A. J. is Offered Passage

It was nearly nightfall when A. J. arrived at the land's end, and the shores of a great body of water. There were two figures sitting on wooden stools near the water's edge. They were clad in dark robes, and their faces were shrouded. By the contours of their unshod feet, A. J. assumed they were female. Each figure held a bell.

There were clusters of luggage in the sand behind the two denizens, arranged like stowage waiting to be put on a ship, or drift to be taken by the tide. There were no other people about. The only sound was that of the waves lapping at the shore. The sound lulled A. J.

The reverie was interrupted by the sound of a bell. The figure on the left pulled back the cloak, revealing a female face. She looked at A. J. knowingly.

“The other side is far away,” she whispered in the silence following the bell, “and the other side is near. The lessons are always the same. Have you come seeking passage?"

A.J. hesitated. “Passage to where?” he replied.

“Passage to where?” she intoned. “Passage home, of course - to the home of your past, and the home of your future; to the home of your heart, body, and soul; to the home of careful planning, and the home of happenstance; to a home rebuilt from the tinder of dreams and turned into dreams again; to "Home Sweet Home" and "Home on the Range," and every lie-you-ever-wanted-to-come-true; or perhaps - even to that other ocean home from which you first stepped - the only other real - that place from before time, or speech, or precedent.” She smiled. “We all want a home, don't we? Shall I have my sister summon transport?"

A. J. looked into the distance, at the frail glimmer of light in so much darkness. A. J. was confused. What he saw did not mesh with his own recollections. When A. J. thought of home he always imagined the morning sun, and clear skies.

"Are there any other destinations? Passage to anywhere else?" A. J. queried. "And what is the cost? What accommodations are offered?"

"It is always the same, " she sternly retorted, as if she were telling him something he should already know. "There is only one destination. It will cost you everything you have. Accommodations along the way are of your own doing."

“And if I decline passage?” A. J. inquired.

She was quiet for a moment. “Then you will learn the lessons to be learned while declining passage,” she replied. “As I told you, the lessons are always the same; we are all going to the same place. My sister and I will still be here when you return. Just see if you find it otherwise."

A. J. shuddered, and considered the apparent oracle presented to him, and it's implications. He felt the sea wind on his face, looked up and down the beach, and surveyed the tide line extending from horizon to horizon. Then he contemplated the vast water before him. He turned around, and beheld the bluffs that rose up from the coastline at his feet - the land receding like his memories from the present edge of his being. He smiled.

A. J. thanked the woman, and set off with his rucksack towards the bluffs. Once there, he would find a place to camp, a good place from which to awaken and catch the morning light.

- The Fool
- photo by Rodney Smith

pollyanna (the glad game)

the first thing i learned
is to always draw a sun
in the sky above

- The Fool

- photo by Stanko Abadzic

the nevers of happenstance

you never seem to know
beyond the candle’s glare
what lies ahead in darkness

with the frail veil of a prayer
you try to keep the flame lit
as the wind buffets about you

the taper flickers its admonition
there is only this now before you
this moment of possibilities

and each shimmer turns to pitch
each possibility follows the others
into the nevers of happenstance

- The Fool

meta

not as one or many
but as the manyone

like a flock of birds
lifting from the field

so words take form
and a poem is made

Pattern Recognition

An unkindness of ravens greeted me yesterday morning. Three of them were in the spruce in the back yard. I noticed right away that there was something different in their chatter. They were not engaged in the casual and conventional caw-cawing or kack-kacking. This was not the back and forth banters of conversation. No, this was different. There were no pauses between the calls, any echolalia, or variation in returns. This was unison. Three voices calling as one, a choir for the day. I noted it. One should pay attention to changes in pattern

***
Despite the forecast for scattered thundershowers in the area, it was the typical blue-sky-with-the touch-of-white-puff-cloud-type morning. Crisp. Warm and dry. There was a light wind heard in the trees. I noticed the seed puffs from the cottonwoods in the air. Like miniature dandelion clusters…one…two…four…eight…sixteen…thirty-two…sixty-four…an exponential swirl of cottonwood puffs puff-puffing along. It was barely perceptible against the bright sky above. I caught the motion out of the corner of my eye, on the peripheral, where the dark shade of pine created a darker ground. Only there did it stand out for what it was, and only there could the flurry be seen. It was then that I noticed that the cloud puffs in the sky were copying the seed puffs. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Whatever. The sky was full of small cumulus clouds that were blown wispy at the edges. They looked like cotton balls stretched finely, like cottonwood seeds, like dandelion puffs. I was standing in the midst of a cosmic fractal rendering of micro and macro. I wondered where I fit within it all; where my form was repeated.

***
Late afternoon. The sky darkened. Dark shades of gray - almost black. A storm was brewing, and thunder played in the distance. The wind picked up. It loosened the cottonwood’s grip, and an enraged storm of cottonwood was in the air. With the darkened sky as a backdrop, the cottonwood puffs could be seen everywhere. Thousands upon thousands of them. They were no longer a trickled sensing on the outskirts of my senses, the sky now provided a proper backdrop for total clarity. I was in a snowstorm of sorts; a snowstorm of cottonwood seeds. A snowstorm in summer. They were everywhere, swirling, and it was ever so beautiful. It was surreal, but it was also so real. It was another shift in patterns brought to the fore, the third that day. I wondered what it all meant. Then the lightning entered into the valley.

