My Tag, My Mark & My Wall: Welcome to Russ Williams’ World

Hello Everyone,

Welcome to the literary, poetic, spiritual and cinematic world of Russ Williams. I’m happy that you chose to visit this website. While you’re here, feel free to read my poetry, check out my news and look around the site.

I’m sorry I’ve been out of sight for a while, but I’ve recently made an international move from Malaysia back home to the U.S. I’m now living in southern California in the Palm Springs area, also in the southern California desert. I am now slowly getting back into my writing once more, starting again with my poetry.

I publish all my poetry in this Blog, plus news and personal commentary. My most recent poetry is here. Sheet by sheet, I’m going through my older poetry and word-processing it, to post it here, as it’s ready.

While you’re reading or using this Blog, here is some handy information you may want to keep in mind:

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  • I may not be able to send a “thank you” for every compliment, but rest assured that I appreciate any and all you might want to send my way.
  • For more information about me, you can visit my Russ Williams Writer website (if you’re not there already) at http://www.russwriter.com/Home.htm.

My horror film Darkest Night, you can still watch on HuluPlus! The film is also available in the U.S. and Canada on DVD and some other VOD platforms. Check out Amazon.com. Watch it sometime, when you get a chance, if you’re a fan of good Gothic horror movies.

So thanks again for visiting my website. Stick around for a while and check things out. I hope you enjoy your stay!

Best regards,
Russ Williams

The Story Behind ‘The Last Year’

I believe my screenplay and film The Last Year has much to say to anyone willing to watch it with an open mind. Yes, it definitely is a low-budget film with a few “rough edges.” But for those of you who are not totally stoned on films with million-dollar budgets and can look past a few on-screen stumbles, the movie offers much to feel, ponder, and dwell upon. Love it or hate it, the film’s effect on you will last long after you see the last of the end credits.

Especially, I wrote The Last Year for those who have journeyed the long, difficult road of trying to be both gay and Christian, in an environment that is hostile, homophobic, and lacking in understanding. Those of us who have “been there” know that just a simple act of honesty (regardless of Bible “interpretations” or personal theology) can result in becoming an outcast, from friends, family, school, job, and even spouses and children. I have known many who ended up living empty lives, being on drugs or alcohol, and one who even committed suicide.

How the Tale Begins

The story of The Last Year began long before I wrote it in late 1995. The idea began kicking around inside my head during the late 1960s, when I attended my first “Christian School.” I never thought of writing anything about the experience then, of course, but the ideas were taking root. I grew up in a conservative Republican family in the South, and we were all traditional, Bible-oriented folks. Fundamentalist Protestantism was like water and air to us, so universal and ever-present, we never questioned its presence or realized how much it shaped our lives.

During my college days in Nashville, in the early 1970s, I rebelled and joined the “sixties” culture. Soon afterward, I married and had a son. The necessities of family life forced us to leave the counterculture, so my wife and I joined the march of so many young Baby Boomer families, back to our “roots.” For us, it meant back to fundamentalism (my wife had the same background) and yes, the closet for me. Of course, I had known since my junior high days that I was gay and even took some tentative “coming out” steps in the sixties. But in those days, everybody told me I could “change,” that it was a sixties phase, and I believed them for a while.

Moving On to Christian Colleges, Questionings & Beyond

So, armed with my newly found “faith,” I attended Evangel College in Springfield, Missouri, then Wheaton College in Wheaton, Illinois (near Chicago), both “Christian” schools. Along the way, my marriage fell apart, and my wife and I went our separate ways. Subsequently, I began questioning everything in my life. For certain, my efforts at remaining closeted were taking their toll.

During my last year at Wheaton, I had my first gay love affair, and the changes in my thinking became complete. I had stepped out of the closet for good, including the prison of fundamentalism. When my lover and I left Wheaton, I knew I was leaving more that just a place. Afterward, we stayed together for many years, a time of great change in my life.

Eventually, I moved to Los Angeles and settled down. I lived there quietly for more than 20 years. Meanwhile, after I turned my back on Wheaton and during the 1980s, my former religious compatriots underwent a startling metamorphosis. When I was a part of the movement, we were just a bunch of isolated “fundies.” Before my eyes, these same folks became a political movement dubbed “The Religious Right” by the press.

