Slight of Hand - by Paul Edward Ralph

i got to thinking about the tyranny of fear which violence brings. about newtown.

  

and i was begging god for those moms and dads, and siblings.  

that he would bring memories of delight, and laughter, and adequacy. 

and that he would hide the memories of sadness, and inadequacy and failure, and especially memories of those moments when they - as parents - settled for immediacy instead of intimacy. even for just a few short hours, days, weeks even months. until they've had some time to begin to heal.

  

who among us hasn't settled?

  

i remember 'watching my kids play' rather than 'playing with my kids' when they were younger.

i've closed the door too many times because i was tired.

i've retreated to my backyard gardens instead of throwing a frisbee.

i've turned on the idiotbox because a conversation would take too much effort.

and the list goes on.

  

believe me when i say i'm not self-depricating.  nor am i preaching.

 i sat a my desk tonight to write and remind myself of the struggle for intimacy, and its beauty.  of the hard work of recognizing the important things in life and railing against the tyranny of the urgent. i wanted to remind myself to expose the lies of my mostly self-imposed distractions. i wanted to remember those 'newtown' parents who will not get another chance at a good night tuck in, nor butterfly kisses, nor bedtime prayers. and i wanted to continue to beg god for them in my own way.

slight of hand

most of what distracts us ultimately falls like harvest leaves

and to these very things which feign importance we dance

with relentless obedience, the urgency of their drumbeats

demand

and ain't that the curse of the slight of hand

and ain't that the way as the hours turn to days

yet they are not enslaved to us these fallen leaves

these urgencies surrender nothing

we give.

they take.

and they plunder with pitiless indifference

a light beckons us put aside this decaying gold, and red, and

brown

it bids us shed our fascination with distraction

inviting us out of the shadows and into the light

come, it whispers

come be the child

toss a stick or play a game

take a hand and skip and laugh

the moon bloom petitions me turn my face toward this sun

this morning sun so gold, and red, and round

for in that bright hour the soul awakens

and hidden ‘neath the surface of this autumn carpet

lies a treasure of unspeakable riches

a clarity and a confidence no distraction ever imagined

for a scandalous moment i cast off the chains of immediacy

and all her whoring charms and welcome intimacy to my

bosom

and there we lie together

she and me

still. present. warm.

and i know that we are home

if only for a moment

and through the din i can still hear her whisper

breathe

then breathe again

per
18DEC2012

theideascafe.com

Comments

[adit]

painfully well said.

thank you for articulation.