Not Without A Shadow

Not without a shadow you came into this world, broken and tender to the light which pierced through the cracks of your existence. Even then there was suffering, but not yours. Even then the sky greeted you with a blue smile, and the wind brought a warm fragrance of distant joy. You tended on animals as your fingers slowly warmed up to the slow rise of an ancient sun. The mountains around you smoked of long forgotten battles and the earth cried to be left alone. Even then as you returned from the cold fields, your animals long contented by a child's touch, there was still a concealed wound of history breathing down your tender neck. The wound was never yours and you did not need to take it, nor left behind,did you ever need to seek it. And when you left that place,nestled so tightly between the broken mountains, the wound remained, and with every departing soul,buried tenderly in the wet earth , an ancient ray would penetrate through the canopy of a long forgotten tree. God Bless!

The Ravor River

The Ravor river which meanders east towards the Gastegors,snakes itself smoothly through our small and friendly village. Its not a river that one could be completely proud of,especially compared to the larger rivers in the area, whose fishing is much more generous. But the spirit of the river is what charms us,and on any given day a stroll along its banks can transform a challenged day to something more tolerable and even pleasant, so long as the summer mosquitos know their limits and the local children are not overly aggressive in their play.

The Father.

The old man liked to think himself as a father figure to anyone that was two or more years younger, and Frante,who was at least two years his junior was no exception. This entitlement was subtle in nature and not without its price. It was rather odd to see the two of then bickering away at trivial issues,such as the time Frante forgot to purchase the cognac and they were left without spirits that afternoon,which took some getting used to for the old man, and surprisingly Frante managed it well,as he remained naturally spirited and of course the old man took offense to that.

Frante Village

Frante was not much younger than the old man,perhaps by a couple of years at most,and that still made only a slight difference for the old man. Their routine was marked by a certain solemn aspect,not to be confused by tradition,but more in line with creatures of habit,who know each-others gestures so well,that not much needs to said. They did always seem to have much to talk about, and what would you expect from the confines of a small village,such as the one they lived in. And,yet they would talk and talk. Even the crabby old ladies would gesture with a little surprise,as to how the two old men,would go on and on about nothing, and one of the ladies even threatened to include the men into their own circle for a gossip frenzy.

Frante

The old man loved going out into woods. His daily walk,which consisted of dropping in on Marta the cleaning lady, who he could find every morning gathering her supplies at the local grocery. Than there was his old friend Frante,who still kept his dilapidated metal shop at the edge of town and always kept an open seat for the old man to come by and discuss local issues,pertaining primarily to politics,older crabby women,and the decay of moral values,especially among the young. The old man was very fond of his friend Frante,whom he had known since childhood. they shared a common bond of overbearing jewish mothers,fathers who were remote,lost to financial worry and bad health, and siblings who were to busy surviving. But Frante was the one friend he could depend on. Throughout their long friendship, the events of their life,some good and some not so good,would never bar their continued conversations. there were times when situations kept them away for a time, such as when Frante's eldest daughter Rivka, gave birth to twins and needed some extra help tending the farm,which her husband Samuel normally would do, but now was occupied with more domestic issues.

Morning Dust

I say a prayer to the Holy One that he should rid me of my morning dust that weighs on me as i arise. The dust that gathers over the night,illuminating all my un-resolved demons,who want to join me for the coming day. The dust is heavy and not so easily wiped off, ancient in stature,going back to a darker time,when the whole Earth was filled with it. And yet, I awake and gather my forces. My sword of sanity which I carry close to my heart. My hat of reason which I wear tightly pressed against my ageing temples. Finally, I make it to the mirror,and remind myself of my human eyes, which only yesterday cried out of a crib of innocence.

Summer window

I looked out into my Summer window,as the deep gray clouds gathered all to soon,against the open sky. Another Summer passed me by, and still a child's memory could not find the peace needed to look out even further. And there was the memory of a space long forgotten,when eagerly I meandered in the open fields of younger years and saw the image of a tall man,buried in rippled heat,walking East, towards the distant hill of his own memory. Silence prevailed,and I was taken away for a moment by a teasing breeze, which reminded me again, how much more hope remained in that open field.