Uneasily, I watched these developments with quiet forebodings. Those of us who used to live in that right-wing culture know firsthand how much those people absolutely hate gays and lesbians. They are well-meaning in their intentions, for sure, but caught up all too much in a tidal wave of collective bigotry and prejudice. Over the years, my thoughts on spirituality and who I am changed so much, I quietly buried my memories of those conservative schools and my closeted past. More than anything else, I wanted to forget the pain of trying to hide my real self and putting up with the constant, virulent homophobia of that parochial world.

A New Organization & New Stirrings Within

I was almost successful, until the day a couple of years ago, when I heard about an interesting event. Some people were forming an organization, the Wheaton College Gay and Lesbian Alumni (WCGALA), and I got on their mailing list. Paul Phillips, of the gay music group, Romanovsky and Phillips, had been a “Wheatie” (school slang for a Wheaton student) and the driving force behind this new group. I happened to be a fan of their music, and I was truly amazed to find out Paul and I shared this experience in common. WCGALA began mailing out a newsletter, so I started reading articles and letters from others who shared similar experiences to mine. Often I found myself nearly overcome with emotion. As buried experiences came back to my remembrance one by one, I A lot of folks call Wheaton the Harvard of the Religious Right. Much of the thought and rationale of that entire movement began there.

Wheaton is Billy Graham’s alma mater, and in many ways, it remains the intellectual “buckle” of the Bible belt. For those of us who attended Wheaton and were gay or lesbian, it was the best and worst of times. We remember the homophobia, yes, but also the friends and security we had to leave behind. In my life, the memories were even more poignant, because that world, of all places, was where I had my coming-out experience.

In early 1995, I took on the role of Southern California Coordinator for WCGALA (since then, this group has disbanded, and I have joined another via Yahoo). Our regional group of about a dozen people started getting together for times of sharing and reminiscing. These events accelerated my own personal “memory recovery” process.

The Last Year Takes Shape

Then one night, I had an interesting dream. I saw a young guy, college-aged, driving a small red VW bug (like one I used to have) across an autumn, Midwestern landscape. He was alone and seemed determined. I asked myself, “Where is he going?” The answer, of course, was back to Wheaton. I woke up, knowing I had to write about his story. That story, of course, was my own.

The vividness of the dream, especially the color and beauty back east during fall, made me want to see the events take place, not just put them down in words. These images had to become a film, and the idea gripped me so profoundly, I couldn’t rest until it came to life as a screenplay. The guy in the VW became the main character, Paul, and the rest of his story soon came to life. Once I had finished the work, I realized that Hollywood’s aversion to gay subject matter would prevent me from getting it known through any of the “mainstream” accepted routes.

So I put aside the normal pathways of sending scripts to agents and film companies. Instead, I set out on the independent road to getting this film produced. Since then, many others have joined with me, including a director and an actor who wants to play Paul. Eventually, the film was produced by Guardian Pictures in San Luis Obispo, California, and directed by Jeff London. As a result, The Last Year was born.

From Film to Life – Coming Full Circle

Why is there a need for this film? It proves the lie of the Religious Right’s cliché that they “hate the sin and love the sinner.” If anything, they hate us, as gay and lesbian people, even more than sin. And most of all they despise those of us “queers” who sojourn in their midst. We are (or were) deceivers, outsiders wearing and profaning the cloak of the elect. If they could, they would condemn us to the lowest level of hell. We are the obvious and unavoidable signs that homosexuality comes from “us,” all of us, and not just “them.”

In many ways, The Last Year is autobiographical, but only to a certain extent. I have changed many of the names and circumstances for dramatic or protective reasons. I was older than Paul while at Wheaton and Evangel. Eastmont College is not Wheaton but actually a composite of three Christian schools I attended. Ken, my romantic opposite while at Wheaton, was not a fellow student but rather a young townie, a part of the college crowd. I was lucky enough to keep my love a secret and graduate, though I had many friends who were not so fortunate and had their lives destroyed or nearly so. Yes, the tragic suicide did happen, but differently and some time later, after I graduated.

