|
It’s Time to Start Cleaning
There’s a pile in the corner. Papers, cards, bills, warranties and user’s manuals. Just sitting there waiting to be filed or thrown out. There’s a pile in the corner. Been there so long it’s covered in dust. The dust has gathered dust and a great dust ball jungle is growing. Growing. Threatening to muffle the whole room in a quiet, dry, grey carpet of neglect. There’s a pile in the corner. Bits and pieces of my life cast aside with a “I’ll deal with this later” toss. There’s a pile in the corner. Congratulations and accusations all mixed and jumbled together. Both “we love you” and “you don’t belong”. Instructions and guidance. Junk mail trying to sell me one more thing I don’t need. Too easy I savor the rejections and block out the invitations. There’s a pile in the corner. I pray today I can walk up to that pile and look at one or two pieces. Grieve the losses and celebrate the loves. Listen to the advice and reject the bullshit. There’s a pile in the corner. It’s time to start cleaning. - Jose Enciso Burned House
My house was destroyed burned, almost, to the ground. Jagged walls and jagged glass remain And the doorway is vaguely perceptible. I cannot enter with bare feet for the floor is strewn with sharp green shards. I hold my breath as decay, destruction, desecration assail my senses causing me to recoil. But this is my house ugly and disfigured as it is. Perhaps righting one chair is my first step to coming back home. - Jose Enciso Another Caged Bird
Does a bird long caged Know how to fly when the metal door is flung open? Does this bird stare vacantly at the vast space beyond the threshold? Is this little one curious about these things hanging at its side?, These things with feathers These wings never used The small plastic cups hanging from the bars Usually have water and seed And the newspaper below occasionally entertaining Yet flight is who this bird is And the open door beckons. Does a bird long caged Know how to fly when the metal door is flung open? Is there even a willingness to try? What would impel this bird forward? To a place so vast So beyond the confines of this cage This cage, home This cage, all this bird knows Is there memory deep? Of generations past Soaring Proud, Excited, Whole. Does this memory Bring color To eyes long vacant Long focused only on thin metal bars? I root for this bird. Inwardly shouting encouragements. Holding back the urge to whack the cage. Remember And fly, my little one. - Jose Enciso |
Artwork by Rich Arata
Walking a Thin Line
I think I died several years ago (or maybe just a piece of me) Just didn’t realize it Body and mind kept going Mostly from habit and obligation Some blows come swiftly and sure Some blows come subtly and silently, over years Still, the same situation ensues Soul separated from body A cruel divorce How can you tell When you’ve given up? How can you tell When you’re walking down that dark, rainy road wearing all black that you aren’t coming back? How can you tell When you walk the thin line between hope and despair What guides your steps What moves you to life What moves you to death What keeps you here What keeps you there When the incessant voices of doubt and confusion and the slow, muffled blanket of exhaustion Blot out all faith all love all good (or God) Then the final gasps break out. Then the torments turn to silence Then relief shimmers ghostly in the distance When you let go of everything you were given and something evil smiles and watches as you snuff out the final flicker of your flame Will someone or something Say It’s not time to give up - Jose Enciso |