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

“The Purest Forms”: Sweeter than the wildest honey

The Hill of the Angels

By Delbert H. Rhodes

 

 

The Old Man

 

The old man lies dying. Thinking of the distant hill, he recounts his youth and romance. Many times, he ventured there the skies awash in blue pearl, and below the crest the valley spread in rows of fields and speckling here and there with farms. To the north and east rest his properties. His family has owned the lands for generations.

The old man’s great, great grandmother nicknamed the farm “Blue Mists”; she loved the ghostly appeal of the floating sheets of dew beneath the starry blue skies. The mystery of the trees added a spectral quality to the night seeming as spirits languishing in the gloom.

Observing the trees always filled the old man with wonder; the winds disturbing them ever so slightly; the rustle of leaves filling the skies like the melodies of an orchestra fills a room. The trees in this region are healthy strong and sturdy. Here, generations of farming have produced lands and lives of abundance. The view is spectacular taking the breath away.

Aging has poisoned his health lessened his breath and reduced his strength yet the old man’s mind is young and clear. Facing his final moments, he misses his walks to the hill. For you see, it was there they met it was there they first loved. Then as she is now, the woman was a heavenly vision and sweeter than the wildest honey.

Staring into his wife’s eyes, the old man recites “The Purest Forms,” a poem he wrote for her:

   The Purest Forms

 And there, she is upon the hill
Into the skies she stares
The breath of day kissing her lips
The sunshine in her hair

 Tireless are her wanderlusts

 Oh agonizing joys
Till twilight breaks
A sweet bird calls
Her ears its favorite toys

 Inside the mists she ghostly spirits
So filled with life and jest
From her heart a lullaby
Mommy’s children rest

Ever the times of lasting love

 Never to leave her smile
Alas, she winks
Then playfully laughs
Becoming the happy child

In those years, my life so tender
The moments thrill my soul
Her spirit resounding chorally
The church bells ring with gold

Torrential downpours threaten the skies
Raindrops pepper with pollen
Serene the sounds of her baby’s cries
The purest forms of “Malin”

 

Tenderly, and for the last time, the old man and his wife embrace. Eternally smiling, he sweetly says, “I love you.”

Copyright © 2012 Delbert H. Rhodes