24 November 2010
Writing in the Dark (a robin’s cry)
by Caridad Svich
a sudden prize
of warm hands,
an appreciative glance
bordered by autumn’s light
i wake to this
and so much more,
as wars wage
and prices soar.
it isn’t often thus
that Thanks is meant –
so commonly used is the word;
its meaning is lost midst discontent
and luckless souls stirred.
but there are days
when rescue is found
for the little word
that bears too much,
and much is said
within its grace,
midst tender smiles
and clear-eyed space.
Thanks
is lifted
from the common din,
restless hulabaloo,
and market tins.
Gracia plena,
gracia tanti
echo in the halls of plenty,
where figures hustle
for the morning coffee
and a vague dream of Italy
is in the air.
The busy fiesta of the everyday
burdens the ragged trade;
a Friday blackened by consumerist greed
threatens the spirit of make believe.
But make we must,
the revelers say,
for to not make
will let others hold sway,
and so
anxious glares
and weary feet
plod on through the rainy streets
that only yesterday were soaked in sun,
surrendered only to the blessed dawn.
A day of Thanks
barely remembered
when so many souls have been tendered
in coffins red, blue and white
in desert dust and sudden fight.
“So far, so far”
the saying goes
unsaid by those
weighted with woes,
for who’s to blame
at end of day
when all the soldiers
have stopped their play?
what world sings
of love and Thanks
when tiny bombs
are contained in tanks?
best look to profit
best gather gain
measure fortune by a poor man’s strain,
wallets emptied,
plastic filled,
debt is our inheritance
for good or ill.
Measure thus
careful Thanks
when your friend and lover looks you in the eye;
too soon they’re gone,
too fast they’re lost;
tears spent in hours
drained of goodbyes.
it once was said
that in summer’s past
the robin’s song
would cry for more.
but more is more
under lesser disguise
as the autumn catches
where the robin hides.
and the song is heard
with pale force
on the greyish morn
of coffee’s wane,
all Thanks is said
all thanks I miss
the moments spent
in collegial bliss
when a scratch on the table
left its mark
and a history of writing
yielded to the dark.
it is in night
the fiery glow
of strangers’ love
puts on a show
for none to stare,
and none to buy,
only this hand,
this leg,
this you and I.
what words will you use
when you walk away?
what words of Thanks
are at my door
when the neighbor’s paper
is left by mistake
and I hasten to read
ten thousand more…
dead and dying
in our valleys and plains
in the Americas of violence
riddled with shame.
what words to use,
to lift and make
a heart smile
on this day of grace?
consider this,
my sleepy friend,
it was only yesterday
when the world would end.
yet, here we are
in digital fervor:
electric beings
for a post-millennial age
hastened by worry
over a fickle economy
and the ticklish anxieties
of political rage.
only yesterday
words of Thanks,
only today –
let them sing.