Unknown Bloom

how one copes

I could feel my skin blush from the exposure of my emotions. 

 I thought I've done this before, spoke the words but never knew what they meant.

I've spoken so many words I don't remember learning.

Those weren't mine to know, but something I was somehow told. 

        So I took the smallest book for secrets of the master gardener, with no plants to tend.

 But left a book "20 leagues below the sea".

Trading my lonesome sea for a plentiful of traditional seeds. 

   As God watched me like a spider in my window, I asked only of 'fear' and not of bravery;

Four spiders later and the seven legged recluse was resurrected. 

  How I've become one with fear, but God still won't stop weaving webs.

Is this the cardinal curse dripping from my nose on a black Sunday? 

             A black widow making a home in my shoes, forever west the heart of disbelief and depravity like you.

As the clock ticks; I grow cold with anger for it is not my time.

Timex on my wrist ticks gentle and low, keeps me sedated with a warm amber glow. 

                     And so I wondered, if you never worried about summer ending would you not even notice the cold?

Switching your clothes only because it just felt natural?

Oven always red with a low lit flame, constantly making sure there are no cracks exposed in your window pane.

Grandmother begins to bake instead of brew, no longer holding hands with the sun but with oven mitts that'll feel brand new.

Morning birds no longer sing and ice has built up around your screen.

Insects allow themselves in, as you wish to be nice but sickness from the unknown makes you think twice.

Steamed tea fresh with old leaves, hand rolled bags for an attempt at relief. 

      Charles Magnante, Accordiana; playing as the flickering of flames dance along, 'the flight of the bumble bee' so goes the song.

Candle devouring itself, timex still ticking in the silence of my hedonic hour meant for rest.

Electric air happily connected together leaving glowing stains in all my photographs.

Earth is on its highest form of energy, providing my every movement with insulated comfort.

Like the man a top the great pyramids with his wine bottle wrapped in wet newspaper and knocking the nonbelievers down the white granite side; I too am a conductor of the Suns rays. 

          How speechless I became to show my worth; aligned my cranium, spine and heel with Honduras, Isis and Osiris like the band of peace. 

       My fire flight of star depiction, human ignorance surrounding my astounding persona such as the mystery of the limestone walls. 

           How silent would we have to be in order to understand the concept?

The aquaphor chambers crawling with healers, old and young indigenous wisdom keeper not yet westing.

But they'll still say it's just a tomb. 

           How powerful would you have to be in order to manipulate a culture straight from the womb?

Children canoes building a damn to save the weeping mothers still believing they're a mother. 

   A monarch sign of hope lost somewhere in translation, for man had to become beast in order to see.

All the beautiful golden skin laying naked on the red marble, admitting no fault in the disappearing star.

An for seventy nights the nighttime desert floor is darker than the black stone walkway leading from the water to the temple. 

          Do we become the disappearing star when the summer solstice passes?

Or do we die like the blue Lilly when the water freezes? 

      Depression sets in on the grasslands, confining winter weight for slaughter, my lithic flaked tongue pretending ive never tasted the snow fall before.

Paleo decent, no spiritual Ascension far past the post glacial acts of man.

But how far is the distance of the past when distance of time is falsely proclaimed, I ask? 

    And what of the past if we can't even understand the present? 

    Blind minds counteracting the submissive approach at higher state of consciousness, thought only to be obtained by substances and not of energy abundance. 

      The sun the sun and all its lights, play the harmonies and bring our minds to life.

Weigh our hearts and we'll decide how our souls will leave this side. 

           The moon the moon our mothers womb, bring back the stars and once again brighten up our tombs. 

    The snake the snake, with fathers face.

He leads with his right and holds one hand to the sky. 

    The hawk the hawk, and all the mothers taught man how to walk. 

       Their balance just the last stop on our delivery to the sun.

Thank the holy one for you have finally become, the passing star you were always meant to be.

Spreading ashes of consciousness into the atmospheric sea.

Now what was once reflected on earth, leads you through a cycle of melodic rebirth for the staff has never touched the ground and your soul now never will.

"The White Crown is set on your head. You seized the crook and the flail when you were (still) in the womb and had not (yet) emerged onto the earth."
///
But that was all just a dream I had. 

  Woke too rain and a hungry cat, empty stomach and the ticking of my watch now taunting me.

I will rinse out my favorite floral cup, fill it too the brim with coffee honey and a dash of hopeful luck.

Wander across the hall to see if grandmother is awake and how much of her sanity today God will take.

Homemade soup, she always makes the word 'comfort' palpable. 

             "You eaten yet dear?" She asks. 

  As the good lord instructs "Eat honey, my child." 

           And so I stay still; pollinated and cleansed.

      I'm afraid to watch her plants die... or her. 

            Is it worse to stick around for something so imminent? 

    Or to disappear before it becomes real just as too not experience or feel? 

            I once felt nothing for a drowning animal, not because it was suffering but because I could not help it.

Even if I did, I could not nurse it back to health.

Even if I did, I could not provide it a shelter and home.

Even if I could, I wouldn't be able to feed it.

 Even if I could keep it healthy, it will still only someday drown again. 

           All the beautiful flowers weightless in the forever west wind, unaware of their short existence.

Not worried, only trying to blossom in time to feel the sunshine on their flapping petals to be given color and purpose. 

       All the beautiful people watching the rain fall upon their windows saying "I love this weather."

 But would hate to be stuck in the rain.

How can you love something you're not willing to endure?

