My heart is torn
Between the deep rutted tracks in the soil of my father’s time
And the yearning reaching ahead of my time becoming the present, becoming my daughter’s time, and then leaving her, too, behind.
Time, time and a half a time
It all winds around together, swirling like a color wheel with the lines removed;
Blue sliding into green into yellow cum orange then red, ethereal purple, ultraviolet, end of the spectrum.
So much difference between 1919 and 1956. The aftertaste of unthinkable death, the horizon blighted with a sharp black edge into the 40’s. The days of my father’s wide eyed youth, his acclimation to the bucking earth he rode on and thought he ruled.
1939 was the end. No, really, 1914 was the end. Of certainties, attitudes that were Right, the Codes of Life. 1918 was feeling one’s hand reach into the blackness of the empty room ahead, while the other hand held onto memories of light from before the deluge.
That other hand held tight right up to 1960, give or take, and then let go, forever set adrift.
Echoes of old centuries, ancient certainties, straight gazes between eyes, let your yes be yes and your no be no.
Now free floating in a blank undefined universe, unframed pictures oozing out edges.
No anchor, no anchor. Circling the drain of time.
Yet-In spite of-Instead of-Below our vision….the Truth is….the Truth Is.
Anchor. Light. Bond of strength. Blood knowledge between us. He has….
Everything Under Control
In the midst of madness, gray chaos, unfathomable sadness, wild boar madness, clawed and bloody violence.
Inside the tiny bird fluttering to the ground, flying a thousand miles and more for God’s reasons alone, alight upon a ship in the vast night of the ocean, panting for breath, taking a break from eternal flight.
Tiny on the rail, wet with the writhing sea, arising aflight again to the south, to warmth and sun.
Among us who strive, weary and winding, stumbling on the faint hint of path amongst the debris.
He Is. He Has. Us. All.
To The End.
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