Of Dark Times

It always starts slowly, minute and imperceptible.
The mind always returns to the innocuous things first.
The soft tolling of bells from a distant church;
the laughter of children fractured on the wind;
the flash of the sun as it sets in the west.
All is quiet now, though I remember the birds
weaving bright colors through my thoughts within.

It always starts slowly, minute and imperceptible.
The glow of city lights beneath the pinprick stars;
the texture of the air changing as the fog creeps in;
the muffled clunk of boats abandoned on the dock;
the lonesome hoot of an owl unseen in the dark;
the broken tinkle of chimes twisting in the wind;
my thoughts turning inward as fatigue sets in.

It always starts slowly, minute and imperceptible.
The ashes thrown up to hover above
surrender themselves to entropy.
The burning flakes floating up from the heat
grow brighter as they scatter in the wind.
There’s a false dawn in the east as the crackling increases,
and I lay here, still failing to sleep.

It always starts slowly, minute and imperceptible.
Their caws heard on the drifting breeze
sound way too much like laughter to me.
I try clenching my fists against the fire in my skin,
but can’t stop my thoughts floating away like dust.
Their shadows grow longer as the night encroaches,
flapping wings just visible against the fading light of dusk.

(Bryan Garaventa, 2020)

Reflections in Jagged Chrome

Running my thumb along the edge, the points sharp by touch;
my thoughts turn inward, wisps of memory for the soul to dredge;
the splintering of reality at dusk.

 

Stark mountains there, torn metal thrusting into the sky;
forever tracing the shadows edge;
awry, an epoch dwelling on the terminator between light and dark.

 

Jagged peaks still sharp enough to cut;
blood trickling down to streams and rivers,
pooling in valleys in times of flood.

 

Reflections there, from the past,
liquid in metal refracted in light,
glare from a thousand suns beating down;
smear of a billion stars in the ink of night;
haunting beauty of a smile, now lost forever in time;
bone white shard of a sickle moon shredding clouds in flight;
the softness in her eyes, gazing back into mine.

 

 

(Bryan Garaventa, 2016)

The Wanderer

He was only a nomad, as many attest,
so not to worry whence fell the blow
that broke his quest and struck him low.

Nothing was found in the aftermath,
though many searched the misty paths
hoping to uncover the slightest hint
that one existed with such a craft.

This farce began when long ago
a yearly fair was thence decreed
by the ruler of that wooded realm,
ensconced within his armored keep.

The people though, ever oblivious
to the rigidity of their plight,
beheld this event with the complaisant fervor
that appeasements oft incite.

Beneath the shadowy arches of leafy boughs
hung paper lanterns, haphazardly strewn,
twisting in the winds from leaden clouds;
casting light in dazzling hues.

Groups paraded to and fro,
shallow dandies oft to crow
and strut betwixt the silhouettes
of dancers with their limbs aglow.

Trade was brisk throughout the night,
lovers paid lovers led in tow,
masquerades to cover up
the darkness in their soul.

Swirling sparks were cast in flight,
tempting angels spun and rolled,
a greasy magician yet to swindle
a piece or two of gold.

Amidst the sounds of desperate laughter,
pipes and drums and flutes were merged
into an ever roaring tidal surge
of merriment unmastered.

Within a clearing, tucked away,
a bonfire snapped, cracked, and swayed,
bathing all in lurid light
as the drunkards drank their pay away.

No one noticed his arrival,
a bent old man, gnarled with time,
quietly intent on the glowing embers;
torments reflected within his mind.

As a pebble causes ripples in a pond to spread,
time first stretched, then slowed, then stopped,
as everyone became enthralled
by the pall of utter dread.

The old man stood, stooped with age,
demonically lit by the burning coals,
observing his captive host as sage
condemner of their souls.

“See for thyself what thou hath wrought,” whispered he,
and all that were bound throughout the land, heard his words,
trembling at the fear now stirring
within their hearts, like restless birds.

The bonfire danced merrily,
straining at its bonds in glee,
popping and crackling joyfully
as its captors could not flee.

All those present within the wood
were frozen thus, a terrible jest;
their deceits; designs; desires laid bare
to all; naked to the rest.

