the heart and soul

have more than seven.

                                    I have, it seems to me,

been following a trail, sign not

overabundant but significant

and showing up where it was needed

and I in limited knowledge

and overwhelming ignorance

had some wild courage inside me

to say, "Yes."  Nothing more,

nothing less                  

                     and so I learned

the only thing I could teach

myself --  to exercise my right

to decide.

                 It could have been otherwise.

The only refusal I have ever practiced

is that which I refuse is not mine  -- 

that is the "No" of "Yes."

Even from early, there in the influence 

of church, of dad's great preaching,

of mom's beautiful singing

of hymns like they were blues of praise,

I refused to be like unto what the church

would have me be though never

refusing scripture with a quiet assurance

from mom and dad there was something

only I could seek, only something that 

could find me:

                       that was not a common love

but the love I grew up in and have

held to as it has held me.

And like love, there is nothing straight

about it, nothing the mind and thought

inherently appreciate yet if held

to they too begin to trust signs

and wonders beyond their own reason.

So at 67 I am here -- father, grandfather,

retired, divorced in a monastery holding 

dreams and desires still leaving

sign for me to follow . . . a monk, a hunter,

a reader, a writer, a lover of all I've been given

and all that yet comes to me

as I go to it reading the signs

that only life can give, those

love notes I keep finding and memorize.

-Byron Hoot

Hometown

Hometown

A Visitation

Prologue

The Summons

I went down home for a viewing

And went farther than the miles

I drove going into remembering

The nearly forgotten but for

The roads and streets and land

I was raised on, in

                                    Forgotten dreams,

Remembered once again,

What could have been

Not turning into anything,

A leaving, unknown to me,

That was an escape from as much

As an escape into,

                                But, of course,

I did not know much of anything then.

I drove to the funeral home.

Limitations of the Measure

The miles I have covered

Are not equal to the distance

I have gone

                   Down, across

The soul and heart

Backtracking years

To say, “I am here!” which is both

True and false

                        The way remembering a place

You’re from can make the past come alive,

Today the shadow of yesterday.

                                                  So I hung on the cross

Of then and now

                              Tomorrow holding both

And looked to find where my heart was,

If my soul had wondered off

Fighting the urge to run which gives

Such power to what’s chasing

To guarantee practically to get caught.

I had come for my friend who had

Died and couldn’t, didn’t want

To forget that

                        Took a deep breath and entered

The funeral home once again.

A Steady Step Does Not Guarantee the Ground

The ground was not solid as I drove

Roads and walked streets I had not

For over twenty years.

                                     The viewing room

Was the same one dad was in

When my sister said, “That’s not

Him!” – of course, the dead are not

Who they have been.

                                 So remembering occurred,

The flow of places bringing up images

The only constant of whom was me.

From childhood to early manhood

I saw what I had not recalled

When almost daily I drove the roads,

Walked the streets of which, now,

I was a visitor.

                       High Street

Had changed like most small cities

Gutted by outlying malls

Except for a few churches,

Bars, boutiques, parking lots,

The library with a sandwich board

Announcing

                 Humanities

                 & Quality

                 Of Life

                 Panel

              March 20

             6 PM –

Then a few remaining stores with family

Names I remembered

                                  Remembering scenes

And feelings I thought long ago

Forgotten

                Now, at least, a shadow of what

Had been remained in me needing

But a visit to resurrect them.

We played rugby together,

Drank beer, sang rugby songs,

And all basked in his presence

That drew everyone in as he spoke

In broken Tonga-English we understood.

So I didn’t stay long, even if I could

Have I would have quietly paid

My respects and been gone

Driving away from my hometown

Once again

                     Not certain if it was

The last time or just an intermission.

Time and Distance Is Never Time and Distance

I have begun to notice how when

I travel I am making a concurrent

Journey back in remembering,

Recalling the nearly forgotten though on

This journey there is no known destination

As what I pass, hold, grasp, let go

Comes and goes as no landmarks or

Mile-markers nor routes appear on

The road I’m on holding only some

Destination of there becoming here upon

Arrival.

              Inside, I see what arises out

Of a casualty that is rarely clear

In a logic tight as any dream.

Longing and desire and regret play

Some haunting melody; I feel some refrain

I cannot recall but recognize

And the sigh escapes my lips as if

Holding the one I love saying, “See you

A little later”, five little words

Fate and Destiny sometimes changes

To a dance I stumble in, the rhythm

Impossible to catch, the words a blur

Of near meaning.

                              So I travel alone

With dreams still lingering for reasons

I don’t know their possibility of that

Transfiguration long gone.