Still, the main thrust of this story is true and its theme universal. The human heart and nature will always rebel against tyranny because its tendency toward fascism is spiritually diseased and inhuman. This statement remains true, whether fascism masquerades as the “big lies” of a single despot or as “sincere” religious righteousness. Unfortunately, a revolution against such inhumanity brings out the worst, as well as the best, that is in us. But I believe that, in the long run, freedom, compassion, personal loyalty, and above all, truth will prevail.

I’m not trying to sell a DVD here, but my film is available for you to view. You can rent it through NetFlix or whatever. For more information, check out Wolfe Video at their website. I encourage you to see my film and, if you want, let me know what you think. Thanks!!!

So You Really Want To Scare People: Choose Your Poison, Gothic or Horror?

When you start to write, direct or produce “horror” stories or any feature film fiction of this type, one of the most helpful questions you can ask yourself is “Am I really doing a horror story?” This may sound like a strange question, but actually there is much confusion nowadays between horror and Gothic story lines. The two genres are closely related but remain totally different animals. There are other similar questions you should also ask as well. If you want to do horror, is your story really Gothic with a horror disguise? Is it Gothic horror, and if so, how much is it one or the other?

Most people can easily distinguish horror stories, but don’t have a clue about what constitutes the Gothic tale. Horror is scary, right? The fear element definitely predominates. Gothic may or may not be scary. If it’s Gothic and scary, you have Gothic horror. The first Gothic story (actually a novel) was written by Horace Walpole in England in 1764, a ghost story of sorts titled The Castle of Otranto. Its success began a thriving literary trend, first in England and then, by the nineteenth century, all over the world.

The horror genre sprang from Gothic literature during the early 1800s, almost simultaneously in Great Britain and the U.S. By 1850, horror stories were a thriving genre all their own worldwide, along with their purely Gothic brethren. Incidentally, not only horror, but crime drama, Medieval-type fantasy (think “Middle Earth”), and even science fiction all originated from the Gothic literary stream.

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A Description of Differences: Gothic Versus Horror Fiction

So what is Gothic fiction? Chris Baldick’s “Introduction” to The Oxford Book of Gothic Tales defines a Gothic text as being made up of “a fearful sense of inheritance in time with a claustrophobic sense of enclosure in space, these two dimensions reinforcing one another to produce an impression of a sickening descent into disintegration.” I would add that the agent producing this disintegration is uncanny in origin, that is, something supernatural, preternatural (mysterious/unknown), or fantasy/psychotic-related.

So, for a story to be Gothic, some kind of dark history has to be there. For example, an evil from the past confronts a group of people in an isolated area. The isolation equals claustrophobia. So how does this group react? If the fear element is strong, you have Gothic horror. On the other hand, such a story can be merely suspenseful, without being scary at all. Keep in mind that the claustrophobic “area” can also be within a person’s own mind, for example, someone in an extremely dreamy, deranged, drug-induced or nearly psychotic state.

An essential element of the Gothic is almost always “romance” or “Romance,” either the erotic or literary type (Romanticism with a capital R) or both. What is “literary” Romanticism? Well, check out the classic American horror author, Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849). His stories are mostly lacking in man/woman romance but are full of dark, literary Romanticism, that is, things like old castles and ruins, persons near-madness, damned souls, unspeakable desires, darkly mysterious elements, people attaining “freedom” from society as stark isolation and so on. Just as Baldick leaves out the uncanny, which surely “haunts” much within the Gothic territory, he omits romance and Romanticism as well.

Nowadays, if you want to write a good Gothic story, especially one that sells, “romantic” almost always means a male and female in love. To hold your audience in today’s world, you need to have a strong romantic interest to animate your plot. Doomed or daunting love is the Gothic romantic theme par excellence. However, you can also have it both ways, as does Emily Brontë (English, 1818-1848) in her novel Wuthering Heights. Brontë’s main story line is about a tragic romance, but she manages to insert a romantic subplot with a happy ending. Also, her story contains both literary and man-woman romance. Volumes have been written about the relation between the Gothic and Romantic (and/or romantic). All you really need to know about the two is that to write a successful Gothic story, in the words of the song, “You can’t have one without the other.”

