PAGE TWO
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POPPIES IN THE
WHEAT
His hand
caressed the ripeness, Yet, there
amongst the golden heads
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He stayed
his caressing fingers, How could
this be, he wondered,
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 WHEAT IN THE POPPIES The
universe had tilted...
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And...now...the
petals fluttered
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IN THE COURTYARD
“Mmm…Maximus!” she
murmured, looking past the hanging drape At the General in the
courtyard, pacing quickly in his cape. She often watched him
thusly, unseen and quite alone; It brought a certain…pleasure…to
her marrow and her bone. Even agitated…weary…as
his pacing clearly showed, Something…in his
presence…made it worth the endless road, The path that she had
traveled since her husband’s death. Husband? Could she remember , chest heaving with her
breath As Maximus turned
quickly, his cape a flowing sail, She feared her knees
might buckle or her heart might fail. Long years and many
miles lay between a distant past, Where the smiles all
had faded in a time that did not last. He saw her, then, and
stopping, turned and met her eyes There in the muddy
courtyard, there beneath the grey, grey skies. The gladness she was
feeling stuck like clay upon her face For he cared not to
see her…not now…not in this place. Though he had paced
the courtyard, his mind was far away, And he had no time to
greet her in the passage of this day. She thought of times
in meadows when their youth was full a’bloom; He thought only of
what Marcus had asked within his room. Her eyes asked he
remember when they shared a time of grace, But he was
interrupted, wanting only now to pace, So that his booted
feet might match his blood’s quick flow As all his braincells
flashed….arrows flamed from Roman bow. He was angry she
presumed he wanted now to speak Now…when all his
weary heart so wanted home to seek, Knowing it was taken
from him…more years thrust in between… Him and the family
that he wanted, but had so seldom seen. She remembered
sitting in the garden…on the curving wall. He tried to leave…she
stopped him…needing something more, Needing him to open…just
a little…a long-closed Roman door. He said the battle
had tired him, but she saw upon his brow That something really
worried him, that he was facing now. Perhaps…if she
reminded how he still lay in her prayer… He would look at her
more kindly, would gentle his fierce stare? And just for one
brief moment…at joint mention of each son… He smiled…she saw his
softness as in times when they were one And the future lay
before them…unlived…and full of…what? But it had never come
to happen…ah, no,…no…it had…not. He thanked her,
turned, and left her…his cape a whirling sail… She thought her knees
might buckle…or that her heart would fail.
 *********
A SUDDEN HOPE
In a place of sand and heat where only desert lay within, without, pressing down in its very...endlessness And days were spent existing, nothing more and, often, less As the inexorable spiral of loathing within, without, spread its tentacles, hovering there Like some giant spider waiting to entomb in coiled blankness a heart trying desperately not to feel But only doing what it must because it could not...die.
In this place of waste and want on a sun-scorched day when spittle fell Fresh-spat upon the blooded sand and loathing so intense had called the spider forth to swathe a heart so wounded It could bear no more the sight nor swelling sound of approbation crowd-sent into his averse ear It was then it came, a sudden rain upon a heart so dry a moment was required to fill its crevices Before the wetness of its coming might run in silent ripples across a surface too unused to healing balms in any form at all.
And when it broke wave-like upon his soul that endlessness of pain might...end, That there could be a way for release to come from loathing spat, from handing death, purposeless and void, To those whose only reason to be killed was that they merely stood upon the sand where he was sent, That death, again, might be more, be a fulfillment, not just a thing that must be done because it must.
He stood a quiet moment, shocked that it had come, that it had come...at all, A sudden hope that he would be allowed to die and in that dying Take with him all the woven reasons for the pain, for all the loss, and for the need to die.
*********
THE SAME BLADE
It lay a stinger in his sleeve, concealed, a way to deal with bees too busy for their good. When he knew the truth of it, spilled through a boyish game, When innocence had let him see aloneness appalling in its compass, full, His hand, fingers chilled, blood flowing from a heart now iced beyond repair, Reached up, feeling there beneath the flowing cloth the form of it, Waiting, but not for long.
