An Illuminating Darkness

One man, one moment, a storm, and the intensity of insight.

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Incoming waves thrash an old seawall as, once more, its timbers stand. The howling winds uproot trees, exploding their bodies into the air. Thunder cracks, the sky falls, and strings of light brighten the darkness. The ferocious storm rips the night; and I am incredulous of and at a loss to define, the vestiges, the mysteries of purity, paradox and power. Such magnificence could do less than mystify and although the allure sweeps me away, considerations of another passion intrude. I love my profession; but lately, and unfortunately, it feels less exciting, unimportant, and even undesirable.

What once was, now, decays; and beneath it all, somehow, I must understand. The mighty pool rises, dismantling the seawall; and as its timbers tumble, I am reminded that of all we  are, all we may be, and no matter what defines us, but one force determines human existence; and, it is not man. For, and as shown here, one breath of nature not only escalates, but devastates us; and although sucking her breasts is sweet, we must carefully cling; and ever be wary and respectful of her will. She is Mother.

(I scurry to shelter, the salty air inflating my lungs; and although exhilarated, I am saddened that professionally, I cannot breath. Strangely, by searching the mind I find the heart.)

The intensity of the storm does not diminish hunger; and although, spectrally, the Seagulls are shadows, their squeals resound clearly. One imagines the peril the birds face, as hunger drives them, deeply, into the seas. Tonight: The magnitude of a harsh climate curtseys to the majesty of the Celestials, as everywhere, the stars remain visible. This tender tapestry, this enigma, is almost unimaginable, unthinkable and even unbelievable.

This is Nature’s Stage: (And) a play written by forces greater (much greater) than man and elementally cast by characters whose names, truly, he could never know but applied to them so as to distract him (?) from the one truth he, actually, shares. His quests to understand, and even to help and although gallant, often demonstrate pretentiousness, self aggrandizement, rude awakenings, and sometimes, deceit Yet: Man struggles (he struggles) to persevere: Questions forever answers forever questions…forever…

Before me reign natural, and by some, even questionable events; and while inside me, live surging, conflicting emotions, adjoined by the occasional relishes of rage, I cannot help but wonder.

Honestly: How controlling of natural forces is man; and how forceful is he of him?

Thunder rakes the skies, immersing the canvas with an illuminating darkness; and as I observe the reparations, that is to say, how everything returns to its meaningful place, its natural place, somehow, (somehow?) it all… makes… sense.

Copyright (c) 2017 Delbert H. Rhodes

Gargoyle

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Delbert H. Rhodes

Perched on a mountaintop he waits. Soon, the time comes; he readies for the kill. The ways of human life abandoned long ago; now, he lives in the wild; now, he is wild.

Born to human parents, Jonathan Argo, by the age of two months, was noticeably different. Even as an infant he seemed different; a difference his parents neither cared to recognize nor to admit. Jonathan never received medical attention. His parents believed that the boy would grow out of it; well, he grew into it.

The wooded areas called to him; often, Jonathan ventured there. One day he simply vanished never to be seen again. Before leaving his home, the young child had already acquired a nickname; because of his vertical pupils, large head, claw-like hands, feet fortified with talons; and rather than pinky fingers, two opposing thumbs on each hand, and strange gait, the name “Gargoyle” was given by Jonathan’s Dad.

Gargoyle has lived in the wild for the past six years; he is now nine years old. His body continues to change; and he grows larger and stronger. Spread, his beautiful wings span thirty feet, the folding mechanisms neatly tuck them, Gargoyle ambulates without hindrance. Standing semi-erect the giant is nine feet tall. His stance is slightly bent, otherwise, he towers at ten and one half feet.

Whenever in attack mode, a fluffy silvery mane courses from his forid to the base of his skull. The remainder of Gargoyle’s body is hairless. The creature’s bony structure is a dense but hollow composition. Marrow like material fills the cavities, acting to counter balance weight yet applying density. The bones are stronger than any substance known to man. A miracle at three hundred pounds Gargoyle is invincible.

A marvel to mystery: the wonder is how humans produced such a creature. The question, one day, to be pondered by scientific minds. Gargoyle’s highly developed brain makes him immensely intelligent; his strategies and tactics register to higher degrees than the best of mankind’s Militaries. This beast is a devastating machine of war, a Prince of Power.

Human diseases have no affect and injuries heal instantaneously. Gargoyle has one weakness, sustained periods without——sorry, secret.

Previously, he fed on smaller creatures of the wild. Maturing, Gargoyle (now) seeks larger prey, and especially human prey. His teeth and jaw are designed for biting, holding and ripping; his fangs are long and razor-sharp; the jaw muscles large and powerful. Gargoyle rips through bone like a knife through butter. The grasping ripping curves of the appendages are masterful in creation.

