Jewels

By Joe Bisicchia

Jewels

 In our personal caves, sometimes we curse the curtains, wanting the day to just end, and yet our blindfolds remind us that those who trick likely were first tricked. We all know the shine easily goes dull when chasing away sun, even if the dousing is only short-lived.

But, you say look at us here as we all step out of our way to greet you like the sun. We light up a room, you say, looking at us all sit together like lumps on a stoop. We chortle away the statement knowing that you were the one to leave this gloomy street to become a hot shot electrician. And, plus, you say it when we’re not in a room.

Make good fate, you say. You make the case there is an ember in each of us, each life of a fire tender of sorts. A life ago each died, or yesterday. Only to survive to play the video game again. Some days we hold on to scurrying clouds that run with sun, a chase to horizon. Or prison.

You get us thinking. Maybe we are the light, being that we tarnish and varnish the sun, burnishing it as it slips away. Same with ourselves. Maybe instead, we should just let it set, a treasure chest, the sun. But, we forget. And you are soon long gone. Soon, another day, and the sun goes away. Another hole to hide who we are. Wanting to go find ourselves in the dark, we too often rather just stagger in and out of our corner bar.

Out front there’s an abandoned car. We take turns looking into the rearview mirror to see how far we have come, and the scars having ridden to Jupiter thinking it might prove to be bliss, or Disney, seeing Goofy, but otherwise, a waste of it.

On shady side of the otherwise unnamed corner bar there is a mural of the sun, cracked, its cement worn, but still a mandala in which we can take hold of its rims and circle the earth, lest we hide, and then find sun to be an undersea mountain blocking us at the free throw line. We stand and look at it from across street just as the rising obscurity of night soon again sets faces diminished.

Night sure enough comes in some shape or form and rekindles the numbing spin of it. And we are just next in line to drink it. We rush as if we are afraid to lose who we are before the sun remembers and cuts through the aforementioned embers and unveils ugly mirrors as we pin the tail on ourselves.

And yet, tomorrow, maybe, if only we could just allow the sun to pour forth its prism, maybe we might allow the light. And be who we are, by some grace, glitter of the sun, like fireflies, tired, but finally grateful to now surrender to the new day begun. Yes, tomorrow, it won’t be too late. To make fate. To be blessed with a purposeful trade, be someone to look up to, like an electrician. Tomorrow, stop by, and tell us how to light up a room.

Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in numerous publications with over 170 individual poems published. The collection “widewide.world to unwind” has been published by Cyberwit. His website is www.widewide.world.