He had him, trussed like some battered ox, to do with as he willed, And what he willed, ah, what he willed, fingers making sure yet once again It lay safely tucked, out of sight, freshly sharp and...ready. What he willed was simply that the man be gone, from him, and family, from Empire, and especially from life. So as he walked, adorned in white, a statue of some god, He rubbed his sleeve, in smiling anticipation... Waiting, but not for long.
Sifting down into the shadowed vaults below, Roaring voices of the crowd settled on him as he walked, fuel upon his fire. Smiling grimly, yes, he would see they knew without a doubt, knew...in the end... he was the better man. Well, with a little help... and once again, he felt the silent asp curled within his sleeve, Waiting, but not for long.
How easily the blade plunged in, its shining length piercing quickly, in and out within the mere blink of an eye... And it was done while hugging close and kissing cheek of his intended prey. A great sigh of something like relief flooded all his bones for now the facing could be done in safety on the sands And he would look the hero when he killed the General before their eyes. One brief glance, looking back, satisfied, though not a cry, just a startled gasp, escaped his victim's lips. It was enough, he knew his blade had done its work, the silvered scent of blood came to his nose, Waiting, but not for long.
Sweat running down his neck, he moved across the sand, Surprised at how much fight the General still retained despite the constant flow of blood. Then he sliced his leg and smiled... he'd have him soon. How could he know the man would roar, an angry, wounded beast, And come for him with force that sent his sword flying 'cross the sand? How could he know even dog-like Quintus would disobey command? Then...it was there... the look he'd searched so for, that 'leaving' look when a man prepares to die. It was time for blade to finish now its deadly work and send the swaying General onward through the gates. A flash of sudden sunlight sparked on revealed edge, pulled forth, readied for its plunge, Waiting, but not for long.
In his own hand, the blade was turning, inexorable as the millstones of the gods, Turned by a strength, unexpected in one so near to death himself. How could it be? Wherefrom this overpowering strength of heart and will alone? He stared in frantic, startled disbelief from bladetip to eyes centered on their task, And in them both he read his death, though how it could be so he did not understand. Twisting, writhing, pounding to escape a thing escapeless, Waiting, but not for long.
Then it was done, his body slumping sack-like to the sand, a cast-off thing, Emperor no more. Then it was also done, General toppling like a giant oak, still, somehow, General though he lay so quiet in the sun. And somewhere in between the two lay the blade, half-covered by the sand, tasks complete,
Waiting, ...without end.
**** LEAVING
How long he sat his horse upon the quiet slope where his cypress speared the Spanish sky he never quite recalled.
All he knew was that his son was nearly five and watched him, sad-eyed, from among the distant wheat
And that his wife's hair, blowing wreath-like round her face, framed full lips that his already yearned to turn again and kiss.
He stared at them, unblinking, to impress the sight upon his inner eye, and fix it firmly there to view again among the German pines.
"Home...," he sighed, and closed his eyes, making sure the vision still remained, a tight expansion filling up his throat.
Arm lifted, he spread his fingers wide in gesture both salute and gathering, then pressed it to his heart.
He saw she knew, knew what he had done, knew he was taking all of it he could contained within the chambers of his soul.
He turned his horse, not looking back again... riding quickly down the greening slope, and left his presence etched against the Spanish sky.
**** The Last Sleep
He lay, dreaming of home... always it was home and he was there again, with...them...again Nothing hanging about him that bespoke his days in Rome, and clouds billowed whitely into Spanish skies. That was all.
Would it rain? Before the wheat was gathered in Would the rain begin to fall? Were they sweet? His grapes on the far slope of the hill; Had it rained...enough? Taking his knife, he sliced smooth yellowness of pear. Was it ripe...and ready? Such were the fibers of his sleep. That was all.
He smiled, reaching strong brown fingers out to touch her blowing hair, brushing softly back, leaning, then, to kiss. He murmured, once, of love then turned upon the cot, settling his hand behind his head, settling his soul into the land. That was all.