The keenly sharp retractable claws and talons serve as highly effective and efficient weapons: consciously released by Gargoyle’s auto tactic targeting systems and scatter lock visual fields, prey is DBA: Dead Before Arrival. He simply thinks, targets, takes.

The musculature is lean smooth and streamlined; the biomechanics are superbly without flaw. A tiny tail with curve extends from the base of the spine, nothing of this creature is left to chance, in close quarter combat the tail acts as a small spear; but then, he has no rivals. Unequalled at the kill, this newborn is beautiful to behold.

Gargoyle is swift, agile and undetectable. As human eyes react to light, his skin reacts to darkness; hormonal coupling supplied by his blood configures a cloaking mechanism. With exception to reflective shine in his eyes, Gargoyle cannot be heard, he cannot be seen, he cannot be stopped. His senses are superior to every creature; already they revere him; in the wild this Mutant is Master.

The taste of blood is sweet. Perched atop a mountain: it ponders the kill, the time has come; tonight and forever, Gargoyle feeds on human kind, a kind not his.

Surrender to Light

Dyson Sphere

By Delbert H. Rhodes

I wake each morning staring into darkness, and a looming brilliance that at times is harsh and hurtful. How am I to understand that after almost sixty-two years, still, I have learned little, so little?

In my youth, there was laughter; but below the surface of imposing joy, sadness held me. Yes, even in childhood gloom walked with me. “Be positive, believe in you, tomorrow will be better than today.”-Perhaps.

Sometimes, I wonder why sadness finds me. Where are the answers to my many questions? Surely, all of you have better lives than I do. How am I ever to make sense of seemingly nothing? “Oh, come on, man, stop bellyaching; you have more than many.” Okay, still, the questions are worthy of asking and answering.

My life, my world spins on an axis of lulling sorrows, pains, insecurities and borrowed smiles. Sometimes laughter feels strange. Most times, and especially when I am alone, I realize that I may be smiling.

Forgive me, darkness was never my intention; I apologize for sullying your thinking. Still, I know no other way.

The day rushes in upon me, a wealth of sounds fills my ears. Sometimes the filtering light captivates me; the thin sprays of sheeted curtains wavering about the ceiling, walls and floor; the vivid streams become rivers of illumination.

Lying in bed I become breathless of the silhouetting spectra, and I wish that I were light. The quivering forms without human mass; the untouchable tangible spheres floating in thin rays, or, thicker sheets of mystical mesh cause me feelings of incredulity and envy.

These unstained entities, this purity existing without the dread of conception or the fury of pain fear and sadness. Oh, wonderful it must be!

Curiosities are many in my world; I consider things that even to me are strange.

Do you?

Sometimes I look at my hands. They are my Mother’s hands. My eyes, teeth, hair, all of me are mostly my Mother. Knowing this joyfully elevates me.

Often I wonder: If a photo, television or other displayed my faceless body parts could I identify them. Staring into a mirror, I sometimes desire that someone else stares back. Is this self-hate or a strange type of love; the need to be different, to purge and redistribute my DNA-Is this negative, imaginative or dread.

Of the many things that I can do, there are many more that I cannot. Of the many things that I understand, more things confuse me. Of the many things that I value, others are of little worth.

Strange: Mathematically, I am learning and demonstrate  basic calculations of Scientific Notation, Probability and Complex Fractions, while mingling with Monomials, Polynomials, Algebraic Fractions, Inequalities and Absolute Value; and energetically, learning continues without falter; yet psycho-emotionally the mind wearies of worry.

Query: What are the actual derivatives of the tangible and intangible regarding human tears versus human feelings? Truly, could we ever know? Skeptically, does it matter?

In morning’s wake, my thoughts and fears embrace me. Throughout the room and before me bright shadows dance to inaudible music, and it is as though the bedroom has morphed becoming sinister a dark carousel. Shortly, I spirit to the places of Witches while whirling to the whimsies of Court Jesters.

Soon I am home: and wittingly surrender to light: its reflective ribbons higher towers of consciousness.

Copyright © 2013 Delbert H. Rhodes

The Wonder of It

English: Electron microscope image of sperm.

By Delbert H. Rhodes

My eyes open, it is something after four in the morning; somehow, I feel the bathroom listening to my stirs, and mentally I call out, “I will be there soon.” The radio’s voice  pours into my ears, it is too loud; it is strange how the volume operates independently of my preset levels. I must reduce the volume, though my desire to remain still makes turning in bed difficult.

Quietly, the soothing tones of classical melodies drift me away. I love and enjoy listening to delicate musical manuscripts, and this I could do all day. Even so waking instills responsibilities, thus, the day begins and it matters not of the time.

The constant ringing in my ears disturbs the pleasantry of the music; I wish that I could rid the noise in my head. For many years this malady has held me. In my youth, I sought a specialist for help, and he said, “Maybe we will take something out.” After my second visit to his office, the specialist left for vacation.

