Lyrical Light

The Mother to hurt, she sings old but enchanting melodies; and as I sit listening, her voice, the sounds of lyrical light, spin, illuminating a mystery of webs. To her every thrill, I surrender; to the rise and fall of nuances, I tremble. Where ends the nervous tide rushing the stream? The preponderance of waters slipping over the falls? Only she comprehends sweetness in darkened light, the tenacious tenderness that is her fingertips.

The woman’s ardent simplicity allures me. She is the flower, the stormy skies, the steamy rains. This ageless beauty whose delicate lines characterize her face. A timelessness without void. The degree of everything assuring one thing, one thing-but take care, the illusion of midnight…did you feel it?

Strangely, such simplicity conjures critical thinking; questions better left to higher intelligence. As such, I could father neither psychological nor emotional critiques as to (even) begin conversations of worth. Yet, here, I sit as she bends and shapes me, molds me, reconstructs this dinosaur into something It could never be, something It would never become. She is Mastress to metamorphoses, Mother to the moment, and this moment and as her creation, I am:

RAWDATA

The moments lapse, while next to me you sleep.
Outside, rains feed the starving skies and foliages.
Outcomes, matters of choice or chance? I am better
served by forgetfulness but submit to memories.

Lying here, the terms, like water, flow into my mind.
Oxymorons, palindromes, portmanteau. Willingly,
we don pretentious masks, caring to believe that
without them, we are forgiving, honest, truthful.

Did I ask of you; and did you offer, memory fails me;
for, forever, it seems that loyalty and even support are
not the obligations of crutches. What brand of repulsion
ravishes raindrops; and then makes them cry;
and is it not sad?

Unlike non-negative roots, our radical emotions
negate; degrees of despair whirling wildly, soaring to
fourths, fifths, higher. And then acquiring the nth
degree, we violate critical thinking.

Borne by unknowns, we are rawdata, variables, pieces
adorning Chess Boards; our end games subject to the
Heavens and Hades.

The mirror reconfigures our appearances. Our reflections
regard us deceitfully. Anatomically, and inside the brilliant
womb, we experience metamorphoses, we mutate. Nevertheless,
the bending of our forms fails the bending of our lives.

Healing is relative and time heals, sometimes. Recovery,
distant; discovery: daunting. Like honeybees, sorrowful
tears lure us; they sweeten our lives, they are our lives.

Inside the Cosmos, colloids randomly connect, and
during which, esteemed questions of life arise, choices
are never chances, but and apparently, the answers are
non-sensical.

Shortly, the rains pause and then the clouds illuminate;
Science and the Heavens entice me, I am content and at
ease; and then effortlessly; and, almost as if consciously,
susurrating winds disperse the clouds, exposing lost dreams.

Breathlessly, I cannot help but wonder, which of them are
yours, mine…

…Every one.

Copyright (c) 2015 Delbert H. Rhodes

I Love You (So Much More)

sadness

The marriage has suffered years of hurt pain and sorrow. A couple has lost its smiles laughter and hope. Sometimes hope is the burden of a dream…

“…Every time I see myself
Walking out the door

I look back and then return
I love you so much more

Who decides what is right
Alas, forever wrong

Emotional waves pounding rocks
Our currents much too strong

Your eyes speciously impose
Deeply, I love you dear
A twisted maze of terrible lies

Still, I am standing here

Many times I gave you love
Somehow, it failed to reach you

Summon I would an ancient Scribe

For only he could teach you

This heart pierced by thorns
My pains you never feel

A pretentious cross we bear

This lie we live is real

For you I give my life
Could you ever ask

Your eyes open slowly

You close your eyes too fast

Within the misty nights
Sullen stars stream by

A mesh of tearful tapestry
Inside it shadows cry….”

Copyright © 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