What was I to do?

If you truly believed you were
Hiding your heart ~ you weren’t.
I didn’t purpose to see more than I had,
- Or make mention of it – but when the portal
Opened and light fell on a heart held captive; I was
Touched in a place normally reserved for weddings
Or baby showers. Of course, then, after you realized
How clearly I saw what you thought was hidden; you
Groaned and turned away from me. Trying to cram
Your heart back into a box; you asked me to keep
The secret and not say a word to anyone-

What was this place you had
Fashioned from your TRAGEDIES?

Musty chambers blemished from too many failures;
An unattended bedchamber replete
With bouquets of wilted flowers;
Frayed carpeting;
Curled wallpaper;
Cups brimming over
With anguished tears;
Letters of love, addressed
TO YOU, (written by your own hand)
Crumpled in tight balls and dispersed
Throughout the room. Downhearted; I
Knew this ewer called YOU was in need
Of an understanding soul

Asking if I could come
Closer to see better; you
Softened and showed me
A headstone where I might
Enter into your secret places.
From trembling eyes cleansing
Tears flowed, – an ablutionary ritual -
Each drop plunging into the hidden berths
Of skeletons long held in contempt. You shook
Abandoned as sorrow poured from your reddened eyes.
Misunderstandings, like rivers, surged past rocks and
Fallen trees; emotional barrens once bursting ripe
With the fetor of unfulfilled yearnings dissolved
Under the disembogue of an honest
Emotional climax-

Afterwards … reaching out with strong hands;
I tenderly bosomed the emptiness that remained,
And then pulled you into the fortress of my heart

Don’t be troubled, vox populi has little
Effect on my cognitive state. Especially
Those bitter words and opinions disgorged
By nosy parkers, tattletales, and rumormongers,
Meant to malign, belittle, slander, and just plain
irritate the recipient.
I have learned from experience to pursue only
What sustains life. And in so doing I can reciprocate
In like fashion to complete a cycle written into the
Fabric of who I am

In this place, life
Beckons on open wings …

Having wandered exotic lands
In search of something inexpressible -
Seeking those gems projected upon
The shifting sands of moldering languor -
Caught betwixt fulfillment and rejection
As curiosity follows the innovatory path -
Where shades of indifference and numbness
Barricade the mind seeking wisdom while it
Penetrates the puzzle of human eccentricity -

Life beckons me to spread my wings …

I will admit
That your way
Is not a highway
To be traveled -
That your way
Is not an example
To be followed -
That your way
Does not echo life
And hope –
As a matter of fact,
Your way leaves
One clawing up cliffs
In desperation seeking
Abandoned eggs in
Small crevices.
Your way quenches
All hope for one
To cling to, and
Your way lessens
Expectation while
Tumefying the ego

It is a test of endurance getting here;
One that challenges the mind and body.
Along jagged granite ramparts which have
Seen unremitting centuries pass before,
I hunt for sustenance that sustains life.
Up here the winds blow freely, and
As the heart opens to potential, within
Those moments when hunger and survival
Join hands in harmony,

I swiftly become
A predator that flies unfettered

Richard Lloyd Cederberg

Suddenly alert; my wife observed (stoically silhouetted through an old curtained window) a past polemic antagonist waiting for a response.

Muttering tersely I asked: “is that who I think it is?”

This was a uniquely eccentric person who had redefined personal rejection by adapting dissonant surgical hardness towards anyone who threatened his transcendent character. Because of untold effronteries, there was, between them, an unapproachable gulf that had for years discouraged trust, or the type of open communication that could (very often) clear the hearts fragile soil of rocks and weeds.

The dogged knocking continued.

It appeared now that I would not be able to accomplish what I had set my mind on doing, nor would my beloved wife. It was unfair, and for a moment I felt incensed with the unwanted intrusion. Never once had we considered encroaching upon another’s privacy, and never had we appreciated those that appeared on our doorstep unannounced. An undesirable thing had become manifest and, with no way to circumvent it, I had to either move with the situation or reject it.

