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.

Ten O’Clock

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Delbert H. Rhodes

Years later, the memories hang on but why? Yesterday is gone and suffrage is a benefit to no one; and yet no matter how she tries her ex’s memory haunts her, permits her little peace. An American woman whose Dutch parents emigrated Nederland to immigrate America, Story Vanderbloren was conceived in Amsterdam and born in Minnesota. Raised and cherished by a loving family, after high school she leaves to study Archeology; and it is soon after completing her P. H. D. that someone special enters her life.

At the age of twelve and while talking with Mommy, the girl asks about her first name and why she has it. “The tale of your conception, and delivery and love that you brought to us is a wonderfully, glorious story; and so, your Dad and I agreed that no other name could suit you.”

Tall, blond, blue, and curvy and intelligently beautiful, Story has traded French Fries for Fish and Chips. Her life, and new profession are better, much better and she prefers positive to negative distractions.

Time, and terms must meet the mind and hers struggles for clarity, to think clearly about things that matter most, that matter now.

London Towne is lovely and especially at night, the lights, the shoppes, Libraries, the Trem, the people and glory of the new world surrounding her. I digress: The “Trem” (silent e, long m: pronounced trm) is the local high-speed monorail, it is an excellent and wonderful ride.

Of the resources available in the city, its Libraries contain ancestral files, these halls of antiquity are some of the finest in the world, invaluable to her research.

Today Story walks the sidewalk in Belcher Street and then something wonderful meets her, rounding the corner to Tolstoy it occurs that the smells come from Le Patisserie, a shoppe two stores away. In America, “Le Patisserie” would be The Bakery. Entering, she sees not only beauty but something sweetly agonizing.

Unbelievably well organized, the cakes, pastries, cookies and other delicacies appear to await the photographer rather than customer. “I Love this place!” She visits no less than once weekly.

Oh, my, and Story simply adores her new life, except for one small thing…memories. If she could remove only a portion of them then everything would be happier. Although never easy she perseveres, surrender to the toils of yesterday is not optional.

“Sto-V,” the nickname given to her by her colleagues, is a Research Writer and she works diligently to uncover facts, truths to prove her premises. Sometimes she disproves them and this too is okay, a foot in the right direction. Disproof proves something, a person of critical thinking works either way, both are beneficial, worthy.

She loves it whenever waking to new questions. Life is strange, often placing answers before us that either incomprehensibly or, sensibly, we fail to recognize and may even refuse to acknowledge.

Yes, but since Story’s youth she has been a dreamer and the truth in dreams is less fuzzy than people make it; a superb analogy, she thinks, is the innocence of children which acts expansively, making anything, everything possible. As such, unlearning adult fears, permitting the mind to freely think, she believes, provides greater opportunities in life.

Opportunity: Story’s middle name.

As a researcher she is deeply busied by events of humankind, she has developed a premise that though not popular may one day prove man’s existence. No, not actually his place here but the reason he is here. Story believes that it has less to do with either the egg or the chicken and more to do with the bearer, the creator of them. She must somehow make sense of it. She will make sense of it.

This woman strongly feels reason to be both parent, and plan of humankind and whether Celestial, Natural, or, neither, she struggles to find the clues, the pathways leading to proof. Thirty four-years old and after five years of research, she uncovers only uncertainties; definitive evidence eludes her. Still, she persists and to the end would not falter. Either Story proves or disproves her theory, a dedicated Scientist, she tirelessly works long hours and so far, without rewards. “One day.”

Reason.

The word flutters about her head like a lacy butterfly with little care. Tomorrow a business meeting about Policy and then Story attends the Theater, she sits front row center stage. “Les Miserable,” her favorite play is in town and she simply must see it; “Front Row Center Stage, Exciting!”

In many ways, her life resembles the theme and as the tale unfolds, like a looking-glass much of Story’s life unveils. She realizes that this too must be dealt, it has to one day (all) end. How the end plays out is the question and one the woman, right now, cares to ignore. Somehow, and even this moment, Darren speaks to her and as much as she should not, she listens…

“I told you, it wasn’t like that,” Darren stammers, staring out the window.

“You are lying!” Story stabs the air with her finger, trying to see his eyes. “And witnesses tell me that you and your girlfriend were there at ten o’clock. They are credible, I trust them, they saw you and I believe them!”

“Ten o’clock?” He says, looking directly at her. “I don’t know about witnesses but ten o’clock has always been ‘my’ witness. I was not there, I love ‘you!'”

He just kept repeating it over and over again but what exactly did he mean, what does “it” mean? “Ten O’Clock?” Of the many things said that last night the time frame lingers in her mind, she is oblivious to its meaning and is without useable clues to make sense of it. Surely, if truly she wanted to she could find the evidence: the missing pieces to the puzzle; but, is the responsibility hers?