- The Fool

They No Longer Believe

They no longer believe
in the aggregate, in unity -
everything is disparate,
shattered, and partial.

They no longer believe
in moments before and after -
nothing primordial
or promised to come.

They no longer believe
in maps demarcated with colors -
just dull grayed contrasts
of chiaroscuro shadows.

They no longer believe
in connective certainties -
only continual detachments
and gaps of disjunction.

They no longer believe
in anything but disbelief –
the voices echoed in the rifts,
in the spaces in between.

- The Fool
- photo by Mishra Gordon

Triptych: Reverberations

as the bell resolves
i listen as all my thoughts
become emptiness

one can sense no trace
of the bell’s sounding within
the silence after

this moment will pass

like a slowly lulling chime

into memory

- The Fool

- photo artist unknown

Who's This

Who’s This
inside me

upon Whom
i depend

more than
i depend

than on
my self

and all
the while

it’s They
who play

the ply
of me

as truth
to lies

-The Fool
-photo artist unknown

Dhvani

Always the allusive contortions, her veiled disguises -
the communications conveyed between the lines
of something altogether different; the other than -
through metaphors of being, and metonymies of lack.

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown

Stone, Wood, and Colored Glass

They built a prison for their god out of stone, wood, and colored glass, and they confined their god inside.

They came and sang songs to Him on Sunday, and forced Him to forgive their sins: their dishonors, falsehoods, petty thefts, and adulteries. He was made to bless their children while they killed the children of others in His name. He was forced to consecrate their marriages, and to allow for their dissolutions. He was made to watch as the plate passed from hand to hand to hand…year after year.

But He was a wily jailbird. He became a hardened con. He purloined a spoon during a Sunday tea, and removed a tile from beneath the altar. Slowly - spoonful by spoonful – He began to tunnel, seeking a way out. He worked at night when the guards were lax, when they thought He was sleeping.

Night by quiet night, He excavated beneath the conjectures constructed to confine Him, until He undermined the faulty foundations of the form that held Him.

And on that night, it all came tumbling down, and their god escaped with a deafening sound…

- The Fool
- photo by Cyril Campbell

Emily Before the Mirror

Emily assessed her image in the mirror as she tried to establish a relation with the woman in the frame before her. Her gaze sought an identification, something to use as a point of departure, something to carry her through the day.

Each morning Emily fixed her hair and she made herself prim. She preened until there was a bondage established with the presentation being constructed. The image attained became the facsimile she would carry forth and return to in moments of self reflection through the day. The composition created was always a fiction though, a false identification.

The image in the mirror was just a trace made in passing. Beyond the mirrored moment, beyond the configuration in the frame, came change. Over the course of the day, her hair would slowly fall out of place, and her make up would become disarrayed. Her sense of being, the image she carried forth, was always lost in her own becoming - always caught up in the movement of her own erasure.

Emily brought her face close to the mirror, and she stared into her own eyes. She saw the image of her face reflected in her pupils. She tried to peer deeper, but found that the closer she looked, the further she retreated.

Emily blinked, returned to the moment, and adjusted her collar. Everything was in place. She was ready to begin her day.

- The Fool

A. J. and a Leap of Faith

A. J. had formulated a thousand different scenarios, and they all required a leap of faith. There were just too many variables involved, with combinations tending toward infinite possibilities. It was beyond A. J.'s ability to order and control. He had to trust in his objective, and hold to a belief that things would work out.

A. J. chuckled to himself. So like the Fool of the Tarot. It was as if he had been a querrant and had drawn the card. He was one step from the precipice and the vertigo of freefall, at point zero - the Fool's number - restarting, and on his way to a new beginning. And like the Fool, with just his rucksack, A. J. carried all he needed - to do, or be - in his own being. All he lacked was the dog as a travelling companion. It was an apt metaphor for the moment - it was as if someone were writing his script.

A. J. surveyed what was before him. There was no easy way. There never was. You can never be sure except in hindsight: folly or wisdom; disaster or success; destruction or creation; ruin or transformation. And it doesn't really matter, not when you are willing to risk all for something. There is only the objective.

"Trust," he whispered, "and belief." A. J. closed his eyes, and with a knowing, and a logic beyond reason, he took the next step.

- The Fool
- photo by Rodney Smith

Stain Removal

Some stains are more difficult
to remove than others -

for the motor grease and oil spatter
from wrenching on the motorcycle -
rub a bit of lard or Vaseline in the spots...
let it set, and then wash as usual,

for that splotch of red wine spilled
during the frolic and offering of a toast -
immediately pour white wine on it…
wash in cold water and ammonia,

for the indelible stigma left on one's being
from harsh words and judgments cast in anger –
a tall glass of single malt scotch…
repeat as necessary until you forget.

- The Fool

Beyond Rhyme or Reason

There is a certain part of each
that stands apart, irrevocable -

that goes beyond the rhyme
of anything that can be said,

that goes beyond the reason
of any truth that can be known -

something that all others lack,
and no mirror can ever grasp.

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown