The Foretelling - 1. Chapter 1 The Foretelling and Among the Ruins

The Foretelling

Softened snow streams,

like a determined runner’s sweat,

off the heated metal roof

caressed

by the recently reticent sun,

finally allowed to flex its power

It bursts a fiery orange

behind closed eyelids,

delicious D-laden rays

warming the thirsty skin

taut on my upturned face,

hastening the pulse of my blood

Gentle clay chimes wake and play,

tinkling notes next to my ear,

and that same breathy breeze

stirs un-hatted silvered hair

as I listen with fresh vigor

to the cadence of the lively drips

And for one glorious moment in time,

tantalizing that which waits deep within

A hopeful harbinger

wheedling into soul’s white slumber

with insistent sounds

and earth-sprung scents

Foretelling that Spring

has begun its design,

that unfettered life will emerge

and become riotous,

as awakening bees,

like us, welcome new industry

Among the Ruins

I cherish yon windmill on the hill

Resolute in its creaking spin

Once again able to move forward

As long as wind gives a purposeful push

What freed once-silenced blades

long locked against the elements?

Did Mother Nature bestow motion with a burst

so she could hear the music of her breeze?

It matters naught it wears an aura of ruin,

its patinaed tower slight canted,

one blade missing and another askew,

yet stubbornly proclaiming endurance

I can see my like upon that hill,

and can discern my flaws as easily

as those of that forlorn relic

once giving comfort to lives long gone—

Bringing water from the depths

of a stone lined well

barely concealed by rotted planks,

nature-woven weeds, and rusted bolts

But there the similarity differs,

for I did refuse to draw from the depths

of my own constructed well, serving as prison

for once-good memories tainted with pain

The bad ones, those served me better,

holding me firm against vicious battering,

because I was staunch in my belief

it was the right choice for me

Yet my stilled blades continue their protest

For old anger, paused at times like a frozen winter,

isn’t nourishment,

nor does it allow for peace amid any storms

Yes, exposure to the elements

can bring an unsettling, perceived danger,

but my prison walls are failing

because I am tired, and I yearn….

And confusing thoughts of you creep in anyway,

like the first time your hand covered mine

on the drive to the campground

You were driving, and my smile matched yours

And then later, heady months in,

those three, oft repeated words

mouthed silently by you,

easing my concerns across a music-filled loft

“Do you believe in life after love?” echoed,

and you collected and led me

to the thick-planked barn floor

You hated dancing, but you did it for me… for us

“Do you believe in life after love?”

Dear god, how that song defines me!

How fucking ironic it was to become,

to a man broken

And this, this! ... is how it goes for me

Spring turns to winter and back again

in a mere blink as those memories churn

in that soup of rancid sorrow

So much promise

became something wretched

and demeaning… alas… betrayal

yet still… I remember the Art Gallery

And how you had me pose amongst treasures

You told me I was as beautiful—imagine that—

and I believed your words—imagine that!

I always believed you

Until I couldn’t any longer

Because you took away that possibility

and gave me no choice but to retreat,

barely withstanding the gale of your onslaught

While chewing on unfathomable remorse,

I lost myself in a cold world of white

A years-long ‘winter of my discontent’,

alone in a place of rage and pain

Oh, my face played brave, and I functioned,

bent blades and all, mechanisms intact enough to spin,

but those good times had become the enemy,

refuse tossed in the deep to die

Yet, weariness wears as years have bent,

and you can’t abrade my heart anymore,

so I expect those memories can’t either

… if I dare return them to the fold

Like the structure on the hill,

there must be enough balance

for a thing to run unencumbered

I’m canted too, but I wish my blades to whir

While there is still time

I must be all I am

Allow the light, and even some fondness in,

and recall without rancor

The loving feel of your hands

and the murmuring of two hearts—

Yes—destined for breaking—

at least one of them—

But they did beat together for a time,

and I was happy

I shouldn’t keep that buried, right?

For isn’t love, no matter its death, the point?

Yes, mon Cher, there is life after love,

But it’s best we don’t kill what came before

Tendrils of a bitter past

need not choke the breath from us when faced

I can’t… won’t forget the betrayals

or the torture of the aftermath,

but power generates in this old man yet,

enough to forgive myself my follies…

…and reclaim that which has always been mine

Maybe, if you attempt contact again, I will answer….

this time