Frank MacEowen

After the Facts Are In

In memory of Dan Eldon, Daniel Pearl, and other martyrs of awareness and truth.

by Frank MacEowen

A heavy package arrived today,
cloaked in quiet brown,
layered in sand,
soft to the touch,
as if woven with clouds.
Within it,
a revelation,
a seed,
a mirror,
reflecting back our own mind.
The seed took root,
and blossomed into story.
The story,
told through a closed mouth,
settled and fell,
like the whisper that follows thunder.
It said:
“Hold your ears, this silence will be deafening.”
It grumbled,
like sharp and craggy gray stones 
being vomited up from the earth,
and then came to rest,
as if nothing had pierced the air.
We tried to look onward,
through our blindfolds,
to the secrets held from us,
but inward was the only 
place we could turn in the end.
When all was said and done 
there was only that tiny moment 
when everything,
no matter how small, 
wonders,
“Did I live my heart’s destiny?”
Even sweet birds in their final fall to earth 
long for their song to go on, . . .
long to know that they are held 
by something greater.
And, it is hard, 
hard to believe all this; 
hard to rise up,
again, 
after a whole night of bleeding.
But, now that we have,
we know another secret.
The sweet bird that fell,
whose song ceased in the shimmering air,
still sings her song, 
we assure you.
A million dry deserts wait for us to cross them,
a hundred crosses await,
upon which we might hang,
but harming the soft curve of our life,
our body,

will never restore your faith in yours.
The world,

this very world,

is the bardo,
is the heaven we so ardently seek,
but do not see.

(c) 2002, Frank MacEowen from Building Fences In High Wind: Poems of Longing , an unpublished collection