Ways Through The Thicket- 4 part poem

1.





The dragonfly always takes


The bee-line


Through the butterflies hazardous path.



There have been discussions
Concerning the "Control Of Chaos."
But it is not control the dragonfly seeks.



It is simply a more straightforward way


To reach one's destination
Than the rambling mess most bugs make of it.



You will see hummingbirds soon,


Many of them,
With the ability to hover, quiver,
And quickly pinpoint a resolution.



You will see shards of light
And scattered panes of glass
Blown about by an observer's contemplation.


It is another's vision you are witnessing-
And if you glimpse it for too long
Your own visions may be obscured.



But we don't worry too much these days
About why it is patterns do not remain
Upon the cracked pavement, forgotten parchment,



Or; how it is the roots of trees
Are easily uprooted,
But their trunks remain; like matchsticks
Spilled onto a porcelain floor.



The officials will declare this ground solid,
And the workmen will claim it can always be repaved-
How is it then, in any moment, quick and contained,


A person's life can become tentative
Like a birthday flame on a thin candle-
Wavering with every breath; easy to be spent.



2.



We see faces in the clouds


-Smiling, waving, or; grimacing, declaring-
Telling us if the day is happy or sad.



We kick twigs and leaves
Around on ground until the patterns they make
Content our superstitious sympathies.



The way the rain falls
-In slant, or peppered repetition-
Let's us know if the heavens
Are angry, or just quietly displeased.



Forget about groundhogs
Searching for shadow on symbolic days.


The hawks mating in the Eucalyptus,
And the doves on the telephone wire
Truly predict a barren winter,
And another sweat-soaked summer.



It is neither witchcraft,
Nor Shamanism,
We completely bend to.



It is all of the natural beauty,
Splendor, and drama


Bundled together that releases
Our sight into the minds of Others.



And they who awake


Remembering the same dream,
All at the same time,


All over the globe, in every country,
In every alphabet, of any color,
Look about the wasteland of forgotten images,
Memorizing faces that soon dismiss them,
Bottling memories that were long ago thrown overboard,
Sensing smell in movement- The way a parent holds
Her/his child, the way wet grass piles up
On the sidewalk after it is mowed, the way
The water laps into the kitten's mouth as she drinks it.
All wonder if there is any healing mud
That can salve wounds never scarred over.
The Voice in mind becomes obsolete then-


Our eardrums cease to reverberate for a moment-
As we watch the rain fall outside of our shelter
-It is not enough. Never enough.



3.



I learned as a child
The fastest way down a hill


Is moving diagnol; side-stepping the graded slope.



The easiest way, similarly,


Through square city blocks
Is to zigzag from one side-street to another,
As opposed, to walking "L" patterns on main streets.



I have learned recently

When the street sign reads, "Wrong Way-Do Not Enter."

It is the best way for a pedestrian

To find himself completely alone.




No one follows the foolish traveler

Down dangerous, unblocked

Train tracks.




And though he is considered a fool

The wise men, and high priestesses

Also walked that trial, though long ago.



In a city foreign to permanent improvement,

It is best to learn these tricks,

These ways through the thicket,

Because they have built city streets

Without crosswalks or sidewalks,

And created public transit that the public

Can barely afford, or maneuver upon.




-When I sleep outdoors

I face the rising sun,

Or, purposely lie where it is uncomfortable-

Because if a person does not keep moving,

In this fine city of Ghetto birds, and X-ray spotlights,

The icy stares, and frost bitten hearts

May freeze me to the ground




-Making future progression all the more difficult.




4.




You should know by now

The hardest button to button

Is the first one.




If you are clever,

You know which one that is-




The one at the breast,

Leaving the neck and waist lines free,

Securing the heart inside of the chest-




I have been out looking for werewolves

And enemies of our better passions,

And there are only a few.



The rest of Us wander among them,

Keeping a safe distance,

And not harboring any material items,

Or deep-trusted secrets

That they could steal from us anyway.




In a bramble of thorns, and sharpened bottlenecks,

You may see me- Resting, sleeping, or dazing about-




But only for a moment. A moment is enough.