Seeing Clearly

Prophecy beneath a dying moon

Hangs in the sky like a smoldering coal 

You've slept and dreamt in Enochian tongues

And risen to see clearly 

Never dreamt of looking away

resolute, rigid and standing your ground

daylight that blinds and gives way as it fades

over hallowed dirt and the bushes ablaze 

Gone now the haze that shrouded your path

vanquished the ghosts that swirled in the darkness 

You focus your gaze on the endless, the vast

The tomes of the scholars lie open

You won't hold back the blanket of shadow

that falls like the finest of charcoal ashes

but bathe in the breeze, the mysteries whispered 

only disturbed by the brake light flashes

Eyes that betray the indomitable soul

Lamps remain lit and wicks remain trimmed

You've been to the depths of the caverns below

                                                         And risen to see clearly

                                                          Tony Lollio 2018

A Raven story for my love

 You do love your symbology, and the Ravens do always speak to you in a language no one else understands, so let me tell you a raven story from the native people of the Pacific Northwest.

There was once an old man with a particularly ugly daughter. The old man went out to fetch water in the days when the world was completely devoid of light, and darkness consumed the universe. You see, the old man was so afraid of the world seeing his daughter, that he fashioned a box to capture the light. Inside he crafted another box, and inside it yet another, on and on until the very last, and smallest box, contained the very spark of light that lit the universe.

As the old man walked along, a tiny needle from a mighty pine dropped into the water he was carrying, and he took it to his ugly daughter and offered her a drink. She drank down the water, and with it the tiny needle, which was no ordinary needle at all. For Raven, the trickster, had disguised himself, and now began to grow inside of her.

The old man's ugly daughter gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, and the old man grew to love and embrace his grandson. In fact, he loved his grandson so much, that he gave the child anything he asked for. And so every day the boy would ask his grandfather to open just one of those boxes, and every day the old man would agree. Every day a box, until one day they reached the last, smallest box.

Just as the old man opened the last box, the boy revealed his true self, and Raven, the trickster, snatched the spark that lit the universe.  As he flew away with his prize, light was released into the world.  

So once again you and I, my love, look at the raven through another perspective. Once again we find relevance in its many symbolisms. There is a duality in Raven, the trickster who brought light into the world. I was selfish and deceitful, and you brought light everywhere you went. I became a better man when I was with you, and together we became a force of creation.

The light that you bring into the world sustains me, and our souls will fly together forever. Consider the Ravens......    

One magical night

Was it a good concert? I don't know, I don't really remember it that well. The important thing was that I was hanging out with her. I had never really liked Ann Arbor before I met her. Whenever we were together, though, the city seemed to come to life; less strange and quirky, and more vibrant and welcoming. I didn't feel different and out of place anymore, she had that effect on me.

 There was a milk crate full of old vinyl records sitting on the sidewalk. We stopped and dug through the entire collection, even though I'd never heard of any of the artists, and neither of us had a record player. Everywhere we walked was an adventure, and everything we found was treasure. Whatever plans we made were always an excuse to hit the streets. It was the walk that was magic. The concerts, museums, and restaurants may all fade from my memory; but I'll always remember the walks, the streets of Plymouth and Petoskey, Traverse City and Charleston, Detroit and....Ann Arbor.

 The sky was heavy and gray as we turned down Francis St. She never seemed to mind the rain. I, on the other hand, had pride in my ability to always find shelter at the last possible moment before the downpour. I couldn't forget, however, the day at the coffee shop when she walked right out into the storm. She left me standing there, cowering under the awning. I decided two things that day under the coffee shop awning; this girl was something very special, and I wasn't going to let her walk off alone in the rain ever again.

 The drizzle got steadier and heavier as we walked along Francis, until it seemed as though we were the only two people left on the street. The sound of the blues drifted toward us from a tiny alcove, where an immaculately dressed black man sat on a stool with an acoustic guitar. With no regard for the pouring rain, he sat licking the blues to no one, like he had been waiting for us. Our own private show! Suddenly, the concert we had just seen was forgotten, and we were dancing in the rain to the blues.

 To this day, I don't remember much about that concert. When I close my eyes, however, I can still see that man's gray suit and fedora. I can still hear the Memphis style of blues from his guitar. I can still feel my wet pant leg against my calves as we stomped in the puddles.

Sunday Morning

Have you ever awakened from a terrible dream, relieved to be safe in the comfort of reality? For me, the opposite is often true.

I am sitting in a folding chair in the sandy soil that lets you know you're up north. The breeze that comes off the big lake carries that aromatic symphony of decaying leaves, wood smoke and charcoal, sunblock and sweat. I'm in the shade of a copse of tall pines, their needles occasionally poking at my bare feet through the sand.

Behind me are several picnic tables, where members of my family are talking, laughing, bantering about politics or telling stories about the kids. Cabin doors are slamming, people coming and going, either preparing for a meal or cleaning up after one, I can't really tell.

The children are playing, running and chasing each other, or being chased by harmless yellow jackets attracted to the sticky sweet watermelon juice that covers their little faces and hands. Someone is crying from a serious injury that will be forgotten in five minutes, while someone else tries using a ball to dislodge another ball that is stuck in a tree.

It's all so vivid, so temptingly close. I grasp the arms of the chair and push myself up as I stand, feeling the grainy sift of sand between my toes. I take my first step when the world starts to spin and fade. I'm still standing in the sandy soil when I realize what's happening.

No, please don't go. Please......

I'm staring at the ceiling, back in my broken body prison cell, fighting back that first wave of panic and anguish that greets me most mornings. I tell myself to find a handhold, something to keep me from sliding off the edge into the abyss. Sometimes it's easier, but after nights of dreaming....

There's music drifting down the hallway. Kate is playing worship songs while she does housework. I concentrate on the lyrics as someone sings about how strong God is when they are weak and afraid. Someone else sings about an anchor that holds in the midst of a storm. I slowly slide to a stop on the rock face. I find a ledge and secure a foothold; now if I can just climb out. I hear a familiar old verse.

"Whatever befalls, you have taught me to say:

It is well, It is well with my soul."

It's time to start my Sunday.