I wonder about people whom listen to loud audio; what occurs inside their brains? Whatever it is, doubtless, it is different from my own. Strange, people who prefer LOUD seem to act without consideration of loss of hearing, and by ignoring other people.

I am happy to note that some people actually learn. While sitting outside in his vehicle, a young man awaited my neighbor. The man’s car radio volume was extremely loud. Fanciful as it may seem, the noise could have interrupted orbiting stars. Simultaneously, my neighbor, and her Mom walked outside and  quickly, Mom indicated displeasure to the loud noise. Immediately, the person turned the volume down. Now, each time he returns to the property, his music cannot be heard.

Some people fail to learn. About two weeks ago, the neighbor in the house next door, that house is also owned by my property owner, played his music even louder than did the previous person. Taking out the garbage, I strolled over to see whether the music came from indoors, or outdoors. While cleaning his cars, the neighbor wore earplugs while listening to his very loud music. Are You Kidding!

That is correct; he protected is ears from his severely disturbing music, while the melodies pelted and melted  the neighborhood and me. After a brief encounter, the person immediately turned the volume down. Well, within less than one week, it was…I’M BACK! Would it be disrespectful of me to pray for a HAUNTING!

The morning sky is dark; the forecast is rain and snow; maybe the snow would find somewhere else to fall. A pleasurable thought. I am not a winter activist; therefore, for what needs have I of snow, or winter. Already, the city feels the impending storm; heavy rain falls on the stonework of NYC and Long Island.

Outside: the wind howls loudly; seemingly, its ferocity swells inside my bedroom. Rhythmically, water-logged trees and vegetation flex swashing back and forth. What must life be as a plant, a tree, a flower, and anything subject to nature’s wrath? Unlike trees and other vegetation, most-times man demonstrates capabilities to protect himself from inclement weather. Romantically speaking, the dichotomies in nature may be similar to those of (some) women, they are beautiful, but at times caustic.

A neighbor’s dog barks; lately it seems to crave attention. Alternatively, perhaps it sees a rabbit or squirrel scampering about. Often, barking dogs are alerting to intruders; but many times, barking minimizes and negates the focus of intended alerts. Here, unwanted and intrusive barking has zero affects against possible intrusions. Owners quickly quiet their pets; frustrated neighbors disdain the unwanted noises, and especially during hours of sleep.

Remember: dogs are protectors, not playthings, and deserve all provisions of dignity. All too often, and unfortunately, plaything is the order of the day; as a result, properties could fall prey to predation.

My feathered friends add voice to the day; mornings are never the same without the trill of birdsong. Occasionally, I have the pleasure of enjoying the songs of Nightbirds. Dearly, I love birdsong, for if I did not, then surely, other unwanted insufferable noises (would) intrude upon my world. Fortunately, this is not the case.

Last night on the News, I learned that Valerie Harper, AKA, Rhoda, has brain cancer. Why is it that some people inherently borne certain diseases, while others do not? High blood pressure and Diabetes populate my family. Most, if not all, of my mother’s paternal line, (the old ones) have perished because of Diabetes, or some form of cancer.

My Mom and I suffer with high blood pressure, albeit neither her children nor she suffers with Diabetes. Well, no one lives forever; the great misfortune is, and for some, ‘forever’ is a short-term.

The bedside lamp has an interesting configuration; it appears as a sperm cell. The head of the lamp imitates the head of a sperm cell. The lamp’s body is thin and long, similar to that of a sperm cell’s tail. One cannot help, but wonder whether suggestive shapes overrun the minds of crafters. Bottles of perfumes and colognes are curvaceous, sensual, and pleasing to the eyes. Previously observed is one company whose name commingles letters colloquially to misspell the act of making love.

Somehow, absent are considerations of impropriety whenever concerning some products. Are not children and minors moving about in the public, and do they never view T.V. or videos? Whose responsibility is it; I wonder, to protect children and minors from influences, which fall into the void of IMPROPER, the commercial industry, stores, or parents?

Some products clearly are sexual in design, or use sex as the primary tool of selling. Cars, furniture, perfumes, colognes, exercise equipment, name it, and probably, sexual innuendos or directed sexual interfaces share and sell the products. Victoria’s Secret certainly is highly marketed; do children and minors see those commercials? What is ‘your’ answer?

With and without parental peeping could the Internet and technologies including television, videos, and music render children and minors less innocent? I Wonder.

About four years ago, a long-term ex-girlfriend, regarding a Post I made to a social network, publicly attacked me. The Post was an excerpt from a short story of mine, whose main character, a female, is a pole dancer. In the script, the dancer describes her first time dance experiences in detail. The language though not acutely graphic, is suggestive.

