Return to Ragdoll

A note slipped into
the skirt pocket of
a daisy printed dress,
from the feathered clutch
of a purple finch
scribbled this:

My darling Ragdoll,
I should tell you
that omission of truth
is a lie.
You omit
thus, you lie.
I have seen you there,
knees bent into your breast
beneath my weeping tree with raindrops
in your eyes.
You jab broken branches
into the mud around the folds
of your yellow dress and ask worms for answers.
Yet they do not speak.
And you do believe in the thing you dare not say.
And i wont say it because it it hurts you to
hear.
You think it wont be echoed.
you are a pretty ragdoll, there in the grass with your heart
your passion, and pride.
But you must know Little Flower
that the world you love will not love you the way you'd like.
Lean sweet against the cool bark of my willow
and listen to me sing,
I will hold and adore you,
when you turn yourself from the world.
It's safe here raggedy ragdoll,
let yourself burn out to fly.
i will not stop you
only catch you.Please borrow my feathers
to dust ash from your brow when you are through.
And take care to watch the daffodils unfurl
they will catch your rain.

A Plague

Drop it into a drink
of warm water
and it bends easily.
Willow branches become
wreathes
like me, like us.
So easy to move and
sickly, even easier to mold.

When did I become so limp
and easy to tie into knots?
I do not like this acceptance.
I was so accustomed to resisting.

I have lost a fight
and dare not believe.
Not in things that can’t be proven
because all too often
wishes and passions
have been snuffed out
like the hot cherry of a
pipe loaded with vanilla tobacco

Dreams, aspirations,
all fleeting enjoyments
that end when non-believers
tap the bowl
onto rocks or benches
and leave a tiny pile of ash
where love can’t grow.
How do we, when barely burning
keep a fire warm and stoked
when the world around us is wet
with rain
and logic
and apathy.

It is hard to be a simmering wick
when caught in the monsoons
of a dying society
where mystery doesn’t exist
and magic is unacceptable.
How do we burn?
and how do we keep the fires
able to fly if dark windows have become
preferable to ones lit by candles?

How do we, the artist
the dreamer
the passions
survive in a dead world
that is focused on what is just
or what is feasible,
what is desirable,
or what is needed?
We want the simplest of things.
To feel a part of something
to feel humbled
to feel needed
to feel loved.
to feel.

We live in the wrong world.
Because the things we need
are deemed unnecessary.
We need passion, we need dreams,
and we need words.
But words are just words
to a world that doesn’t see them as more.