Frigid winds began to blow,
mournfully howling betwixt the trees;
storm clouds scudded across the sky;
rumbling thunder shook the leaves.

Watching carefully, the old man waited,
wondering if he would be displaced
before the enlightenment he began
could willfully be embraced.

While a distant rumble began to grow,
a cloud of dust was seen to drift
ever nearer through the wood,
as horseman pounded across the rift.

Smiling sadly, the old man turned
to face the one as yet beguiled,
unable to fathom how one forsook
so many souls, however vile.

Long ago, before this fated confrontation,
the king suspected that a spirit dwelt
deep within his wooded realm,
never seen, though often felt.

So the king, shrewd and cunning,
devised a plan that would in time
unite the hatred of his people
by implying foul design.

He thus contrived a yearly fair;
whereby his subjects must attend
to sing and dance and set the snare
for the entrapment near the fen.

Nevertheless, year after year,
no sign of the being haunting the man
was ever found, inciting fear
and anger throughout the land.

Now though, finally,
he would have the one who plagued his nights,
chipping away at his sanity
with imaginary frights.

The king and his soldiers surrounded the spirit,
weapons to hand as they started to ride
in for the kill, poised to spear it
through the heart inside.

Before the king could slay his foe,
the old man looked to the sky in wroth,
to storming clouds through flakes of snow;
raising his blazing staff aloft.

“See for thyself what thou hath wrought!”,
the old man screamed in the rising wind,
as a bolt of lightning was thence unleashed,
blinding all as it struck him.

When sight returned to the petrified throng,
none could recall who had come
to free them from the siren song
that disillusion won.

So the king returned to his armored keep,
unsatisfied, yet again,
forever obsessing on what he had and lost;
failing to comprehend.

His people resumed their torpid lives,
unable to fathom how close they had been
to the freeing of their minds,
though all felt the ache of loss within.

He was only a nomad, as many attest,
so not to worry whence fell the blow
that broke his quest and struck him low.

(Bryan Garaventa, 2013)

The Hourglass

I gazed with rapt attention at
the object borne to me alas
by fortuity or fate.

Boundless bourns, wherein constraints
of time did not pertain,
becalmed all force of will within
enchantments cast unknown therein
by lands in sandy waves.

The souls of all who passed before
the turning of this place of yore
from fertileness to waste,
whispered ever nigh across,
and through the weathered hulks of lost
kingdoms in their wake.

One last fortress remained therein
to guard this realm, beset within
by the strifes of ancient folk.
One last bastion yet unchecked
by the turning tides of fate to rest
in lonesome solitude.

The storms that swept across these lands
in days of old, where bells foretold
of prophecies to come and pass,
filled the depths of leafless gutters
and empty streets with arid sands.

Within the age portending such,
where heedless hearts began to clutch
the tempests yet unwoven,
dwelt miracles in gilded halls.
Dreams in waking, never failing
to leave their charges thus enthralled.

These raptures however, in the turning,
could not stand the ever swirling
mists of time, and fearing such,
fled to armored keeps instead;
to be forgotten, one by one,
till all had been undone.

Only the whispering sands can now be heard,
whenever stirred by the restless wind’s caress;
as only the rumble of ancient works
can still be felt, disconcerting from nighted halls,
where great machines run on and on
far beneath the earth.

Could I divine the ages hence,
and beholding fate, determine whence
that time may come again,
I would comply for peace of mind,
though galaxies may rise and fall
and twilight may descend.

(Bryan Garaventa, 2003)

From an Ember Wrought

So the ghosts of our past hold the keys to our heart,
and pay their respects with pain…
An injustice of memory perhaps,
yet what else is there to blame?

Though universally felt, the embers of love
(including the ensuing torments thereof),
may not be entirely delved;
spanning time with arches of fire, it cannot be quelled.

With just one spark; one instance of recognition
to fan desire, the soul is stripped to an aching heart.

As an ember exists amidst the flames,
so too may love have love contained:
One for what was, and will never be-
And one for what is, made radiant
by the wisdom of time and sanctity.

Would be simpler perhaps, understanding fate..,
the hammering of experience on the anvil of our lives
as the forging of our spirit takes place.

 

(Bryan Garaventa, 2001)

Dust Motes by Starlight

I saw it fall from the mist enthralled,
a remnant cast from a lover’s call
long ago, in a  place unknown.

