Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Monday, December 21, 2009



I began writing this in a moment, on a very bad day when I thought I had lost something dear and precious. Later, I found hope and added hope to this. I am opening comments to this because Shadow has threatened me with great bodily harm if I don't.

The village was nondescript. Except that it lay on the edge of where war had once been. The big one.
He walked the fields that lay dormant for a thousand years. He cried as he walked, remembering what could not be forgotten.
His feet fell heavy and lifted even heavier, as if clay learned roots to better torment the living.
Old women hung laundry in the damp hopelessness and men counted coins in their shops to mark time. But it was he, the conscience of their soul, that could not be ignored. They watched him and dwelt in his misery, as children scratched marks in cold stone.
The snow fell as Christmas snow should. Green chased red in never ending tag. The children lay upon beds of makeshift dreams and colored green trees under orange crayons of sunshine, as December blew through the cracks.
She did the dishes in hopes of his late return. Shame kept her from the children. Fear kept her from the window.
One of the children, the smallest, looked up out the frosted window to the neighbor's laughs, racing from window to window. And wondered.
It was three in the morning. Another hour to go as he looked to the arm of his stiff blue
security uniform of feigned importance. Spending time he noticed his wrists and then his hands. So soft. Not the brown leather hands his grandfathers wore like worn suitcases, their people's history carried all right there. His, too soft. He pulled his sleeves low. Old women in generic hair pulled greasy handles as if a basket of dimes would really matter now. Grateful husbands, miserable old bastards really- slept in peace dreaming of flat tires on buses of glory.
Glory. Yes, what glory for a tribe that once ruled the plains and now hoodwinked and babysat old white women for miserable old bastards. He looked at his watch again and briefly thought of long ago, and seasons out of time.
In the beginning was light, and the light was good. Then there were seas, and the seas were good. Then were there trees, and grass and green fruit, and it was all good. Then a moon, a Sun and stars beyond measure. And it was good. Then great whales and beasts and great birds and all that, was good also.
Then there was man and he was given dominion over all that was good.

I dream.

A village of gentle breezes where the air dries perfectly. A place where coins have no place and children roll and laugh in fields of wildflowers as men smoking empty pipes smile in feathered line and lean to friendly trees that have never seen a war.

I dream.

A Christmas Morn where every child knows love and laughter in marshmallow hugs and the green catches the red in a new colour. A December that doesn't play favorites.

I dream.
Of peace and buffalo on a golden plain of simple existence. A field of harmony in a world void of tour buses and slot machines.

I dream, because I believe. He who called it good says the lion will once more lay down with the lamb. This is my hope.
Merry Christmas~rick