If Emily Brontë (and her sister Charlotte, 1816-1855) typify the romantic end of the Gothic spectrum, authors like Poe and H.P. Lovecraft (also American, 1890-1937) champion the horror side. With these authors, the evil from the past confronts and overwhelms its lonely, forsaken victims, and they’re usually damned forever. Whether the main characters in Gothic horror are trapped in a threatening location or within their own tormented souls, they writhe in abject fear until they meet their untimely demise, or worse, a “lifetime” of some type of living death, insanity, agony or eternal condemnation.

Gothic & Horror Stories in Hollywood & Film

In film, an excellent example of a “purely” Gothic tale is The Sixth Sense (1999). Called by Hollywood a “supernatural thriller,” this story is actually Gothic in the best sense of the word. Without retelling the whole plot line here (the film is available on DVD if you haven’t seen it), let’s check out why Gothic story elements clearly predominate.

The main character feels trapped by what happened to him in his own past history and senses a disintegration and isolation in his life, all of which he cannot understand. The theme of the supernatural is established early on by the boy with strange visions of dead persons. The romantic element clearly predominates, with the focus on the main character’s relationship with his wife, and in fact this entire story turns on this man’s undying love for her. In the end, the tragic reason his life has “fallen apart” stunningly reveals itself. Death has indeed triumphed over love, but there’s a final hope that love can be stronger than death. This is authentic Gothic stuff and could have easily been penned by a modern American version of Emily or Charlotte Brontë. The film’s writer-director, M. Night Shyamalan (Indian-American, b. 1970) went on during the next decade to establish himself as one of the Gothic masters of Hollywood film.

On the other hand, stories like the Friday the 13th film series (first film directed by Sean S. Cunningham in 1980, spawning a raft of sequels and a remake!) represent total horror, for better or worse. Cunningham (American, b. 1941) and his successors didn’t throw much of the Gothic or romantic into these stories, in any sense of either word (these films also available on DVD, if you don’t mind the blood). The films’ plots are like gory “fun-house” rides and depend entirely on shock, panic and the fear factor. In most horror stories, good conquers evil, but often the opposite can happen as well. Regardless, these stories invariably end in a feeling of devastation, a kind of breathless exhaustion like most people feel after a traumatic or terrorizing experience.

In better-done virtually “pure” horror stories, for example, The Exorcist (1973, American, directed by William Friedkin) fear compounds fear until a final suspense sequence pays off with near-unbearable fright. The conflict between the good and bad characters (or bad “monsters”) becomes a near-epic struggle against jeopardy that, at every turn, could possibly end in death. On the other hand, really bad horror tales have a near-pornographic feel to them as plot and characters come off as just “filler” between the often grisly, blood-filled scare scenes. One feels sense of impatience when there’s no violence or gore happening, a desire to “speed things up” so the plot can get on to the next horrific scene.

Keep in mind that horror can be gory and visual or driven by more psychological, unseen menaces. The offstage tends to be more powerful because it leaves much to the imagination. An unseen, ubiquitous menace has the uncanny ability to generate powerhouses worth of suspense. Still, shock and awe predominate in pure horror, and good authors in the genre milk human hormones, sexual, as well as adrenalin and others, for every drop of thrill they can provide.

So How Do You Combine the Two Dark Genres?

Gothic horror provides a broader story canvas because it can blend and play off both genres. Poe and Lovecraft demonstrated this ability in its most classic sense. Modern authors like Stephen King (American, b. 1947) and Anne Rice (American, b. 1941) continue writing in this tradition. Examples of Gothic horror abound, including stories about vampires, werewolves, exorcists, Frankenstein types, succubae, incubi, and undead ghosts.

Vampire stories are excellent examples of marrying the Gothic with horror. By its very nature, the vampire tale can combine themes of entrapment, evil history, disintegration, and the supernatural equally with stark, awesome terror. In nice addition, the male vampire, as an object of desire, can pump the hormones totally while inspiring romance at the same time. Lately, even female vampires have been stirring up their share of fictional and cinematic libido. What an amazing character type! Bram Stoker (Irish, 1847-1912) created the model of the modern vampire with his classic 1897 novel Dracula. These ubiquitous blood-suckers have become a main staple of Gothic horror ever since.

