My 7th trisect poem. Segment one is focused on the thunderhead, or supercell. This is the metaphor for the “thing” that has blinded all sense of foresight for me my entire teenage and adult life, at least since I was 13. I’ve always been amazed by how some people can see a desk job, and through it “see” a four bedroom house, a Benz, and a paid-off mortgage in 30 years, complete with wife, kids, a dog, and a picket fence. All I’ve ever seen is this thundering cyclone. Similarly I find it amazing how some people can look at a pile of wood and see a shed, a new business, or a planter garden, while all I tend to see is just a bunch of wood—and the thunderhead. So, this is segment one, “Erubus”, the realm of darkness and obscurity personified (not to be confused with night—that’s different).
Segment two focuses on the narrow road—in this case the road of life, specifically my life path, or “calling”, as it were, which I do my best to follow.
Segment three focuses on my interaction between this road and the ever-present thunderhead which looms on the horizon (and often much closer in the mind’s eye), sucking “the long horizon from the mind”. So the process depicted here is that of obscuration, brought on by a life of personal defeat and dehumanization.
blindspot
erebus
a million million shades of gray
swim between the land and sky
absorbing every detail into mist
many-jointed shoulders haunch
hulking up against the dome
to scatter shadows out across the earth
amorphous legs traverse the realm
labored with colossal strides
gaping forth an omnipresent maw
and in its belly rumbles deep
the acids of uncertainty
which churn the world into obscurity
calling
laid with crumbling asphalt rock or dirt
a rarely traveled path meanders far
across the scapes of possibility
beneath the canopies of ponderosa
along the stony course of waterways
amid the yawn of jagged desert peaks
the way of freedom weaves by dusks and dawns
a twisted uroboros colored earth
wrapped across the contours of existence
boiled in the depths of crawling storms
it rises writhing sharply into sight
a tired trail of chance and destiny
presage
colors fold into a distant haze
an open road to somewhere fades from view
lost in many-layered nimbus plumes
long cascading booms convey
a wall of nearing emptiness
which sucks the long horizon from the mind
this narrow road unfolds and turns
to meet the turbid banks of doubt
which cling to every curve along the way
weary legs and blistered feet
lurch and falter on the path
yet swing forever onward toward the void
