(Autumn, thank you so much for taking pictures of these!!!)
Copyright March 2013 by Cindy Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the artist.
ASHES OF THE STARS and RESONANT EMBERS
Ashes of the Stars (left) was donated for the Second Annual Art for Aids Auction, sponsored by the Gay Straight Alliance of Lansing Community College.
The chimney swifts are here.
Soundless as they soar, what
beautiful silence speak
their wings, exquisite
ashes of the stars. Sunless
as the summer forest at night,
too detached it seems for
the city. So much resonance
I cannot stop. And I can hear
now the singing of the swifts,
their mantras, harmonious,
the moments. They all are little
buddhas. I fall into the uneven
mixture of todays, into
sea above, striving to keep
afloat of the clouds, awaking
immersed in the sun,
that never empties, the never
ceasing spring. For I cannot
stop anymore than I can
stop the beating
of my heart.
STRATA OF NEOPE
Oh, my very great Grandmother,
I have sifted through the strata
of history you are buried within
looking for you. Perhaps you
will be the one who finds me,
here in the land of Hiawatha
and Petosegay. And far south
of the playground of Mishipeshu’s
children. Your name dances
in my wondering, a mystery
like a butterfly uncaptured
and whose journey ends
with the snow. Spring
is worth the trek. And heaven’s
lamp glows. Come then
to the land where ambered
water falls. Come.
HER SONGS (AMBER TEARS)
on the floor
with her books inside
wasn’t what she expected to see,
morning after morning.
She took the books back out, one by one,
setting them inside the old pine bookcases
that still wept their amber, even after forty-some years.
They were her books, dammit. Her treasures.
Beloved fixtures in her world.
She didn’t care if she couldn’t read, anymore.
No one else had rights to them. Not yet.
Every day was the same. The heartwood sang to her.
And out of the boxes the books would come,
each one returning to its assigned place on their shelves,
her weeping carried by the sad melodies only she could
hear. Moments lived over and over.
hear. Moments lived over and over.
Shadows of trees fluttered across the curtains,
tremulous, as she moaned her memories to the wind,
and emptied the boxes of her songs
that didn’t belong in cardboard coffins
GRANITE OF THE SOUL
to strike deep,
to twist, no
No life to leave
inside the granite
of more prevailing
words, with none
to perish me.
NETHERSIDE and BLOOD TREES
Faces in the woodwork, in the twilight
Such strange rains,
deep inside my
fears. I am, in dark, or light, accosted
by their stares, no named pairs, who put on airs,
crossing paths not
through the hidden
olden woods, to the netherside of me.
Limbs, shards of leaves,
and long held dreams, scattered to the ground. Lost
at the edge of dawn. How does one survive
the silence? Graves
soul. I mourn
the nights, unjoined,
and wonder where the light of life has gone.
WHERE THEIR SPIRITS REMAIN
SONS OF ADAM
His spirit is old as the granite
pillars of the earth and strong as Thunder-
Rolling-Over-the-Mountains. Listen. He will tell you
all about it. About the rock which was struck
and drowned in the sorrow that bled from his soul, red
like the earth. Red. Like Adam. From whose sons
he came. Like us. Yes. He will tell you all
about it. About the steel and the blades that furrowed
deep into his heart and cut him in half on the trail
of tears. The smoke that slithered like a serpent,
and roared like the world coming to an end,
booming from the iron
fonts of “manifest destiny”. He will tell you
how the little turtles were turned upside down
and torn apart by vultures.
I do not presume to know his pain.
But he will tell you like no one else can.
He will tell you
how his children screamed.
SOLACE and SOLILOQUY
Under the open canopy of this dwelling, I
find myself to be something of a naturalist
at heart, hoping it does not disappoint
that I prefer sometimes, Shaddai
to worship You, to meet You, here, in
this place, made without hands. Is it
because I hunger for the living energy
soliloquized and sonorous within
every tree that I touch, every ripple
of the wind that dances on my skin, in
each ruffling of feathers that I hear, and
in all the rhythms You orchestrate?
Or am I deluding myself into thinking
shalom exists here, apart from the madness,
the chaos of society. Nature, afterall,
has wars of her own. I know the healing
of the world will come. And for now,
I simply take in the solace You let me
drink of, falling completely...
unconditionally, into Your arms.
LYRICAL LIGHTS AND HEARTWOOD
At the threshold,
by west window, young,
cadent boughs turn
dark in the light.
Echoes of snow
Gaslight my night. The fire at my
hearth is strong. I am not consumed
in the circle of its divinity, but enveloped,
joined to its flames. Touch me, you burn.
Kindred spirits await each other, lyrical
madmen of their lies. Next to
nothing, toss their counterfeit coins
one by one into the wishing
pool of fools.
Quicksand. Redeemed is my robbed
reality. Shalom. Salaam. No more war on my
soul. My seas are incomparable
tanzanite and teal
whorls and waves. Can’t
Young, my coral boughs