poem: Crossing My Desert

releasing some grief

I do most of my traveling at 3:00 AM,

when the sky's breath is bitter cold

and the coyotes meld into a howling orbit 'round me;

my known routes have long since washed out,

and I descend the arroyos and scale the plateaus-

simply attempting to delimit the parameters of my own thoughts-

breadth, height, and depth; the utility function of my days.

But what is there to understand?

It is vain to spend a lifetime examining one's inner workings,

yet what else is there? For to live an examined life, one must examine.

Crossing the wasteland of my myriad deprecations-

and failures of all my trespasses upon you loom like mountains,

taunting me with jagged teeth in ragged skulls.

When hearts are ripped out by Anubis, what makes the scale list correctly?

Is it the intention, the deed, or the outcome?

If I cultivated joy in Life,

as a gardener would nurture tender plants in her cold clime,

Will I be remembered for the warmth-

or cursed for making the cold seem worse at my passing by?

Are we the sum of our greatest attribuute or our basest instincts?

I turn shards of rock over in my hands and examine the wounds for blood

that never seems to flow where or when it should.

I navigate by starlight on a night when the clouds are shifting,

because the compass I received at birth appears to have broken.

And even though I travel through the mystery of the night,

 I am learning, slowly,

that there is no escape from the fire of the judgmental sun,

just as I have circled back around to the barren starting point

of my initial failure that I sought the oasis to escape.

All those remorseful years ago.

 

 

Author's Note

Written to grieve a recent loss. I started crying for no reason one day, and I didn't let it all out. Until now. Those who understand depression and loss, will understand the desert, I think. The operative word for this one, for me, is barren. It's funny how a loss can make you revisit old wounds,and reopen them in the dark hours.

Reviews

[Cool Handless Luke]

miss fox i gotta confess in some older works it is evident to me you are a scientist. your vocabulary and use of words in form is not diminished in the least by this but as you know how i like to be brutal, raw and even savage regardless of what it may call upon me to say, i have read some past work and felt a bit of detached coldness to some of it. but the more you write the more i see of you reaching in and exposing those raw nerves and ignoring the struggles with expressing your true feelings while not appearing to be so vulnerable. i say f**k it - play the cards you have and show the world your hand - let them know that hey, this fucken hurt ok? even it means risking being vulgar or offensive to some. it's your heart and damn if it isn't your craft and they can go read jack and jill if they don't fucken like it - no offense to anyone - but you don't write for anyone but yourself. you can dedicate poems to people etc but even then if you think you are writing it for them then you are just lying to yourself. i see your heart shining through more and more and hey it may hurt to pluck those strings and expose it not only for everyone else to see, but also for you to truly examine without avoiding the eyes in the mirror and that heart may be ripped in places or bruised and battered here and there - in all of that pain and turmoil it simply could never be more beautiful. your loss hurts but it also warms my heart and fills me with a sense of pride for you for having that courage to look it in the eyes and simply say "hello. this is me."

[Marie Anzalone]

How I miss your words and insight, my literary friend

[Dom Macchiaroli]

I do my travels at 3:30. This is a wonderful piece. The pain is very well articulated. Tough stuff.

[Alicante lullaby]

beautiful...i'm always speechless after reading you..its scientific and pretty and thought provoking and everything a write would be...

[Through the Gateway]

"I do most of my traveling at 3:00 AM"

It is interesting how most of our journeys come at the earliest times of the morning, when all others are asleep and no one is to wake. It is as if this time is special for those of us who have to examine our own lives.

This piece was incredible, and was filled with both sadness and frustration at not knowing where you stand in regards to the Universe. Who is to say whether what you have done, what you have intended to do, what you have helped others accomplish are worth the values that we attach?

So many long nights walking through a desert of the spirit, filled with the images of our own short-comings. How can we not draw conclusions of low self-worth when we are presented only with the transgressions we evoked upon ourselves?

Know this: you are not alone. In the desert, there are others to reach out to. Others that will become advocates and arbiters for our spirits. Together, we can all be sure that we live lives filled not with wistful paintings of a bleak nature, but of beautiful murals of all that we have accomplished for the good of others.

Excellently written, Marie. The style lends itself very well to a self-examination and the imagery was very poignant.

An incredible piece.

[Jibey]

The imagery of the desert journey is used to such good effect to chart the journey of the soul... the feeling of desolation and loss

[AtticusBlack]

I completely understand how this loss hit you. Recently someone I knew, who I had known extremely well but sadly we grew apart, died in a tragic hill walking accident, and it had a strange effect on me. You say you do most of your travelling at 3:00am, that provoked such thought for me. And it might be true, that there is no escape from the judgemental sun and from the fire, but in the end is there any escape from anything? A really interesting, intricate, multi-layered write that definately says a lot.

[An owl on the moon]

Your words are filled with such vivid depth, an experience of pain that seems to stop the world.. the deep loss that makes us wonder about everything around us and within us... Your reflections of the desert and of drifting thoughts of gardens makes me wonder of a legacy.. what all we leave behind us.. I have been through a desert.. and winter that lasts for years.. Oh, I hope that the rains will come and wash away some of your tears and refresh your spirit in what still lies ahead...

[Ed Hart]

yes, what else is there... you continue with your forthright revelation of your beautiful soul...

[Emily B]

I have no words to leave, the writing is excellent, but I wanted you to know that you aren't crossing that dry land alone. I imagine that reviews will filter in over the next hours and days that validate your thoughts and express much better what I can't find words for