Grumbling irritably I prayed: “Please help me with this; I need wisdom and some kind of direction that is best for all.”

I was accosted at once by an intense shaft of LIGHT.

Being similar to an invisible sword; it pierced the bulwarks of my heart and began removing every quondam obstacle that I had allowed to take root there over the years. Rendered somewhat breathless, and now feeling gallingly timid, I began dealing with a host of carking voices palavering within me with erstwhile preconception. And while this war raged back and forth in my spirit, I sensed a stronghold of negative feelings, past heartache, disdain, grief, and repudiation cleaving from my stubborn heart.

“So, I guess we should do this then huh?” my wife sighed as she fluffed her hair. With a modicum of reluctance I agreed.

Words began as a taut trickle between brothers. Eager to unburden themselves from misunderstanding, festering emotion, cankered wounds, smoldering intolerance, and years of disdain; the openness between them began submitting to a higher purpose.

As it unfolded, two inordinately complex personalities became known; both of them with a childlike desire to be loved, understood, and accepted. Together they shared tales of rejection, confusion, acquisition, and unrealized dreams. Soon the conversation had become a flow of words releasing pure water streams over and around the moss laden rocks of years of indifference.

That morning faith sprang to the occasion as reams of sophistry, chunks of unresolved feelings, misunderstanding, broken dreams, anger, jealousy, and envy were extirpated to prepare the soil for new seeds and seasons between contrary souls now willing to repent and begin anew.

richard lloyd cederberg

Written in the Tanka form

5-7-5-7-7

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You flow into me

Without changing the essence

Of whom I’ve become;

But I am more than I am

Because you merge into me

We are swift to know-

As we coalesce as one-

This strength of knowing;

The wonders of two lives fixed

Together without doubting

I will cherish you

Beyond what I seek for self,

Hope everlasting

In the arms of compassion

(Within a fragrant aether)

And as you mingle

Your soul and thinking with mine,

Our lives are heightened

By the blending of goodness

In our confluence of trust

Involved in concert;

A blending of life forces

Becomes our mandate

As we press together towards

What we will become in love

Your heart-strings are mine,

And I will not betray them

With anserine vox

Swashing a form of logic

Or the serpents beguiling

And in those moments

When two forces become one,

This love enfolded,

And the Christ who defines us,

Will be our flowing brushstrokes

Richard Lloyd Cederberg

1/09

Her silhouette appeared

In the two corner windows.

From across the thoroughfare

Passionate strains of Debussy or

Rachmaninoff filtered down into

The street as the clarion of her ritual.

Bathed in the light of many candles;

She moved sylphlike, concupiscent

Brushstrokes exposing the soul of

Unrequited passions

At times I surrendered to her

Beguiling in an effort to wash

Away the emotional fetor of

Clientele and restless patrons.

Life had become tedious

And there were very few

Inspirations anymore.

This vision was mine;

A purifying moment

That tranquilized the

Pecking beast in me;

A moment for my eyes

To imbibe the feelings

Of all that could never be

Seeing me gazing spellbound,

She would often float onto the

Balcony in her vapory peignoir;

Waving and blowing me kisses

Which I always caught in my soul

For inspiration when life darkened

And my heart became too heavy to bear.

Wide-eyed; I would always wave back

And then quickly retreat into the clamor

Of my eatery across the street.

Richard Lloyd Cederberg

What was I to do?

If you truly believed you were
Hiding your heart ~ you weren’t.
I didn’t purpose to see more than I had,
- Or make mention of it – but when the portal
Opened and light fell on a heart held captive; I was
Touched in a place normally reserved for weddings
Or baby showers. Of course, then, after you realized
How clearly I saw what you thought was hidden; you
Groaned and turned away from me. Trying to cram
Your heart back into a box; you asked me to keep
The secret and not say a word to anyone-

What was this place you had
Fashioned from your TRAGEDIES?

