A Mourning Loss of Innocence.…

A Mourning Loss of Innocence....


There are times when giving all 
one needs more yet to give, 
and if the search prove fruitless, 
it seems absurd to live. 
Yet oftentimes absurdity 
may be the price we pay, 
for finding joy in springtime 
and watching children play. 


I am the scribe 
and well I know the law. 
It is my legacy to write it -- 
as a child writes the alphabet 
dutifully -- 
with the purpose of 
and in a small cold moment -- 


I've been the road of womanhood 
and dreamed a woman's dream 
  of loving and caressing you 
until you made me scream. 
You took me for a lover 
then took me by surprise. 
You bloodied all my woman things 
and ate me with your eyes. 
I never knew your male designs 
or understood your reason. 
 I only knew the single road 
of following my season. 
You drank my love with eager lust 
and catered to my blindness. 
Then having quenched your cursed thirst 
     you left me only dryness. 
Where souls must touch 
then touch no more 
In casual encounters. 
Where tender minds 
must hide their depth 
In shallow thoughts and places. 
Where human hearts 
put on a mask 
In cheap and tawdry glances. 
Where truth is lost 
 and cheaply sold 
In bitter conversations. 
Some sense the loss 
or learn to lie 
In this new generation.  

       Where souls must touch to never touch again 
     In casual encounters forced on deeper kinds of mind. 
      Shallow souls are winners where men are only faces 
    and truth is cheapened til it's lost the will to care. 
       Bitter is the byword of these people of today. 
            Some feel it, others learn it . . . 
           It is their only insight into nothing! 

           Could I but draw some strength from thee 
            (tho' guilt would bind my heartwood) 
             I might grow out this tediousness 
                and bloom despite my tears. 
             Let me but grasp thy branches once 
               and from the sap I gain there 
           my trunk will take on bolder growth -- 
                escape this gnarl of fears. 
             If I may touch thy heights awhile 
               (tho' fearing to descend them) 
          New buds will sprout and leaves spring out 
                released from dormant years. 
          And when these things are gained from thee 
                 and I am all accomplished 
             My roots will gather depth in thee 
                as joint fulfillment nears. 

            Don't mix daisies with falling leaves 
              lest they cease to seek the sun. 
                Daisies speak of fresher days 
                  and tasks as yet undone. 
              Don't make snow a spring affair 
                it needs to fall in winter. 
                Melting as the robins hatch 
               to bathe in something gentler. 
               Don't let seedlings undertake 
                 the task of bearing fruit. 
            Lest they forget their need to grow 
               and nourish last year's shoot. 
            Don't let the sun forget its course 
                  and stay away too long. 
            Spring has the need of warming rays 
                 until its months are gone. 

               A mourning wish for permanence 
                   is but a futile claim. 
               The body wills itself to heal 
               and the mind must follow suit. 


              Who must pluck this beauty home 
                  and abdicate the spring? 
                Who must make the Maple red 
                 and drain away the green? 
              Who shall tire of budding blooms 
                 and make them go to seed? 
               Who shall call my spirit home 
                 when life cannot proceed? 

                 I do not seek the rapture 
               when all our souls will soar. 
                 I hesitate to meet that fate 
               for fear I'll yearn for more. 

              Might we regain the Mother now? 
             . . . forsake our blind ambition. 
           Bring back the Druid, spurned so long? 
              . . . unmake our proud sedition. 
              Can we reclaim the sacred grove? 
            . . . where first She made us sing. 
               Relearn her ways of innocence? 
              . . . and ponder simpler things. 
               For surely Nature's not undone 
              . . . despite our mad endeavor. 
           The oak still grows, the deer still run 
             . . . the fox is still as clever. 


             Are we so different then from Thee 
                 in our tragic earthy way? 
            Are all our thoughtless cruel deeds 
                 more brutal than Thy clay?