II: ~Letters from the Monastery:
“What can I read her on a Sunday morning? What can I do that will somehow reach her?
~Jim Morrison from “Miami”~
“In revenge & in love woman is more barbaric than man is.”
There are times you wake up when you haven’t yet been to sleep, lost to the moon’s dictation as tides, murder in your blood, riding the storm. The bad sister’s face in the mirror won’t drop.
Tempered by the Woman Without
Memories call his attention to the moon. Reluctant to follow a heart so recently exiled to the roam, he stares through a single blind window facing east, imagines mad dogs in the yard, considers the other portal door, icicles’ frigid need to pierce his feet in the night.
His heart is a lonely wanderer. It listens to the howling voice of winter, wind threatening to enter the room. It was cold the day he left her in the tiny city of the owls. Wisdom has bitten his love dreams in half. He is lost in a labyrinth of pain.
The teacher warned her students, “Beware lest your noodle poems bite you.” She knew a man who drowned in the soup of himself. Photographs are mind whips to the lonely, reminders of that other reality. He has gathered his tablets in piles, an impenetrable wall of words.
Digging through papers, a card fell in his lap. It was a note from his mother, begging forgiveness & too late now. He speaks desperately to her box of ashes. Is it shameful for a man to weep? There are seven levels of revenge the winds of time disregard.
There’s the moon he shared with her. It captures his eyes, draws them through a wintry haze of clouds. He has stood too long in the yard trapped ‘neath a masque of ice. Where have they taken his princess, the lightning of her desire?
When eyes close & hands reach, what nimble creatures of habit they are, open on empty & holding without. Their disappointment is a near-step to misery. They torture the mind that made them so. Spirits of darkness invade & slip away with our dreams.
©2016 graphic artwork music & words
conceived by & property of
tom (WordWulf) sterner 2016©