“As far as I am concerned, those words, like time on a clock, have freed me of abuse; and true, he neither hit, pushed nor physically injured me but daily reduced me mentally and emotionally. The scars, though invisible, are more devastating and destructive than any black eye or, broken jaw. I am ‘free!'”

Story loves her new life and refuses to surrender it; and admittedly, Darren and she should have ended years ago but love strangely partners with reason.

Reason, the term strongly affects her and she knows that it plays, in large parts, a very important role in her life. Darren at one time was her life and without him she sometimes feels lonely. Loneliness has a way of prevailing truth and like a catapult propels Story forward. Now, here in wonderful London Towne Happiness and She stroll hand in hand; a ringless marriage to her work and life.

Once more and as usual dreaming offers more pieces to the puzzle; and waking, Story smiles. She stretches as the feelings in her dream embrace her with clarity. Lazily, she slumps into the bathroom for a Lady’s Moment and then to the Kitchen for some Chocolate Tea, “Chocotea,” she calls it. Blended with Cocoa and any Tea of choice, she favors Green Tea, her concoction is refreshing, tasty and medicinally healthy. Cocoa is a good thing.

As her dream and the phrase “A Loving Plot” touch her, Story permits a childlike innocence to control her; for, “Puty,” her laptop, seems to ask that she pen the dream, now, before its memories leave her. “Ok, ‘Ok,’ I’m coming.” Careful not to spill her Chocotea, slowly, Story crosses to her desk. Moments later, done, she has written something new and powerful. A wonderful addition to her poem book.

Filled with feelings and honesty, the poem exemplifies the lady’s suffrage; and understandably, truly, she admonishes and  admires it. Actually, why would Story not love it, for, from her heart, and inside every verse is her freedom and her life.

…..

A Loving Plot

You think I love you
Please tell me why
Should I think of you
Better to cry

Challenge I must
The surging seas
The damning rock slides
Inside your knees

Scale I the towers
The tallest skies
Or smallest flowers
Your floral eyes

Want that I want you
Your tender kiss
A bee its honey
Want me you this

Sometimes I wonder
Why loved you, I
And then the thunder
Love’s alibi

Sweetly, you scorn
Oh, yes, I know
So dark your sunshine
A summer snow

Tarnished my teardrops
Torn is my soul
Autumn to Springtime
A Winter cold

Scripted, our tale
A loving plot
“To have to hold?”
I think, have not

…..

…Outside, darkness smothers the sky; inside and deliciously, Chocotea creams her, the woman smiles…

I Write About You

1343536-1440x900-[DesktopNexus.com]Love touches in many ways, sometimes it flows, brushing the heart as would winds whoosing the fields; and then other times, it is harsh, and cold and hurtful. Nevertheless, if love is true then lovers overcome; and suffrage is sweet and sour, an untethered force, driving them together while ripping them apart. Other than life, the greatest gift is love; and absolutely, it is worth and worthy of sharing.

Love doomed to failure once touched me; alas, its tenderness offered no meaningful relationship. Truth, at times, a talon of hardships, aids to clear the mind; and whether the heart aches or, eventually hurts, still, the risk, the dare, the adventure into peril is exciting. She was most beautiful  and one of the best loves of my life.

For her, I penned and presented four poems; “I Write About You” is without membership to the group. This poem occurred subsequent to our end, yet speaks to her memory. Uncertainty prevails; but whatever the truth,  the woman greatly impressed me.
-Writer.

—————————————————————————————–

I Write About You

I’ve always wanted to write a song
I never knew what words I should use
I know very little about life
But I know something about the blues

They say when writing a song
You must always have a good hook
Maybe I’ll happen into a Library
Sit and stare at a good book

Mumbling through the words
No fancy phrase comes to mind
Well just a few more pages
Perhaps, just a little more time

The Library walls whisper my name
And still I’m sitting here
Like so many others before me came
I’m Mach Five going nowhere

Bookshelves echo tinkering mites

Tirelessly meeting the task
I’d question my reasons
For trying too hard
But there is no one to ask

So, I grumble my way out the door
Agonizing from disappointment
Like a spider’s endearing medicinal sting
What foolish fly would want it?

Chasing the Jester’s piper-less flute
To an unknown distant place
The more I think about writing a song
The more I can see your face

A lovely sight if ever I’ve seen
As I pledge to shoulder the fight
I sell my soul to diamond dark eyes
In a lost and nothing night

A quest for unyielding passionate thirst
Consumes my weary mind
Suddenly, the words for which I search
Are no longer hard to find

For when I want to write a song
And find it difficult to do
I think of someone oh so special
Then… I write about you

© 1999 D. H. Rhodes