Anne Rice pumped “new blood” into the vampire tale by giving the world loving, sensitive vampires. Her cemetery ground-breaking novel Interview With the Vampire (1976), features a memorable denizen of the undead, the dandyish Louis le Pointe du Lac. He hates killing humans, dotes on children, romantically entices women without draining them in any sense (except maybe sexually) and even has a good PR relationship with the media. The Twilight novel series by Stephenie Myer (American, b. 1973, first book, 2004) has taken this trend many steps further with vampires so lovable, attractive and successful, they have become positive role models! Who wouldn’t want to be a vampire like Meyer’s main man, Edward Cullen? At this rate, vampires will most likely be propelling the successful marriage of the Gothic and horrific far into a fascinating and fun-filled future.

Be Sure To Use the Right Scary Genre

So, the main rule is don’t confuse your genres. You run the risk of turning off your readers, who may not be able to define “Gothic,” or even horror, but know either one when they see it. More importantly, they know when your genres have been botched. You’re certainly free to write Gothic, horror, or both. However, be aware of the specific properties of each genre and use them wisely.

Especially when you combine them, do so with the care and skill of a French chef mixing onion and garlic (vampires beware!). These seasonings are similar but distinctly different flavors in your spice cabinet, just as Gothic and horror sit side by side among your genre sources. Treat them that way, stir carefully, and serve with élan. Incidentally, you may want to include a dark red wine. Unless, of course, you never drink … wine!

For more information: To read an excellent examination of modern trends in things Gothic, check out Contemporary Gothic by Catherine Spooner. I am indebted to her for some of the ideas in this article.

A Friend Remembered

Apollo, we loved you.
We pray you’ve found
a better realm than ours
without such
carelessness
from another who sent you,
defenseless, away.
You were only
a cat, but we
weep for you
still, who hope your departure was
swift and bereft of pain.

Apollo, we miss you.
You brought us amazing affection
when we took you in.
We truly needed your kittenish frolics,
and you freely gave us joy
during all the years you were ours.
You could play so hard with sheer abandon,
dashing lightning
bolt-like before our faces.
Other times you
transformed into a gray-striped, furry throw rug,
mid-room on the floor,
sleeping, stretching, rising snake-like,
late in sunlit morning.

Apollo, we love you
still.
Ever, you remained our
constant companion.
Your memory tip-toes behind us
on silent paw-pads
every day.
We smile and say:
Thank you.

Advent Meditation: Love, Control & Hope

Bible Lesson: I Thessalonians 3:9-13

“May the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all.” (Excerpt)

Advent is my favorite season in the church calendar and the first Sunday the day of my deepest, most profound feelings. Even when I was a child, this season was always a wonderful time for me, filled with hope, expectation, love and excitement. Anticipation has always been one of the key emotions of this season, looking forward to Christ’s second coming as well as His first.

However, as the last sentence above implies, Advent has its dark side. The Bible often speaks of the second coming of our Lord as a time filled with joy, but also with judgment and terrors. During Advent the church reads many such scriptures and preaches sermons encompassing both mercy and judgment. So we have hope on one side and apocalypse on the other. What could possibly bind these opposites together?

The answer of course is Christ’s love. This love, called “agape” in the New Testament, is infinitely purer than the selfish love that we can summon within ourselves. Mere human love breeds the desire for control, and sadly, control is the destroyer of love. Often our own tiny love contains the seeds of its destruction, as well as hurting the ones we say we love. Christ’s love comes to set us free, to liberate us from the need for control that consumes so much of our lives.

I remember a time, when I was a child, when I caught my first frog. I put it in a large jar with leaves, sticks, insects, and so on, hoping to create an environment it would like. At the same time, I could watch it, have it close, and keep it “under my thumb” so to speak. Of course, I punched holes in the lid of the jar for air, and gave the small animal plenty of water. Presto! I was proud of my first living terrarium.

