There is a man without a face
I saw his portrait on a wall today
His hair is black and all in place
Don’t know his name
Don’t know his trade
Don’t know the reasons for his fate
I think a lot about him
Wonder how it feels to vanish with no trace
What it’s like to be a man without a face
Behind these words are fingers
attached to corporeal being
a universe away yet right beside you, breathing
We speak we exhibit we opine we wander
we meet here or elsewhere briefly
we develop rapport, or repelling
Virtual and physical crossover
barriers remain as barriers lift
sometimes trust sometimes commonality, caring
Exchanges effect changes
Revolutions Reverie Revelation.
Not a sound I heard for weeks now
but our project works like that, with gaps
either you withheld or I wasn’t listening
No matter I’ve never seen your face
I have seen you clearly, there on a hilltop, unveiled
your arrangement of words hope flowers in sunshine
I will miss your brilliant light and excellence
the gentle brutality of your wisdom, your truths
and your presence behind the words I read.
Goodnight, my virtual friend
Go lightly on your journey
Goodnight.
For skeletons
of lonely children
fleeing villainous tormentors
welcoming final escape
embracing relief of innocent death
cradled now by pure Mother Earth
in graves unmarked
names lost or changed or unknown—
we sing our mourning song
we offer quiet Freedom Tears
we chant in voices that will not relent
we hold each one within this soft sacred circle
where humanity emerges the victor
where their names again are whispered
where they rise to be printed in the stars
with love and sorrow and remembrance and hope
we will never forget:
You are not alone
You are not alone.
What shall I secret now
here in this silver locket—-
a blade of green
a slip of blue
a sift of light
a gulp of river
a purple of rain
a shiver of wind
a mince of moon
a glass of joy
a flick of hope
a bar of song
a hint of soon?
What can I keep close
steadied and still—
not let go?
He walked among us
awhile
occupying that space
between
ponderous straight man
and our own private clown.
His Going shakes us.
Sobers.
Reminds us again:
to respect
humanity’s fragility—-
his
—our own.
We are not
our achievements.
We are human.
Soft
Breakable
Small.
Each one
worthy
of love
Remembrance.
Leaving our imprint
to linger in
warm places.
World is still
beautiful
But sorrowful, too
Your voices
silenced
World misses
You.
Not an original
ideas become
inspirations spawned
from glimpses
magnetic hunger stealings
foraged kindling
yields way to flame.
He is there in his recline.
Others have written his words in their hands.
We who know nothing arrive to reflect.
In the centre
of this pale punishing
room
I stand
free and still
feel heartbeat
rhythms
hear you—
my own voice
sing in walls
On an eve
of disaster
standing silent and true
three windows witness
soft light crude
hold on steady
they took nothing
from you.