He had no way of knowing it WAS all... that this night was his final sleep, these his final dreams, That come the morrow afternoon he'd reach a bloodied hand, give one final push, and with a creak of hinge, the gates would swing And the way be clear... at last the open way his for the walking through with no longer need for dreams, no longer need for sleep. But...now he sleeps, gentle breathing in and out, the rise and fall of life. Not knowing as in his dreams he brushes back her hair, On the morrow afternoon the fingers of his soul will touch it once again... when he is done with sleep, when the need for dreams is gone, . When all there was is all there is... dreams have found their way, and home is grasped again.
***** SCRAPINGS
Again and yet again he drew the sharpened edge across the bleeding flesh, watching as he worked the little ridge of blood that pushed before the stone like some fresh-turned furrowed row. The muscles of his face all were tense and tight, his teeth clamped hard, jaw line set quite firm, neck corded near the shadowed wall. He felt himself a shell, nothing more, maybe less, a member of the walking dead, dismembered from his soul, only breathing...only... since his grave was not yet dug. Tomorrow in the dust beneath the blazing sun, beneath the too-blue sky, he would meet his end and it would only be, he knew, a seal on what now was. But he could never go, could not take his final leave still marked by Rome, still bearing in his flesh the sign that he was theirs. The sign that once, it truly had, ah, yes... defined him well and he'd been glad to wear the mark of what had been the light in a world of barbaric dark. But now...now... it burned his flesh that it was there and made his stomach sick that he had thought it light and borne it proudly on his arm. No, he could not die, still marked by Rome, labeled as its man, owned by it body and full soul. Not when it profaned him, proclaiming he belonged to what was now the darkness and not the light he'd thought. So close it lay beneath the other wound Rome had bestowed on him, the parting wound delivered in far-gone snowy wood on that day of frozen skulls among the needled bones. Two wounds from Rome, a doubled thrust into his weary heart... and so his trembling fingers scraped layered flesh and blood as all he was and he had been whirled in his mind. A mark of his gods? Yes, it had been so and the death of gods comes not lightly to the soul, and it is only with much pain we scrape away their marks on us.
For as he scraped in soundless, silent pain, he knew the truth of it... that he did not draw the sharpened rock merely down his marked arm that his blood did not simply ooze down his outer skin. It was the piercing, greater pain by far when one takes a sharpened edge and by one's will alone scrapes the inner chambers of one's beating heart.
***** THE HEAT OF GOOD-BYE
(Dedicated to Dee, who reminded me I'd not written it yet)
as she
knelt there in the sand sun
beating on his paling face,
By Jo Anzalone 11-27-2006
***** Roman Lion
Quiet, in the morning sun, he rested, Command secure, so he might close his eyes, Might let the weight of life... Settle; Might cease a moment from decision From concern for the many in his care. So, he let the sunlight fall, Warming in the breeze, And did not see in time The rifled stalker to his rear.
**********************************************
IN BONDAGE
Tied so tightly blood could scarcely flow He nonetheless kept hands clenched into fists, And, had they known, his captors in the woods Might have watched more closely what they did.
He did not mean to die this day beneath the falling flakes, It was not in his plans that life should cease, Leaving all he loved exposed and bare Atop a hillside, green upon a distant Spanish plain.
So, stepping over skulls, avoiding scattered bones, He walked quietly, belying fire raging in his core, Outwardly calm, yielding even, with only one request That death come to him as a soldier's should.
To men who knew well the way of that The asking was not strange, not a thing to be denied One of such rank, the winner of a battle scarcely by. They saw him dead already, bade him kneel,
Never thinking, never looking at his eyes Where the fire smoldered, intense and visible, Where a form, obediently still, Coiled inwardly, readying to strike.
He closed his eyes, waiting, timing, gathering To meet a downward-thrusting blade, A perfect split-second needed desperately For grasping lightning in his hands.
How could they know it would be by the sword The panther would be freed to stalk? Not one of them suspected that it knelt there in the snow, Waiting to bend death with bloodied hands.
By Jo Anzalone 8-6-2007
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jo.anzalone@verizon.net
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