It glimmered, and lightly shone
in the starlight cast from a night alone
in the untold leagues of  solitude.

It might have been a letter rudely
written to a lover shrewdly
awaiting far below.

It might have been  a feather slowly
floating ever down to show me
utter grace within its form.

It might have been a piece torn
from a  gown, to lie forlorn
within the dust yet nigh among.

It might have been a spirit shunned
from paradise, and falling stunned
to lay enduring fell unrest.

It might have been a dove bereft
of life, as in falling left
the courtship of its  mate.

It might have been a prayer too late
uttered from a soul forsaken
by the powers that be above.

Or perhaps, it  might have been true love.

But who am I to lapse
into such conjecturing
as this which I amass?

And yet, even so,
it was laden with intent;
deeply falling into the mist, enthralled;
shining brighter as it went,
like a star from hell to heaven.

(Bryan Garaventa, 2002)

Our Mother ( a mushy love poem)

The night arrives
replete with lustful languor
slowly, creeping darkness overtakes
and the day is gone
Gone the car horns, and deadlines,
cash registers and harsh words gone.
All gone… …
The insane spinning stops
Beneath our feet the momentum still rumbles
But we stand still
Alone-together
We hear the waning moans of the day
Alone- the darkness
soothingly, caressingly envelopes us
Alone-Together
Shoulders sink; a deep communal sigh
Darkness, our mother
These walls her womb
You cease, I cease
We exist
In her darkness
goodness prevails
in her arms we lie
her fingers in our hair
Alone-together-she makes us one
She kisses our forehead
and in her arms we drift to Eden
Dreams our rulers
and in our sleep she leaves,
her tracks sprinkled with promise
We wake in peace
our hug, a reminder that she’ll return
We leave, alone
her promise, our smile
We go through the day alone
We do it again
We do it for her-our mother
her promise- our darkness

Letter From the One of the Editors

The time has come for us to set straight certain wild-eyed individuals who have publicly accused Hackpoets of harboring chauvinist pigs, sexist dogs, female-exploiting jackals and other unfashionable quadrupeds in its editorial kennels.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  However, to ease the fears of the 27% of our readership who happen to be Female (68% Male, 5% Undecided), we hereby openly admit that certain female staff members at Hackpoets have grown restless of late (under the angry urgings of a certain Managing Editor Husband, no doubt).

The editors were recently presented with a list of demands by these shrill individuals which included the following outrageous ultimatums: 1) all female staff members’ salaries are to be paid in real money or its equivalent in hypoallergenic produce, 2) a permanent stop of corporal punishment for lateness or general editorial anger, and 3) exemption from Hackpoets Weekly Purification and Fertility Ritual.

Needless to say, these preposterous prattles of a too-long-pampered platoon of pusillanimous panhandlers were rejected out of hand.  Nevertheless, our crack team of negotiators responded immediately with what we feel was a reasonable, perhaps even over-generous counterproposal that included 1) free dimes and quarters for the executive restroom, 2) free tennis shoes and uniforms for the mandatory morning wake-up jog around the Editor’s desk, and 3) free medical consultation following any injury resulting from the Weekly Purification and Fertility Ritual.

We are unhappy to report that these magnanimous counter-offers were unceremoniously laughed at by our strikers, not all of whom, we must add, have been a credit to their sex.  However, after long sessions with strike representatives and days of haggling, whining, and the stamping of stiletto heels, an equitable compromise was finally hammered out, and we are pleased, Cristina, that we have arrived at a happy solution.

You’re fired.

6 months till 50

So I just had my half birthday, which now makes me 49 and 1/2. It went by unnoticed by all, myself included, but suddenly I find myself pondering the fact that I will half a century-old which makes no sense.

