WHEN I STARE AT THE MOON

WHEN I STARE AT THE MOON

     By Travis M. Whitehead
     Originally published in "Boundless 2011."

 

   

When I stare at the moon,

     I remember an ocean I once sailed

         Toward the edge of the sky

          and stars that once guided me

             toward the end of the earth

 

 

Beneath the light of the moon,

     I remember a desert I once crossed

         With loads of silk and frankincense by camelback

            elephants heavy with gold,

                pilgrims bound for the East

 

Within a midnight dream, when the moon bares its soul,

     I hear the drumbeats of a forgotten rhythm

          Buried in my heart

              And feel the heat of the cave fire

                 That once kept me warm

 

    

In the dance of the moon,

     I hear an echo from my distant past,

          A chant,

          The roll of thunder

          The heartbeat of the sea

 

 

And beneath the eternal moon,

     Where the spirit of humanity dwells,

          I sometimes lie on the beach

                 And feel the earth move.

 

MY TUTOR

MY TUTOR

     By Travis M. Whitehead

     Originally published by Interstice, a journal of South Texas College

 

She came to me with a heart full of joy

     Flowers in her hair, fragrance overwhelming

           Walking beneath the breezy palm trees

                  Her breath sweet like jasmine

 

I didn’t know what say to her

     So breathless was I

          Intoxicated by her passionate embrace

                 Enraptured by the power of her beating heart.

              

 

She spoke of the world

      It’s fragrances and flavors

           Of the dance of life

                  Of its cadence and melodies

                 

She began tutoring me

     Reviving my dreams

          Validating my existence

                Drawing out poetic voice

                      

"What is that?" she asked, pointing.

     "It's a rock," I replied.

            "Just a rock?" she inquired.

                  "A rock in the water," I stammered.

 

"No," she replied gently, shaking her head.

     "It's a stony spit of land, jutting into the sea

           "On a pristine crescent beach

                  "Lined by swaying coconut palms."

 

"What's that splashing against the rock," she asked.

      "Water," I replied. What else could I say?

            "Not just water," she said, "but waves crashing

                  "Sending spray into the air,

                       "Capturing the sunlight

                             "And shimmering with gold and amethyst and sapphire."

 

We drove along the coast,

     She said, "What is this drive we're taking?"

          "Just a drive," I said.

               "Not just a drive, but a cruise

                    "Along a twisting rocky shoreline."

 

We stopped at an overlook, and she asked "What is that out there?"

     "The ocean?" I answered lamely.

           "Not just the ocean," she replied kindly. "But the great blue Pacific,

                  “A powerful presence, pulsating with life.”

 

We remained standing there, and I wondered why.

     Finally she asked, “Where are we standing?”

           “At the top of a cliff,” I said.

                 “Not just a cliff,” she said, “but one dappled with layers

                      “Of time-molded colors

                            "That change as the sun passes

                                  "Across a cobalt blue sky.”

 

"See those?" she asked, pointing to the birds flying by.

     I knew the next question, and answered, "Yeah, they're birds."

          "Not just birds," she said, "but earth-bound angels catching the wind,

                "The breath of the ocean lifting their wings."

           

We spent many long hours like this, day after day,

    As she taught me to laugh, to breathe, to dream

         I realized one day I didn't know her name,

              Although she'd known mine since the day we met.

           

"What's your name?" I asked finally as we sat by the sea.

         She said, "My name is Spanish,"

                 And her tutoring continued, as it does to this very day.

                           As she fuses herself into my struggling English prose.

ODE TO A YOUNG ARTISAN

ODE TO A YOUNG ARTISAN

     By Travis M. Whitehead

 

He works steadily, intently, never wavering from his goal,                                                                              

     To release the beauty in his tired soul

           Transcribing its language onto wooden canvas

                  Allowing the release

                       Of the images within.

 

Cutting and slicing, carving and sanding,

      Creating portals through which 

               His creations can flee

                   Into a playground of sensations

                         Dancing, shimmering, free and laughing

 

Kissing parrots and sunflowers rushing

     Baskets loaded with apples and watermelons

           Bold suns creeping from demure-faced moons

                  Calla lilies rushing upward

                        Like fountains unrestrained

 

  Flowers blooming and casting aromas afar

      Birds sending their music across the world

            Fruits rich with flavor crowding his work

                    A celebration of senses

                             Sent forth by an artisan young and vibrant

         

                         

Manifestations of a magic spell

     Cast from his eloquent hands

        A passionate incantation to live, to breathe, to dream

           Images incised into nature’s offspring

                  Liberated from the morass of an artist tortured

 

Seeking to release the pain burning within

       Beckoning him to follow, to laugh, to believe

             Calling his heart to rush with them

                  Into the light of their joyous world

 

Because they’ve seen the darkness that haunts his soul

     The chaos, the emptiness, the search for identity

            That frantic energy he pours into his work

                   The raging storm that shreds his existence

 

He longs to follow the dreams in his art,

      To play, to frolic, to dance, to sing

                 But his tomb of disillusionment

                            Denies his release

 

There’s never a smile from his handsome young face

        No jokes, no laughter, no youthful energy

               No light in his distant black eyes

                      Only the solitary labor of an artisan struggling

                         In search of the self within   

 

Perhaps it’s a face lost in shadow

     Or trapped in eternal twilight

            Caught between life and rebirth

                   Searching for direction

 

And suddenly he’s gone, too young, too soon,

     Leaving a legacy half finished, untold

          Of fertile evolving, transforming, defining

                 A creator, a liberator, a feast of poetry

 

Perhaps the darkness that guarded his soul

     Deserted him too soon

          Leaving him foundering

                In the delusions of day

 

Or perhaps the illumination

     Of the daylight hours

          Receded too quickly

              And he fell from a cliff

                  Into an abysmal darkness

                         That offered no escape

 

Perhaps his art defiled his dream

      Lured him like a siren toward helpless insanity

            Leaving him exploring too thoroughly the depths

                   Of the chaos and disorder

                          That claws at us all

 

What would this tortured soul say now

      If it spoke from beyond infinity

           Returning for an evening

                 Of candles and incense

                     Zempasuchitl guiding him home

             

 

In the light of the glowing midnight candles

      Lingers the energy of a spirit pulsating

              With an eternal youth never fading or spent

                      With memories suspended in eternal twilight

                            Questions unanswered, and journeys unfinished

 

Perhaps he sought his own liberation

     Through the laughter, the colors, the flavors and fragrances

            And finding none, discovered only one resolution

                    To pursue what was lost, beyond where it was found

 

Whatever the leash that drew him to the cliff

        The laughter and joy of his glorious art

                 Testify radiantly

                     To the beautiful soul

                              Who passed through briefly, and left too soon.