I saw the church packed was once

Again as my father’s funeral service began.

There Are Places Unwelcoming to a Visit

There were some roads I did not drive,

Some places – the homestead – I did not

Visit.

           It was enough to have gone down

To the hometown and the funeral home

And remember

                          What was there for the taking

From the terrain that had and had not

Changed.

            I have found there is no remembering

Without place, a context wherein what once

Was still is.

                    Tell me if it is different

And I will listen but who we’ve been,

Who we are is tied like a Gordian Knot

To where we’ve been, where we are –

Place. . . the first element of remembering:

Place knew us before we knew ourselves.

To travel to a hometown is to travel a distance

Measured only in remembering which has

No measurement at all regarding time

And destination and intensity,

                                                  The lost longings

And desires felt again, perhaps even alive

Never perhaps having been dead.

There were some places ii didn’t go;

I’m almost certain I will make another visit.

But in less than twenty years;

I don’t have that kind of time –

Life goes on until I, you, we go out.

Pretty clear and simple, isn’t it?

So I will go and make the visit.

The Weight and Heft of Dreams

I am dreaming dreams I’ve dreamed

Before.

           The weight and heft of them

Carrying meanings I once knew, have

Forgotten, now wrestle with again

A little more wary, a little more

Willingness not to demand a victory

On my terms more willing to come to

A draw or the defeat by dream

Which is a questionable surrender

As dreams seem to know better

Than I do.

             I mean dreams of decades

Ago that have been pursuing me

Silently until now and my consistent

Reply no longer with surprise, “You’re back.”

There is something that haunts

With the sense that things could have

Been otherwise but for one or two more

Steps taken, some sense that if the past

Cannot be changed the future, however,

Does not have to remain the same.

Still

I am still travelling in the mood

I found upon visiting a funeral

Home where a friend of mine lay

In the same viewing room as my father

And the openings which began unasked

For still crevicing anew in moments unaware

And then the echo of remembering, the heavy

Breathe of longing and desire not likely

To be stilled tightening my chest

As the only remedy for being there,

Perhaps, for not having gone back

To my home before, perhaps

Calling on me to visit again before another

Two decades pass – which I may or may

Not have:  to go back is to go down

Inside where the forgotten resides

And every dream worth its dream

Speaks again.

                     I don’t know what

I am looking for nor any sense of any

Expectation to arrive in any form I

Know.

         So I abide in the revelry

Of a past that did not forget me

Needing only me to turn inwardly,

Cross the river on that bridge saying,

“You’re back finally” not

Saying when I can leave.

Letting Go To Hold

The sense of letting the past slip

By is stronger this morning.

That which holds weakening its grip

Like a wrestler no longer able

To keep a hold that would give

Victory.

                Curious how what is past

Sometimes, somehow reaches up,

Stops time and now slips to then

And then some morning, like this one

With a steady wind, bright sunlight,

The hint of a season’s end, a season’s

Beginning changes the feeling in the air

Around the heart and soul and body

And mind

                  Into an opaque clarity

Slowly becoming more clear as dreams

Past their possibility of fulfillment

Fade, regret sighs though some

Remembrances remain holding for this

That knows no time.

                              I am sipping coffee

Watching the shadow of trees dance upon

The deck, the sun behind the trees

Though not blinding me as I look out

Whisper, “Today” hear the slightest

Echo, “Tomorrow, too.”

,Epilogue

Remembering, Forgetting

It has been ten days since I

Viewed my friend a year

Older than I am in my hometown

Where I was bushwhacked

By remembering what I had not

Recalled for years not having been

There for nearly twenty years.

How strong the lingering presence

Seeing Pat in the same room

Of the funeral home my father

Had been in as I spoke to Pat’s

Wife and children,

                               He in his casket

Looking like a Tonga chief

And then the bifurcated remembering

Began of which I had no control

Of as I drove north into New York,

East to arrive near Boston

A guest in three homes

As if I were a fugitive.

                                   Of course, I was.

Perhaps not more so than when

I stopped in Syracuse a couple

Of hours with a friend who knows

Something of the nature of flight

And how landing is so difficult.

I am five hours from where I Iive.

But now I cast, mostly, the grappling

Hooks of remembering

                                         Which is less

Exhausting than being grappled,

Imbedded by them and their pull against,

Across time as if time loses all meaning

In remembering.

                          It is raining, the sky is grey,

A perfect day for unsought memories

To cast their grappling hooks for me.

I’ll have to pay attention and drive carefully.

-Byron Hoot