Musty chambers blemished from too many failures;
An unattended bedchamber replete
With bouquets of wilted flowers;
Frayed carpeting;
Curled wallpaper;
Cups brimming over
With anguished tears;
Letters of love, addressed
TO YOU, (written by your own hand)
Crumpled in tight balls and dispersed
Throughout the room. Downhearted; I
Knew this ewer called YOU was in need
Of an understanding soul

Asking if I could come
Closer to see better; you
Softened and showed me
A headstone where I might
Enter into your secret places.
From trembling eyes cleansing
Tears flowed, – an ablutionary ritual -
Each drop plunging into the hidden berths
Of skeletons long held in contempt. You shook
Abandoned as sorrow poured from your reddened eyes.
Misunderstandings, like rivers, surged past rocks and
Fallen trees; emotional barrens once bursting ripe
With the fetor of unfulfilled yearnings dissolved
Under the disembogue of an honest
Emotional climax-

Afterwards … reaching out with strong hands;
I tenderly bosomed the emptiness that remained,
And then pulled you into the fortress of my heart

And since
My Byzantine self
Struggles with the baggage
Of bad choices, (a lifetime of them
To be quite honest) and the idea that
Being predestined – by a higher power -
To experience melancholy; to struggle; to
Suffer, and to battle daily against those
Who operate only in jealousy and envy
Is somehow a result of my bad choices
Seriously limits the potential of my
Personal dreams ever finding any
Realistic fruition

So I ponder in a desert,
(Unwilling to compromise)
And feel the wind, blowing,
And I ask myself, can I become
More than just another grain of
Sand in this cloud that buffets me?
And if so … whose words do I believe,
And whose thoughts find in me a resting place,
And if gifts have been given, what do I do with them,
And if I am dissatisfied with being in the cloud,
What kind of a grain would I like to be?

But beyond that, aside from what I desire,
Aside from what I believe, aside from whom I
Construe myself to be, aside from how I am perceived,
Aside from what I personally see in the mirror looking
Back at me … I have come to the conclusion that the more
That I question my life, and death, or the meaning of existence,
Or my place in the grand scheme of what is greater than
I could ever understand, the more that I lapse into the
Depressions that cause me to make the
Choices that suppress my dreams,
And inhibit those around me

Selah …

But still I feel a dagger
Slaughtering my thoughts,
And see a worm that never dies,
And a fire that is never quenched,
And the impotent self-consumption
That cannot do what it wants, when
It wants, to whom it wants, for the
Reasons it wants …
So I reach out and touch YOU
In the only way that I know how,
To quicken your thoughts, and make
More malleable the wineskin of your heart,
Hoping that I have not become the outspoken
Homo-harbinger of another spiritual deception,
Or the living newspaper of another’s conjuration,
Or the colorless aberrant blossoms of a false spring,
And also hoping that I have not breached my calling
Somehow in the awkwardness of artistic application

Richard Lloyd Cederberg
8/08

Have ye not known the tale of
The Whaleshead? A black awful time
It was — gripped by such a dread fright –
When a raging sea, wroth with hunger, stole
Near a hunner or two more a sad sorry souls
And sent um down, a-feared and a-shriekin,
To Davie Jones afore their time.

Aye …
The bleakest of times it was -

And it came in of a sudden,
This bitter blustering thing,
Rumblin low and a-moanin -
As a fair bonnie woman in moil -
Stroking all the senses daft, this
Portend black of billowing clouds,
Bearing down on the shore bitter
With a sharp-set iciness that bit
Fiercely at the skin like the
Teeth of Serpents

Oh laws how it roared and
Carried on; that perishin cold sleet
As sure as death freezin the hair stiff –
We were aghast at the shear sight of it,
And dinnae know our future near;
Nature up in a snuff and the waves
Dancin high with windy fingers,
Pullin up the bones of wizards
And warlocks and things -

