A Way Home

Paradox got itself involved yet again today. Work seemed to be taking a slightly worrying turn–the man at the edge of the cliff seemed to be getting a signal that he should go over. By the end, it was a story meant to change his mind–actually change his mental state of awareness from a bad, closed-off one to a more expansive and knowing one. He was feeling abandoned by his angel, his guide, at the start; she showed him her hand by the end. Not unusual; we have seen this story play out many times. It still needs to be told, though, because those in need don’t often know where to look. It has to be put in front of them again and again anyway, to get through and stay there: Don’t kill yourself. Don’t do anything to your body you can’t undo. Go through it in vision, if you must, but then stay with the story to the end and find out what you would learn there without doing harm.

Yesterday I read the odd strange interesting thing online. A blog commenter said that ‘everyone’ is doing their own end-life review right now. The review people who have returned from near-death experiences report. They apparently want to get that part over with so they are prepared for the next right away. Curious. I wonder how numerous, and whereabouts, this ‘everyone’ is?

Suicide felt like a hostile being with a stick right behind me, hitting me over and over and demanding that I do it then, that minute. The culture around me told me that it was all in my own mind and that my own thoughts were to blame. It also said I could change those thoughts. This worked so slowly and in such a limited way and meanwhile, it was all getting worse. I decided to fight back actively as if an entity were attacking me. This was all non-physical, of course, using mental imagery. If I felt it become active, I would picture the mouth-end of a huge leech trying to ooze its way through a crack in my window and I used fire and salt to drive it back. I absolutely meant to harm it–if I could have cut off its head and burned it to ashes I would have. Such ‘final’ acts tend to backfire, however. The entity is not ashes, but it is weak, and it knows I have figured out that what it hates most is if I share what I have learned about it and how to survive its presence.

Living beings have a death-drive, a kill-switch for when it’s all gone too far wrong–the teeth are in the throat. Not for survivable challenges. And we’ve all known someone who allows their play to the point that others are held hostage by it. I did not want mine taking over, but there are reasons not gone into yet why poets have such a high suicide rate. And I suspect, with the recent death of my friend, I am going through a new stage of really knowing what I already know. He’s gone, a lot of people are gone, I’m still here. For now. With a will to get more work done. The way will show itself.

The way will show itself Home. The ‘Way’ home. The way ‘Home.’

28 February 2021


All Most Alight

Was she holding your hand at the end of the day

at the edge of a cliff where the road fell away

and the breakers below roared as loud as the storm

in your heart saying cast off your last mortal form–

Then–in drifting toward the next visible sign

so much longing to leave not the whole world behind

only parts that entangle themselves with you know

where the next road is leading and there you won’t go–

Down and down with a will to extinguish the light

that obsessed someone over your shoulder all night

where sleep came as easy as peace to the dead

she lay waiting to greet you her hands on your head

When you let your mind wander it reads you a page

from a marvelous story an earlier age

recorded because it was treasured and true

now who in this nightmarish world reads to you

She’s slipped off the bridle the reins in your hands

hang as slack as your will to explore further lands

this edge and this cliff are the absolute line

but she won’t let you rest till the final design

Shines as clearly before you as light you would leave

all the creatures that litter the branches would grieve

and signal the harder return to the vale

where the will of our world is to further the tale

The life to be telling is this very one

as it happens the Moon crosses over the Sun

and the strange faery light that’s aglow in your eyes

at the foot of the cliff where a dead body lies

There’s a woman whose face was contorted with grief

but is shining by light of a full Moon made chief

among angels the one who is singing this now

to your name carved alive by the light of her brow

Falling silent for further no mere word allows

as the silence reads out all our faery-tree vows

the high-dancing ones gathered to witness our rite–

by the most shining brow are we all most alight.


About J

formal verse poetry and commentary at rainharp.com
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