As a child I expected to become an un-giggling adult, with adult responsibilities, adult reactions and adult tastes. As I examine my life, I’ve come to realize that I fell deeply short of my expectations. The adult responsibilities are definitely there’s mortgage a few bills and the most hated activity, shopping. Aside of that I’m still waiting for other adult things to happen. I remember a summer evening when we as preteens sat off in a corner of the balcony while our older cousins all in their late 20s early 30s conversed about important things of great consequence and readily dismissed us as children, we tried to join the ladies who interrupted their deep conversation simply to tell us to go play. Rejected, my same-aged cousin and I discussed our perceived joys of adulthood. How wonderful it would be to have these important things to discuss. Vividly I recall telling her when I’m an adult, I’ll finally stop staring at grasshoppers, I’ll curse without blushing, I won’t color again, I’ll be sophisticated and wear high heels, and have a fancy umbrella when I go to the beach.

Well, my 11-year-old self is greatly disappointed in the adult that I became. Recently, I began comparing myself to the adults in my life who were 50ish when I was a child, particularly the women; they were so sophisticatedly austere to me. Their hair was a mystery to behold, a helmet of sorts formed by their natural strands dyed in a multiple colors resembling nothing that occurs naturally, their stiff curls remained still when their synchronized heads shook in disbelief at the price of rice. God help anyone who touched it or stood in its vicinity with water. They laughed with composure; their topics of conversation are as foreign to me now as they were then. I remember aunts and older cousins speaking with such reverence about recipes, the lengths of new skirts for the upcoming season, and the multiple drastic ways their bodies were falling apart. They all seemed to have complicated lives fraught with the stress and things I was never privy to since they were spoken in hushed tones. I secretly longed for that time, when I’d become that adult woman. I envisioned myself being important and wise and saying such things as “when you’re my age. You’ll understand.” However, I silently dreaded having to learn about all those boring things they discussed because truthfully, I never cared about clothes or the price of food.

Time passes and in my early 20s I found myself doggedly attempting to fit in that role. I fiercely tried to develop an interest in embroidery, pastry making and controlled ladylike laughter; I attempted to tell my younger brother. “Wait until you’re my age. You’ll understand.” But every time I tried to say it sounded foreign to my own ears, and he dismissed me readily. Attempting to be a serious adult was not working out the way I anticipated. One day I met a group of people in the woods and they liked my ways, and we had fun together and laughed often. And somewhere along the way an attitude materialized, and suddenly, out it came “Fuck it, I’m just going to have fun.”

Now, it’s not always been easy, I experienced extreme loss, I saw death, I’ve been touched by despair and faced the opportunity to stop living, physical and spiritual hunger was a constant companion for a long while. I lost so much that at times there was nothing left to me but my name and my stubborn streak. Then there are my beloved dead, so many who shaped me and unceremoniously died, one after another they died, No doubt they had their reason to depart but it hurt. With each of their deaths came the thought “now I am the old person.” Yet this too isn’t making me the half-centuryan I expected.

Somehow I find it remarkably confusing, that my anticipated adulthood is quite different from my reality. Many of my contemporaries are beginning to resemble the half-centuryans of my youth, I’ve sat with friends who insist on talking about their bowels, and their bowls, their gout and their grout , but soon I find myself day dreaming about soap bubbles, and the beach, and books, and sand dollars, and loud music in the car, and grasshoppers. These lovely people are so cherished but somehow I just can’t get there. So now I’m left to ponder can I wing it? Will I ever become the 50 year old my 11 year old self thought I would be? Will I become angry with my silver strands and color them?

The days leading up to my 3rd birthday were full of anticipation. I had a friend who was about 10 and people were telling be, after your birthday you’ll be a big girl like your friend. One evening my mom put me to bed and said “tomorrow’s your birthday.” I could hardly wait for the morning, when I’d be a big girl. Morning came; my mother came to my bed telling me I was going to wear my special dress for my birthday and she pulled out a dress that was special but not new or bigger. Immediately, I thought, she’d forgotten that it was my birthday and that I was a big girl. I’d never be able to fit in my little girl clothes, but nope, I still fit in the dress, I was sadly disappointed with the whole thing. Now I wonder, will it happen in 6 months, will I wake up the day after my 50th birthday caring about the temperature in which sugar caramelizes, or which spray starch is best for my shirts.

I don’t want to be perceived as the 50 year old ditz who never matured and perpetually denies the reality of her age, but when I see a grasshopper and how their silly knees stick upwards so far away from the rest of everything, and they cast such great tangled shadows, I can’t help being much more interested in the grasshopper than in the latest way to cook rice or newest fashion. A grasshopper is just so cool.