we don’t want your prayers
void of spirit, void of heart,
talking points read from a teleprompter
but when there are guns at the gate
you may hear us praying, “build us a wall…”
and the gaslight flickers to black
you were born dazzling
as the stars on moonless nights,
wild as the ocean, brilliant as
flowers blushed with color;
your breath is a kiss of eternity,
breezy, slow, lingering…
so never let anyone say you
are broken…it is a lie
remember you are magic,
dancing to the rhythm of
the universe…poetry in motion
Magnetic Poetry Online (The Poet Kit)
People from miles around gathered at the wall. For centuries it had heard their fears, their hopes, their dreams. For centuries it had collected messages and prayers scribbled on scraps of paper and stuffed into its crumbling facade. Some people were true believers in the wall and its power to pass their intentions to the One who listens. Some thought it nothing more than a novelty, a tourist destination, a photo op.
Cyrus was one of the latter. He lived near the wall and hated it. He often laughed at the pilgrims, ‘emotional fools’, he called them, shouting at them from his doorway, “It’s a wall you know! You’re talking to a stupid wall! Can’t you see how crazy that is? Stupid wall…stupid, stupid wall!”
But early every morning, when the streets were empty Cyrus would shuffle over to the wall; to the very same spot each time. He reached into a paper-laden crack and gently removed a folded yellow note, dropped to the ground, tears flooding the corners of his eyes as he read the child-like scrawl fading on the page.
Please don’t take my mommy God. I need her.
Days after young Cyrus had written that note, his mother succumbed to illness. That was the day Cyrus stopped believing in the wall; in anything for that matter. He felt oddly comforted when he read the note though. Memories of his mother flooded his mind. As painful as it was, he couldn’t stay away.
Year’s passed and it was Cyrus’ time to leave this world. As he closed his eyes, weary from a life of pain and disappointment, he started to feel lighter. His soul rose above his body and drifted through the door of his house and over to the wall where his mother stood waiting for him, holding the yellow note in her hand.
“Momma? Momma, why did God take you away from me?”
“Oh Cyrus, I never left. Don’t you know that every time you came to the wall to read your note, I was right there, holding you. Reminding you of how much I loved you. Did you feel it Cyrus?”
“I did. Yes, I did feel you each time as lovely memories filled my head. That was you?”
“Yes. The wall and your note kept me close to you. Now you and I can both find rest and peace. Are you ready Cyrus?
“Yes. I’m ready,” Cyrus whispered as he took his mother’s hand. Together they drifted through the wall into the starry night sky.
The wall moaned and shuddered as another breach ripped its ancient stone face bottom to top creating another portal for notes from those seeking miracles and little boys, orphaned too soon.
For MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie Sunday Writing Prompt. This week: “It’s All in the Title” – Use one or more of the titles below to compose a song/story/poem:
A Girl Called Gift
A Night Without Dreams
The Day the Stars Burned
The Mulberry Bush
A Disquieting Haze
A Vision in Blue
The Man Who Talks to Walls
The Fairy Queen
‘I wander by the edge
Of this desolate lake
Where wind cries in the sedge:’ —W.B. Yeats
I have lazed for hours upon long hours
under cascading veils of willow tresses,
sipped sweet tea, beneath magnolias shaded,
contemplating dogwood’s pale bloody blooms
sometimes when it’s raining golden whirligigs
I close my eyes, and breathe amidst the flutter
imagining the thrill of falling, flying
a carefree, swirling dervish on the breeze
I have danced on tiptoes through bristled sedge groves
on tender shoeless feet, barbed nettles nipping,
to dip my soul in swelling, brackish wetness
with the gleaming shards of shoals ebbing
oh there are days I wish that I was fluent
in oaken-speak, in maple or mimosa
what wise time-measured wisdom I’d be gleaning
from rooted ancients practiced in surrend’ring
The pigs are are being tended to and my maddening angst is waning, at long last! And so, a meander to the brink for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats’ – Day Twenty-Two inspired by the verse above from his poem, ‘He Hears the Cry of the Sedge’.