The ex-girlfriend indicated that her “girls” had received the Post, and this fact disturbed her. I responded by requesting the “girls” to remove me from their “Friend” list. This, the ex-girlfriend also complained about; she did not desire that I disconnect from her granddaughters. Well, eventually, I disconnected from the ex-girlfriend, permanently.

Now here is the skinny: I sent my Post only to individuals in my “Friend” list, and none was underage. My ex-girlfriend’s granddaughters, underage, were NOT in my “Friend” list, and I was not in theirs. Therefore, and though the EX accused me of “Sending” the Post to her “girls,” it was not I who sent the girls the Post, but my EX and her daughter, the girls’ mother.

Configuring the Page Preferences of my EX, her daughter, or anyone else whom might have had the “girls” in their “Friend” list, was not my responsibility. Apparently, and these assertions I gained while communicating with the ex-girlfriend, the EX was not well versed in the mechanics of controlling her page, and it was not my duty to inform her.

We must ever be mindful of not only the things that disturb us, or cause us rage; but of the facts surrounding our disturbances. Misdirected accusations and blame serve to only diminish the assertions they raise.

Staring out the window I am mindful of beauty, and though the day is bleak, overcast, and dreary it is no less beautiful. I think of the many things that afford me pleasures, and feel thankful for my blessings. Life is ever wonderful and it is ours for just a moment; the moment is as beautiful as we make it.

Beneath the umbrella of repetition, each morning my day begins the same, or so it seems; and I know at least one person who (fervently) complains of repetition, as witnessed in other people. Is any human afforded life or lifestyle without the syndrome? I say NO.

In my opinion, repetitiveness naturally occurs in human behaviors. We hear it speech, and observe it in the things we do as individuals or in groups and like it or not verbally iterations “reiterate.” Of course, if our speech or behaviors are too overt, then we suffer labels and then sometimes end in “A Better Place”; however, this place may not be better…indeed.

The rituals to which I commit each day relax me; they make me happy. Naturally, I commit only to things I like; the wonder of it is why I disfavor certain commitments. Answer: Seemingly, something occurred at my birth. (I must think more about this.)

Snow litters the morning sky; and since first observing them, the falling flakes increased in volume. Yes, I absolutely have zero needs of the stuff, yet if snow is pristine then it is lovely, and I enjoy its presence.

Today, I watch as snow whitens the world. Tomorrow, I prefer to see not one “floating flake.”

Copyright © 2013-2014 Delbert H. Rhodes

Maria: A Living Mystery

English: Apple orchards in Kolomenskoye (Mosco...

By Delbert H. Rhodes

Many are the years since first he saw her. He recalls the day well: sunny with a mild breeze sweetly kissing the treetops. The orchards were fresh with the scent of apples and the tree limbs hung lowly from the weight they bore.
Suddenly a most beautiful vision flirted with his eyes, the woman was lovely and he immediately hungered for her. She stood a few yards away but (that moment) yards might have been miles; vast and arduous would have been the traverse; a small thing to ask of love, and he loved her.Yes, he loved her, and though her voice remained absent from him, all she represented ravaged him. As would the fetus clinging to its caring, protecting and loving mother, the woman swelled inside him.

The years too are now tired, yet the man is bliss with his feelings, passionately kissed by his thoughts, still, taunted by his mind. Maria is her name. No, during his youth he never heard it, none ever told it to him, her (true) name, and never did he ask.

During his childhood, and since, he has sweetly held a loving relationship with the Mother, the Virgin Mother. Many were the times he sat in Church and watched her. A life in stone but special to him; she fascinated the boy. Hers was the face of an Angel, and young though he was, he loved her.

This love was of a different type and though special it was not his love for Maria. The similarities rested only in namesake and sweetness. The Mother is Celestial, his love for her is holy. Maria lives here, his love for her is human.

Now here today he lies dying: and as the unknown claims his life, surrounding him is her living memory.

Maria, the woman he has never held; the woman he has never kissed.

Yes, the pangs of love are mysterious, yet, none more mysterious than she. Many are the years since his speech left him; still, without a living voice he retraces his youth, and the aching days and nights for her.

(Standing beside the old man’s bed, silently, Maria, too, recalls the days. Oh…lovely were the days…)

As his beautiful blue eyes grow dim tears brighten hers. She knew of this man’s great love for her, and felt the sweet joy of him (all) around her-all over her. Yet would never surrender to him. Never once did she acknowledge his feelings.

Then, was another day and time; and she was a different woman; perhaps, too self-involved, or, blinded; or, could it have been a girlish foolishness, or, female pride? Whatever the answers, no matter the reasons: “now” she is here and with him. Together the two share his final moments; together and at last, they are one.

(From a distant radio, a most wonderful song)

Slowly and while smiling, the old man closes his eyes. Maria’s lovely hand against his heart, he leaves this life. Now, and without him and inside the “Ave Maria,” tenderly, she cries.

Copyright 2012 Delbert H. Rhodes