“Save our souls,” was the cry
Of those in the way of harm –
“Hoot toot,” was the sneer of
Those smug at a distance …

And a dread sight it was;
This loathy tempest; pit-mirk
The sea and the ramping waves -
Oh a prospect compelling the mind
Awful with the rumble of destruction;
A dire muckle of hopelessness that
Held the bones and heart in the
Callous fingers of chance -

“Please help us,” was the cry
Of those in the way of harm –
“Hoot toot,” the rejoinder was of
Those aloof and smug at a distance …

There was nary measure of time;
Day and night fluxing together in a
Black swirl of clouds and thunderous
Mayhem, and all the while the tempest
Brooding barmy on the hapless town and
Outlying vessels; shriekin hell like banshees

‘Most a fortnight it lasted -
A short fortnight, minus three -
Tearin the soul outa any strong man;
Razing cottages and taverns and busting
The mizzen from many a sea-worthy vessel;
Most of um breached or broke up like kindlin,
And most all the God fearing townsfolk
Begging desperate fur Duns Scotus -

“God will save us,” was the
Cry of those with the strong faith –
“Hoot toot,” was the answer from
Those at a safe distance …

A hideous time it was, one
That left pocks on me soul. And now
When the clap-o-thunder fits me bereft,
And the heart cries out in the blackest of
Despair, I can still see all those poor souls
Lammin desperate in a shit-mucklety tomb.
No …ne’er in my life will I ever forget the
Whaleshead, and ne’er, ever, of a surety,
Will I forget those souls that passed on …

Beguiled inexorably in times
Continuity; our lives ebb and flow to
Invisible forces around us, while deep
Within us the storm clouds quietly
Descend, and snow arrives on a
Whisper; a Blanket of White
Changing our acuity.
With every breath I pray for
Purity to arrive on the wings
Of love, justice, and honor, and
For Truth to flow as a purging
River through the hordes of
Darkened souls apprehended
By the razor riddled catamenia
Of never ending exploitation …

Such are the enigmatical histories of
Ancient civilizations; appearing briefly
As wildflowers on the scrolls of time.
The Anasazi, the Mayan, the Aztec, the
Zapotec’s, the Mixtec’s, the Rognvalds …
Traversing great oceans, living in the valleys,
Or within deep alcoves on varnished cliffs,
On high mountainous ridges, or in forsaken
Deserts — mystifying and baffling all those
Who inquire — ancient cultures enshrouded in
Underground caverns, along rivers, prospering,
Falling, but always leaving behind unique legacies
Of art, music, and words to ascertain, and grow, and
Learn from. Sadly these cultures, in all their nobleness
And mystery, are now only guidelines for exploitation
To a pandemic of self-centered, pandering, skeptical,
Greedy generations who use them as a means to
Further personal agenda and cause profit.

Notwithstanding our dreams and outlooks;
Or our unending propensity to misread the
Signs along the paths we walk; presuming
We have discernment in the first place, and
That our singularity of spiritual vision elevates
Us beyond the evolving tunnel vision of most
Around us …
All things remain firmly in the
Hands of a loving Creator whose ways are
Not our ways, and whose thoughts are far
Beyond our power to comprehend.
Still; we are all framed by freewill
And personal choices, and, where
We choose to plant our seeds will
Always demarcate the harvest that
Will inevitably ensue.

So . . . life continues to
Ebb and flow to invisible
Forces around us, and deep
Within us the storm clouds
Quietly descend and snow
Arrives on a soft whisper; a
Blanket of white encouraging
Our perceptivities and the
Perceptions of those
Around us.

Sipping the wines and vinegars
Of the least excruciated life – poets
Breathe newness while shedding
The pall of past pretensions;

And with reverence -
Touching souls with delicate
Acumen – poets sense inspiration
As an Eagle with out-stretched
Wings comprehends the
Heavens and moon;

Becoming one note,
Inapposite, swirling and twirling
To establish a home on the stave
Of a more exalted symphony

Richard Lloyd Cederberg