By J.J. Tindall
BARE TREES
Alone in the cold
Of a winter’s day,
From the rostrum
Of a raised porch,
I survey
A horizon of bare trees.
My mind
Is at it again!
Mind, that factory
Of holy grails,
That gallery
Of smiles
Behind veils,
Projects itself
Once again
Seeking wisdom, solace
And even cheer.
A reprieve from fear.
Into nature:
Seeing grails, bulls
And bears
In the clouds
And stars.
And trees:
In every copse,
A calligraphy
Of bare branches,
Each a poem
In some pictorial language
Like Chinese.
The lines create
Not a representation
Of a sound symbol-not
A word to represent
A thing-but a picture
Of the thing
Itself.
Like the “word”
For sunset
In Chinese:
A tiny painting
Of the sun
Falling behind trees.
In every direction
From my humble rostrum,
Old growth trees
Represent a series
Of thick black line drawings
In the grey light.
At first, a mystery
To me. Then I see:
A blues for life
In an
Alien alphabet.
Cyrillic, perhaps?
Alien and yet
Somehow vaguely familiar.
My mind
Starts cracking code.
In every copse,
A calligraphy
Of heavy blues,
A crush of consecutive
Private traumas,
Fallen star men, lost heroes.
An elephant
In every room.
As when comes
The long, sleepless night.
A life’s uncontainable grief-
Successfully repressed in the walking, waking
Hours merely as a matter
Of survival-
Overwhelms the still, prone self
Attempting another night’s struggle
For relief.
Uncontainable, like
A bear in a chalice, or
A bull in a grail.
Alone in the cold
Of a winter’s night,
Is it the joys,
Victories and triumphs
That invade? Hardly.
They’re but a chalice
In a bear’s paw,
A grail on a bull’s
Tail.
My mind
Is at it again
And there is nothing
For it but endure,
Equivocate, evade.
Divert, distract,
Disassociate.
Amidst the oak, elm
And birch
The maples
Have the clearest, thickest
Lines, and mind
Apprehends the vision:
Bear in chalice,
Bull
In grail.
Dawn burns the demons
Away and suggests
A universality
To the night terrors.
Blues in calligraphy
Bared, released and
Commanding compassion
In every direction.
In the trees
My mind sees: not alone.
We share
These fears.
I raise
My grail of grief
To yours
And offer cheers.
–
J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
–
More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on January 18, 2016