I just want to escape this frightened
disposition where I watch my belly grow
and my dreams shrink, hair falling out
as I think more and more realistically,
sinking into adulthood uneasily but repeatedly
by letting go of the youthful notion that
we are all here for a reason.
Muted trumpets sound
and the drum beats loud, its been so long since
we danced on hallowed ground, around an ocean
of souls surrounded and close, an unstoppable
mystery permeating our clothes and toes and
shoe soles, our myriad footprints lead the way.
Will we stay where our parents stayed?
Primordial pattern retracing its steps slept
and dreamt of a cosmic beach stretching
ever out of reach, ocean lapping endless sand
a land where we all meet, will we stray where
Our ancestors strayed? Footprints lead the way.
“What is going on?” we ask while us
human extras seem to walk with heads
down lead through town by a golden string
herded by our own hopes our hearts desire to
get what we want but hope is only a form of
waiting. Our eyes and feet are sheep our
hearts the bitter shepherd
impressed by millions of moments
in front of a television,
in conversation with
bragging spotted leopards and clever feathered
coyotes hiding stripes
claw and paw reaching for what we might
possess and when we fail daring again to
hope and wait for another day, momentum
of the weekend carries the week away.
We leave behind footprints, but footprints
lead the way. Stepping through God’s
debris the air we breathe is dandruff
and the ground is bones, the rivers
are veins, and the mountains in the morning
a stoic visage, the trees are gut bacteria,
the mountains at dusk are undulating Gods
and we are lonely empty receptacles filled by one another’s
love, voice and presence, reciprocating what we’ve been
shown, we grow and become
the awakened fruit,
flutes, harps, reed pipes and lutes as the celestial
swirling wind soars through our raging lungs,
whirling and twirling a long song sung by
every living being, God’s courage echoing
in each note and syllable, every fervent
termite hill whistle, backyard thistle, silent elephant
graveyard, whale song ripple, shrill duck billed platypus
chuckle, catapults blasting to rubble thirteenth
century monasteries and castles all that is and
ever was and ever will be compiles and converges
at every point of perception.
It’s a long way every way.
Trees blossom from the inside out footprints lead
but personally I’m lost in the struggle for
love and warm skin. How can I be a
woodwind instrument for divine creation if I
can’t find motivation to brush my teeth?
Beaten, sunken, crushed by unrequited love
wreathed in lust drunken but I blushed it’s so
embarrassing to want too much, been hoping
for a year, been waiting for a year and all
the while clockwork angels passively
and acceptingly rotate their saintly gears and I
become more me. Mechanical elves and dwarves
have been taking my temperature and counting
my seconds sorting each grain of sand within this
moving mandala. Through it all the world turns round
and the lines on my hand never cease and I stretch
out grasping for relief never thinking to release
and I drop and suddenly catch the juggling stresses
I’ve been juggling. The ground is a trampoline-
it’s okay to let go, what falls just rises.
Surprised and mesmerized by the shape
of the world, what I need to know
will rise when the time and place are right.
Tonight I’ll just be alright being alone
with the hair and belly I do have in this life,
watching shadows move in their configuration
of darkness dancing with light.
About the Author
Clayton Fenrick is from Creston, BC and has an English degree from Memorial University of Newfoundland. He recently finished a creative writing course at Selkirk College and he enjoys creative writing in his free time. He can be seen in the Kootenays and elsewhere wearing a blue toque.