 Even if you did endure, you'd surely get sick.

Then when you are sick, hate will stir against the rain.

When hate has entered your veins, the sound of rain will make you sad.

Until next year when autumn comes back, and your body rejects whatever emotions you have but you won't understand. 

              "I love this weather."
I love the breeze and the rocks that get stuck in my feet.

The grass that always feels wet and the crunchy fallen leaves.

Green trees that haven't changed yet, and the frost on my Windows. 

        September it is, the placebo paradise of my sadness. 

    Where any thought holds no restrain, but I had no thoughts only breathes in between the truth being relieved to me.

The cardinal song reaching the mountain pass, I wondered as the harmonies glazed my cheek. 

   Is this the proof we all seek in our beliefs? 

    And I carried the stone, to the lake in the fog, where once was a tree of life is now God.

Thinned air for our ethereal bodies to adapt, it felt like depravity had me trapped.

In boding of dissolution, we sang as gentle as gentle comes.

Wave after wave I asked her well.. What do you say? 

 'Let's imagine for a moment there's only so much life to be given or taken away, how do you think we'd decide who leaves us and who will stay?

Not based on profession, religion or color.

But based only on who God liked better. 

  Do you think you'd make the cut? 

  Or your faith wouldn't be enough' 

  Is it not terrifying to know, that even if you love something dearly you'll eventually have to let it to go? 

       So if God wears black on my final day, I'll know that it wasn't meant to be.

As him an his holy son stand over me with their pale angels scolding accordingly. 

    Then I felt the fire raise between my toes, I thought it was love but then again everyone knows.

I heard God whisper in my virgin ear that I didn't deserve to meat death, so he came down to take me himself. 

            How ironic a man you never believed in will show you what it truly means to burn in hell.

 

       As my family would have me believe that is, so goes the stories told from dynasties to millenniums to centuries to our dinner table. 

           What's yet another story told from separate eyes, naive and new.

What's yet my untold truth, the baring gape of all my poisoned fruit.

For I am barren, only skin from those before.

Lips, nose and mouth the face of cultures to this day no one talks about.

Forgotten words, a coffin book with nafarious engravings.

My taste and wonders only dust and wood, my bones will become merely marrow shavings. 

         But if everyone's aware, does that not make it a sentience incognizance? 

   In the state of our elementary consciousness, it is easy to say:

 'I do not fear death.'

In an anima way, not by wakefulness.

Until you introduce esthesia bubbled by the cognitive able mind. 

     So instead, I ask my grandmother:

"Do you not feel strange planting annuals knowing when winter comes they will only die?"

She says, "No because I appreciate and enjoy their beauty while they're here.

Just as all of us should appreciate beauty in each other while we are still here." 

                   Grandmother taught me how to garden, so now I have mint leaves overtaking my doorstep to remind me of her scent.

I never needed the book when I get the pages in our morning coffee talks.

 I'm learning not to be terrified of her passing through her words and teachings, such as her perennials will come back each year so long as their roots are secure. 

    We pick fresh romaine leafs to snack on with warm smiles then bitter scrunch for the soil has gone bad.

Either way, we are just happy to be enjoying something together.

Spoiled or not, thank you for sharing your garden with me grandmother. 

    We then planted daisies, finished our coffee and I walked her to the swing where she continues to tell me of the beautiful ample garden she had with her first husband.

     "We had everything you could imagine, we would sit for hours in the sun eating strawberries and laughing happily."

She recites sadly staring at her tomato stock she continues to water even though no amount could bring it back. 

    "Do you still think about him sometimes?" I bravely ask. 

    "Yes of course, I still see him in my dreams often." 

   My mothers unholy match of a father born Charles Cook Dey Ermand , from Hartsgrove Ohio on the 21st of August in 1940. She never met him, only reflected him. 

 "The best tree trimmer in California", grandmother said.

He made everything look beautiful. 

     Became a logger after having my mother in an old pump house right by the Jordan river in Utah. 

     "There were no windows and barely any walls, we lived off the land and we loved it."

Grandma exclaimed thoroughly! 

    Then to only be consumed by his alcoholism, the only good thing my mother and her sister had to say about him was he was a good tree trimmer.

    I wanted to ask grandmother how he died but didn't wanna ruin the morning. 

 I couldn't imagine my grandmother ever sad, lonesome or grieving. 

    The swinging chains crack the silence and our coffee cups still stirring empty in our constant playful hands. 

     "Well I gotta finish getting ready for work Hun."

  "Thanks for the coffee grandma, have a good day." 

   We disappear into our separate homes, to go on with our day entirely consciously changed.

     Yellow blooming everywhere, autumn feathering our spectrum.

Tapering summer off into a abrupt bristled end, enclosed like an anastatica.

Our cryptobiosis actions will eventually germinate once again, sprouting new plants still seated in the fruit of our dead vessels. 

    "The coiner of the name spoiled it in the mint; for of all plants that have been written of not any are more unlike unto the rose."
And so the unknown bloom of my beliefs and fears manifested into a swarm of bees, a replacement sedative for all the chlorophyll pigment being drained from the green leaves.

Where old thoughts leave leaf scars when falling off the severed talk of my description. 

    I dreamt in another language to understand humanity. 

 I spoke in foreign tongues to gain cultural appreciation.

I served God in different religions to find some purpose in conscious existence.

And all before I finished my coffee and before grandmother spoke of the past.

Moment fluttered, wind taken the hopeful eyelash, a wish for conscious eternal.

-addisone