My pride lasted for only a day. The next morning, I pulled out my jar, and the frog was dead. Sadly, I took the jar outside, emptied the pitiful contents into a small hole and buried it. Yes, I did control the frog for a time, but it simply could not live under such constrictions. My terrarium was really a prison for the little thing. Without freedom, it soon died.

So does our own control-seeking love threaten to wreck the lives of our loved ones and finally ourselves. Our one hope to escape this terrible cycle of love and its destruction is to enliven ourselves with the pure love of Jesus. Such love “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things,” according to St. Paul in I Corinthians 13. This love never ends. It is our eternal hope.

Yes, the Bible speaks of a Christ who will come on the Last Day to liberate us and a world filled with sin and selfishness. This is our abiding faith. Also, He can come into our hearts daily, provided we let Him, Here and now, Jesus can free us from controlling love that only destroys. Just as the Bible speaks of a Last Day that brings the annihilation of the old, so we must allow the crucifixion of our own selfish love. In doing this, we can experience Christ’s real love within ourselves and for others. So the darkness of Advent can become the light and hope of Jesus’ perfect love.

Here is an eternal, immutable law of God and the cosmos: Before something truly new can come into this world, the old must pass away. During Advent, let us remember a dark and mournful world over 2000 years ago, and time that waited for Jesus and His love. Such were the days of the ancient Hebrew prophets who foretold the coming of a Messiah.

However, when Christ was born, lived and resurrected, that old world died. May our own small-hearted and control-obsessed love die as well. Dear God, help us grasp the opportunities we have each day to show Jesus’ selfless love to all around us in a world of direst suffering and need.

Walking in Wilderness

Looming shadows fall upon our day
as eventide takes all, and sun-glow journeys
on. Yet, later still an after-light
will haunt the sky and creep upon
its vast still heart.
First barely seen,
bright sunrise steals
then kills
the desert’s cold of night.

Does the Child live here?
Yes, even He must sleep in womb’s wet blackness
before He rushes out
to rise and dance in day.

Light and dark together dwell
within this deep-drilled well we call
our world. Both must live as one
for us to see, eyes opened widest.
A lamp held high
illuminates a dusty, cob-webbed
attic room in such a way. All remains
invisible
without darkness.

Yes, in glory, someday
sun and moon will die
in flame. So then the Man
will dance
anew, and what of us?

We’ll all be free
to live eternal far
beyond these desert
sunset days.

The Stone

He sits within my dreams,
a troubled tinge that tosses me
and throws my covers aside.
I dwell on him sometimes
and run from such a thing
in thoughts.
His glaring stare looks down
upon my daily ways
like searing sun
strikes heat
on desert dunes.

Always seeing, never leaving,
this stalker walks
and watches behind me.
At times, he catches bits and parts
of my fleeting, flitting shadow.
He jeers and jabs my every effort
till only tatters stay behind
to tell me
of a darkened day.
His breath is rank
and stinks of rat-filled sewers.
He won’t go away, though
I shout at him and try to strike
his bony face.
He’ll only gaze,
and I know he’ll stay
until I pay his price.

Those who mocked my workings
or ransacked me for the taking
must one day also find him,
whether they’re waking or still in sleep.
He’ll seek and take each one
to a place where echoes
fade to ghosts.
The ones who tore away at me
and foes unfeeling
will meet him too
in burrowed blackness.

Will you bear my money there
or take my talismans to him?
Are you to carry my close attentions
into his constant smile?
Can you still taunt me
with lips so stitched and sealed
forever still?

We will melt into one,
molded by him
to make marshy earth.
Rushed to his realm
among roots of trees,
we’ll gather there,
whether by will or from waste.
Each in turn will eat
his hollow dirt
and inherit his blank testament.
Following scores of forsaken footprints,
one by one, we shall wallow
in sodden, shallow soil.
Find us beneath
his half-buried stone.

The River’s Children

Liquid-like hills of the Klang River
recline around her cloud-veiled valley.
Low-lying light reveals
masses of restless people,
rising slowly from their blank and blinded night.
They walk or wind about on roughened roads,
a cacophony of multicolored cars and buses
or ceaseless cycles.
Hordes cascade out
to take their toilsome day.

