The Hunt for Benches
Unbeknownst to me, I hunt for timeless benches. Here and Now I feel pain, sorrow, love, loss. Interested in the nature of things, the yellows, greens, browns and grays. A splash of red to hint at autumns passed. The path is less intriguing than the woods, branches laying lingeringly like tentacles in a sea of dead leaves. A graveyard for life’s simplistic beauty.
Then the plane stretches noisily across the gray-blue sky, taking people further from the truth buried in this magnificent tomb. My fervor diminished, I ask for help.
If I were a lute, let Shelley, Willy, Gordy fill me ’til the point of terrifying bliss. Powerful fits of energy upon reading their words, spilled on paper so endlessly endured. It’s as if they yearn for a way, a path to travel. A vessel to adopt. To burn again. They jump at my eager eyes, penetrate my soul, sink deep into my heart. And there, in the far recesses of my swollen heart, they find the refuge that they seek. The burning begins as do most, a single harmless spark. But I have the fuel, the sorrow, the grief, from pure and endless love lost, the fuel that threatens to hurtle me into oblivion, edging closer to the flaming embers. In them I see Truth, Connection, Humanity. Powerful, fleeting, endless. Without me they don’t exist. Profoundly connected to the source. Hundreds of years, hundreds of lives mean nothing without the words, and my eyes, my soul, my heart to see, feel and love.
I converse, my friends, to carry on the images of my fathers passed.
Remnants of an empty bench, a stone wall, keeping nothing in nor out. The birds of course chirp nonchalant and the children shout at their dogs. The arch-bent saplings like portals to another realm. Hidden in the midst of autumn’s end. I eagerly enter and climb, a hopeful loser. Yet superior to those who still have time and self. Above I can watch, tireless recollections of whiskey, work and worlds not lived. They can’t see me with their heads down, eyes down, absorbed in their next step, failing even to see their feet.
Here, through the arch-bent portal, over the stone wall, atop the leaf-covered rock ledge, it all makes sense. I take my seat awaiting on the bench. Man made, yes, but occupied not, for the climb is too high for most too easily denied.
Again she seeks to please me along my journey through the woods.
Her green reflects the beauty, an image begging me for words.
My bum rests on this cold gray bench, through long johns, jeans and still
I feel its cold pressed mock against cheeks once warm blood filled.
All around me bristles climb knee high, even to the waist.
A few sporadic tree giants high show promise, quicken haste.
In the end, where chipmunks roam, red triangles follow not.
The path to truth, to happiness so easily forgotten.
The woods, on foot, alone, adventurous
I travel on the hunt for benches.