Many pious and impassioned faithful
cry out with anguished, wistful prayers,
seeking to save themselves
from a postponed certainty of Sheol.
Others simply wake, avoiding prayer
to take a faster time to get to where
the checker-board streets will bear them.
The rushing seeming feral-driven seekers of work
stop in roadways clogged
as rivers dammed by heavy rain’s debris.
Are those who don’t pray
damned as well by hardened tasks
grown tough and cold as shards of clay?
Still, highways push the steel-imprisoned minions,
like flash floods rushing down
their rain-filled ways.

The Klang River still wanders softly,
silently through the valley
among her orphaned children:
Rounded ridges, carved roadways,
and peoples living their days.
Syrup-like, its green-gray waters
ease great silted burdens into the sea.
Like all of us,
for sure, each drop will one day pass
into a still and darkened depth.

Desert Wanderings: Thoughts

You and I see
shadows fall upon our destined days.
Eventide takes all,
as sun-glow journeys on.
Then, later still, pale after-light
haunts sky and creeps across its vast
unquiet heart.

Past barren night, appears another glow.
First barely seen,
bright sunrise steals
then kills
the desert’s darkened cold.

So, the cycle courses on
And carries us along.
We only rend its grip
when our own sure sunsets
sever all.

I ask
about a child.
Yes, even this one slept in womb’s wet blackness
before he dared rush out
to bask and dance in day.

Light and dark together dwell
within this deep-drilled well we call
our world.
Each soul must meld the two as one
before sight dawns with eyes
made fully wide.

In some past time before,
I once explored
a dusty, cob-webbed attic room.
Holding a candle
high, I saw the place
anew, allowing restless
shdows to show my way.
All
remains unseen
without the dark.

On some appointed date unknown,
sun and moon will die as one,
with all of earth aflame.
The child,
then grown, shall
dance anew.

More must await us after.
What shall illuminate our pathway
during that endless, rushing no-time
of stifled stars?

Lightened or no,
we’ll wrest a way
to live on and
dance through endless space.
Then, I say let’s wander
far
beyond these bounded desert
sunset days.

Mocking Bird Song

We sat on moonlit craggy
rock-dome; its granite face
turned outward toward
enshrouded valleys.
I felt your grief,
unspoken,
yet so real
as if a marker
stood between us.
The quiet stone sank
deep into your heart
as in a well
without an echo.

Night surrounded us
and wrapped each ponderosa pine
in silver stillness.
The shadowed wilderness
gave not a hint
of sad remembrance.
Yet I knew what images
lay close
beneath your wistful smile.
So we watched the sky
change from blue to indigo,
then black.
Twilight,
like a curtain drawn
across the mountainscaped horizons,
hid the day.
Its last, long sigh
was lost
in gray-hued past,
unreachable,
as the hard escarpment
underfoot.

What could I speak
to pierce this wall
of tears?
The lunar orb
had not an answer,
but shed
its lonesome whiteness
on your face.
The softened light
seemed here to paint
your features
with a shaded
distance,
far beyond my touch.

God, where have my words
flown off to?
Grant me speech
to meet
such sorrow.
My answer was a memory
that here I share with you.

I’ll tell a winsome story
of my far-off homeland, Tennessee.
In this fabled place,
there is a bird.
we call the mocker. He speaks not
from himself,
but in mere shadow-voices
copped from others.
Yet, as a child, I heard him clear
in early morning,
carol loud his own breathed spirit.
He did call out
with all his grace toward misty space.
There, soon, a lantern sun
would break in two,
the eastern sky.

In brighter times,
the mocker hides this other self.
Instead, he shows it
just before the dawn
with long, enchanting songful cantilenas.
Joyful, loud, in ecstasy
he greets the coming day.

Arise and sing,
my mocking bird,
sweet loved one
of this other time.
Put off your mask;
fly free
to mountain peaks.
Come laugh with me.

I’ll tie your griefs
around the wings
of my tiny mocking friend.
Yes, then I’ll tell him:

“Take my loved one’s burden
to the highest branch
of yonder Ponderosa pine.
Sing it out
above the treetops.
Bear such mourning
and transform it
into songs of life a-borning.
May this new-found voice
soar far
above the clouds,
and let its sound ring out
for all of time.”